As soon as Little Biker Boy got into my car, he reached over to begin fiddling with the buttons on the radio. I’d been listening to a CD that my father had burned for me, and the song “Ain’t Misbehaving” filled the car. Biker Boy rolled his eyes, and immediately began hitting buttons to turn it off.
“Wait,” I said to him. “Listen to a couple of the songs on that CD.”
He listened for about 6 seconds, then reached to turn it off. “I don’t like that kind of music,” he said. “I listen to rap.”
“I know, but just listen, and then I’ll tell you why,” I said. He sighed deeply and leaned back in his seat.
After about 10 more seconds, he reached to fiddle with the buttons again. “Why do I gotta listen to this?”
“You know the people on it,” I said.
“No, I don’t,” he said. He folded his arms. “I don’t like this kind of music.”
“They live in my house,” I said. He straightened up, suddenly interested, and looked at me sideways.
“See if you can guess who they are,” I said.
“The piano – that’s Shaggy Hair Boy!” he said. He grinned.
“Yep. Now listen to the guy singing. He sounds like a grown-up, but he’s really just a very shy teenager,” I said.
“With-a-Why?” he asked. “That’s him singing?”
“Yep,” I said. “And the clarinet is my father. You’ve met him before.”
He turned up the volume. “THEY’RE ON THE RADIO.”
“Not exactly. It’s just a CD they recorded,” I explained.
“That is sooo cool,” he said. “Do you think they can put me on there?”
“You mean … record you singing?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I mean, put me in the song.”
He began swaying back and forth in his seat, and started rapping in a deep voice: “Yo Biker Boy, this song’s about you.”
And for the rest of the car ride, he made up his own words to go along with the jazz standards my father and sons had recorded.