Honey, it's me.
Yeah, I'm gonna be a little late. I'm stuck on Highway Nine -- buncha goddamned suicide machines out here -- Just a sec... Hey! Goddammit, I'm talking to you! What cage were you sprung from, drivin' like that! Goddamned hemi-powered drones... Yeah? Well, fuck you too!
How you expect to drive combin' your goddamned hair in the rear-view mirror! Fuckin' broken heroes...
Sorry, hon. Just blowing off some steam. Jesus, these kids. They don't have a frickin' idea
what it's like, sweating it out on the streets of a runaway American dream --
What? She said what?
Goddam -- put her on. I said put her on.
Yeah, yeah, I won't blow my stack, but Jesus, that girl...
Wendy. Honey. Punkin'. What are you doin'?
That boy is bad news, honey. Bad news.
Your dad knows these things. The other night, when I caught you with your legs around his velvet rims and your hands strapped across his engine, I coulda cried. Just cried. That boy doesn't have your best interests at heart, honey. What? What the hell kinda talk is that? Don't let him in, honey! He wants to guard your dreams and visions? Excuse me while I piss myself laughin'. That's boy-talk for he wants to get into your pants, honey. That's all that means. Take it from me, punkin'.
And all that scary talk about dyin' with you on the streets tonight in an everlasting kiss? Jesus, you're scaring the shit outta your old man, hon! That's Child Protective Services stuff, princess! You think they wouldn't throw me in jail
if I didn't kibosh that, like, immediately?
Damn right they would! Ain't no daughter of mine gonna die with no punk in the goddamned streets in any
kinda kiss! Not on my
Hon, could you hold on for just a sec? I gotta phone something in. Be right back.
Sid? Hey, yeah, it's me. Look, I'm drivin' along past the Cold & Stark amusement park. Buncha kids out there on the beach, huddled in the mist. Yeah. Direct violation of city code. Beach is closed this time-a year. Could you get somebody on it? Thanks. Gotta run, trying to talk my daughter off the ledge. Bye.
Wendy, you there? Thanks for holdin', hon. Just bringin' home the bacon. Could you tell your brother to stop playin' that sax solo while we talk? Thanks.
Now look, hon. He's probably fed you some line about bein' a scared and lonely rider, wants to know if love is real, blah, blah, blah. But you can't possibly believe that crap he's feedin' you about loving you with all the madness in his soul, all those empty promises about getting to "that place" (you gotta know what that
means, dontcha?), walkin' in the sun -- it's a load of crap, honey. Total crap. Don't you remember your friend Rosalita? The one who ran off with that worthless guitar-player, and now they're in Camden workin' Sal's pizza joint 'cause he blew that record company advance on shoes and haircuts, and ended up owing two hundred grand to Warner Brothers? You want to end up like that?
What? Born to what? Born to run?
a Seven-Eleven? Jesus Christ!
Look. I'll be home in a minute. We'll talk more then. But I don't want that boy comin' around no more.And tell Mary to stop slammin' that goddamned screen door!