Septuagenarian Disco

I was a single father, but I tell you I couldn’t have done it by myself.  I don’t mind telling you it takes a village, people, to raise a child in today’s world.  My son’s name is Randy, and the Y.M.C.A. gave him some place to go after school and kept him off the streets when I had to work late to put food on the table.  Randy was great kid, but he was a kid who marched to the beat of a different drummer.  When I would come home from work I would frequently find him in his room playing his music so loud it would knock the pictures off the wall.  I would stomp upstairs to his room and beat on his door and yell at the top of my lungs, “Turn that noise off!”  “Sure Dad,” he’d reply once he opened the door, “I’ll turn it off, for now, but even you can’t stop the music I hear in my head.”  When he enlisted in the Navy he thought he was such a macho man.  He saw the world, and now he’s retired.  I’m 79 years old. I’ve had a great life living in Key West, Florida  My 60’s were good, and so far the 70’s have been great, but I tell you I’m ready for the 80’s.  But I want to go somewhere else to live out the rest of my sunset years.  Randy’s advice to me was “Go west.”  But where?  San Francisco?  You got me?

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This was a writing exercise I did a few months ago.  I took my CD, "The Very Best of the Village People," off the shelf, and wrote this story, using the song titles, which appear in red.