When I was nineteen I rode around St. Louis, MO in a ’72 Gran Torino Sport, a fire-engine-red 2-door monster with a 429-V8 big-block engine, 200+ horsepower and a fat racing stripe – yellow to gold to orange – that ran along its flanks, from its muscular front to the sweet fastback. I bought it for less than a grand from a fat, red-bearded Irish gambler wearing gold wire-rimmed aviators, a fluffy golfer’s cap and a shiny green racing jacket. It was all the cash I had but I didn’t care. I was young. I had a job. I had my own apartment. I was exercising my independence, living on sweet gold tequila and potatoes-au-gratin from the box. When you’re nineteen you can do all that and there’s nobody around to stop you or question you. Some might even envy you.
My Torino had an am/fm stereo and when I raced it along route 67 and St. Charles Rock Road, I blasted it, dreaming with passion and carefree joy of living the lyrics I was singing from the bottom of my belly to the top of my lungs . . . I was billy joe . . .
. . . and me and Bobby Sue, bored from getting high and watching the tube, decided to cut loose so we headed down to El Paso where we broke into a man’s house, robbed him, then shot him down when he caught us. Hell yeah we did! Fuck that guy! Establishment! Homeowner! Geezer! Bourgeois! So Bobby Sue took the his money and fled while I hid out overnight and caught up to her the very next day. We headed down south, on the run from the law, and we’re still runnin’ today . . . still runnin’ today, singin’ . . . woo hoo hoo . . .
. . . and still runnin’ today . . . In my 4-door plug-in. Beige. No fancy racing stripes to attract extra attention. Costs me what I paid for my ’72 Torino, month after month. It has Bluetooth to play music from my phone, internet to play music from all over the world, and am/fm, which feels almost like an afterthought. I park it in the garage which is attached to my house in the San Fernando Valley, my castle.
I take my car out tonight and head west to the Galleria (fancy term for Mall) for a movie at the multi-plex with the wife and kids. My kids are young adolescent hipsters wearing their baggy pants, sports-franchise jerseys, backward baseball caps, fancy sneakers and constant scowls meant to show off their knowledge of the 21st Century version of ABC’s: Agitation, Boredom & Cool.
My radio is on the oldies station and as we cruise Ventura Boulevard, my old daydream Jam comes on as it does on every oldies station all over America. “Woo Hoo Hoo, Go on take the money and run,” I sing out loud, numb and oblivious to the true meaning behind the words I’ve been singing so joyfully and passionately since I was nineteen.
My kids order me to turn down my Jam and roll up my windows. The little bastards! Embarrassed by me? And my Jam? Them? Those punk kids and their generation with their vintage-style t-shirts for AC/DC and Led Zeppelin concerts they never went to, smoking their legal weed out of their fancy vape pens; riding around in their rent-a-scooters which they drop anywhere they want on the streets like the toys they never pick up in their rooms. The movie I’m going to see with my wife and half-grown punk kids is the third installment of a cartoon franchise. They’re embarrassed by me? My mom took me to see The Godfather in Westwood Village 4th of July weekend. I was nine! Kids today!
When we get back from the movies, I notice our hallway lights are on. I can see through the upstairs window that my closet door is open. Upon a closer look, I see my front door is also open. We’ve been robbed! Some punk kids, no doubt, bored on a Saturday night from vaping and watching YouTube, drove down to the Valley and robbed my castle! Good thing I wasn’t home.
And that’s when it hits me: Billy Joe and Bobby Sue SUCK! Lazy, no good, bums! They got bored with getting high and watching the tube so they drove to El Paso and shot a man while robbing his castle? Really? And they sang “woo hoo hoo” after it while running down south to escape justice? AND WE ALL SANG ALONG TO IT?
What about that poor son-of-a-bitch homeowner who was probably just watering his lawn and fixing the light fixtures on his walls in order to maintain the value of his house so he can borrow against it later to pay the college tuition for his ungrateful punk-ass kids?
How come nobody is singing a tune about that poor son-of-a-bitch?