Racing in the Street

This letter might never get to you. If it does, it might take years before you get around to reading it because you must get tons of mail. I’m going to write it anyway.

You see, I just want to say how much I like your music and to tell you a bit about myself. I don’t want to take up much of your time. You probably got millions of things on your mind, but I figure if you ever had a few spare minutes you wouldn’t mind listening. That’s the kind of person I figure you are.

My name is Terry Blanchard. The story goes that my father named me after a buddy of his from high school who was killed in a motorcycle accident. I heard someone say once that the old man was going to go riding with him that day but changed his mind at the last minute. It’s just what I’ve heard. He never really talked about it.

Hey, know what I just figured out? That you’re old enough to be my father. In fact, my old man and you must be about the same age. Weird, right? You’re not that much alike though.

I’m getting off track. I’m fourteen. I’m in the ninth grade at school. I got a sister who’s ten. The place where I live is not very big, fifteen thousand people maybe. Big enough to have a McDonald’s and a few other things, if that means anything. There are a lot of worse places to live, I guess. It used to be better, when the mill wasn’t getting rid of people.

Anyway, I just want to say that I really get off on your music and that my biggest dream is to see you in concert someday. Man, from the clips I’ve seen on TV, the concerts must be wicked.

That’s a little joke. I heard you’re on tour in Japan. My letters are probably at the bottom of a sack of fan mail in your record company’s basement somewhere.

I can handle that. I’m writing to you anyway because I like doing it, that’s all. Even if they’re not getting to you, yet.

Today in school Jerkins was on my back again. Man, if he don’t quit picking on me, one of these days he’s going to get more than he bargained for. I was tapping my fingers on the desk to some music that was running around in my head. First he used his regular put-down: “Empty vessels make the most noise.” I don’t know where the hell he got that from. He uses it so often, you’d think he’d get sick of it. I sure am. Then he said, “Blanchard, smarten up. We all know how easy it is for you to make a fool of yourself. You don’t have to keep proving it.”

I never said nothing back to him. Not that I didn’t have a few things in my mind. What I thought about doing was roping him to his chair, then plunking a ghetto blaster on the desk in front of him and vibrating his eardrums with one of your songs, one of the real rockers like “Cadillac Ranch” or “Ramrod.” Just to teach him a few things about what’s noise and what’s not. You picture that? I could, for the whole rest of math class. My imagination I figure is what gets me through the day half the time.

It’s got to be great to let loose like you do onstage. To rip into a song with all you got and have everything what’s inside you come out. And not have to answer to anybody for it. The most I do is slam a few doors. That really don’t do the job.

A few times when there’s been nobody in the house, only me, I’ve cranked up one of your songs on eight or nine and made out I was singing it, with a flashlight or something for a mike. Once, Mrs. MacKinnon from next door showed up in the apartment and caught me. Man, talk about turn red. I probably glowed. She had no reason to be nosing around. She said the music was so loud, she thought something was wrong. Likely story. Of course she had to tell my mother, although Mom never said much. Now I use headphones, but it’s not the same. You can’t really cut loose.

I got my eyes on a poster of you in concert right now. Man, the sweat is just pourin’ off you, but it looks like you’re having a wicked time. That’s the only poster I got on my bedroom wall anymore. My kid sister’s got some pictures of you on her wall that she cut from some of those stupid magazines she buys. It looks dumb because she’s got you next to this bunch of wimps dressed in sparkly clothes. She don’t know any better. Man, she don’t know you’re The Boss. When she starts talking about you I got to leave the room. It’s so dumb, it’s embarrassing. She’s dumb about a lot of things, if you really want to know.

It’s about midnight, and everyone’s gone to bed long ago. I better turn off the light and try to get some sleep. Can’t wait for tomorrow. Another wonderful week of school. Thank God there’s only two months left before the summer break.

I know I got no real right to dump all this personal stuff on you. I thought about it yesterday after I sent the last letter. Here I am, probably making a fool of myself, going on and on about my life to someone I never even met.

Then when I thought about it some more, I felt like I almost know you. I’ve read everything I can lay my hands on that’s been written about you. I’ve gone to the library and dug out old copies of Rolling Stone from six and seven years ago. I’ve read three full-length books on you, three times each. I play your music all the time. (Man, my ghetto blaster practically spits back any tape that’s not yours.)

And in a way you’re sort of a connection between me and my father. For my fourteenth birthday he gave me one of your tapes. Then a week after that he was gone.

It was the first time he ever went out of his way to give me a present himself. Usually it was something from the both of them. I can hear him now when he handed it to me: “It’s about time you got over that heavy-metal crap. Listen to something decent for a change.” He gave me the tape, and he never said nothing else about it.

I knew he was into your music a lot. He never listened to it much in the house, mostly when he was driving the old van we used to have. Mostly then by himself. The four of us were in the van once and he put on Nebraska. Mom made him take it off because, she said, it sounded too depressing. He sort of grunted something about she didn’t know what good music was and popped out the tape. She said if you’re going to spend money we can’t afford on music, then you might as well spend it on something that’ll cheer you up. He ignored her.

After that he never played your music much when Mom was around. But I know the tapes must have been used a lot. He had a special place in the van where he kept them. Once when it was just the two of us driving someplace to pick up some secondhand furniture, he put on The River. The only song of yours I knew from that tape was “Hungry Heart.” Everything was sort of quiet between us, so I said to him that I liked that song. He said he liked it, too, he liked the words.

I never thought about it much till after he left. Then I bought the tape and started paying attention to the words. The old man’s got a hungry heart.

So now you know some of the reasons why I’m writing these crazy letters. There’s more to it than that. I got dreams about things I want to do when I get older.

When I started all this I really needed someone I could talk to. (Lucky you, right?) Now I’m going to give you a break and shut up.

Sometimes I wonder if you ever read any of the letters. Maybe now that your tour is over, you might get around to it. Like I said before, it wouldn’t really bother me if I knew you didn’t. I kind of like to think you did, but I know you still got a lot of things to be doing. Maybe someday I’ll hear from you. Who knows?

I read once that after a concert some guy you never met before started talking to you and asked you to his house for a meal with his family. And you said yes. Man, that offer goes for me, too. Mom could cook up her famous spaghetti. Of course I’d have to call up the old man and get him to make a special trip here. We’d have a lot to talk about. That’s an open invitation, if you’re ever in this part of the country.

Maybe you’ll come closer to where I live on your next tour. You’ve got a lot of fans around here. If you do, I’ll be the first one to buy tickets.

But no matter if you come near here or not, I’ll still be going to see you. That’s the one promise I made to myself—to see you in concert the next time you’re on tour. I’ll be the one in the front row looking like he’s in heaven.

My time for writing letters will be taken up with writing to the old man, I hope. I owe him one now. It’s me that’s being the slacker this time.

Well, I guess this is the end of the line, Bruce Springsteen, man. (I was going to call you just Bruce for once, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.) Anyway, this is about it.

Remember—take it easy. Take a break, you’ve been touring for a long time. Enjoy your life, man, and remember, if you ever have kids, spend lots of time with them.

from Dear Bruce Springsteen