Bye Mom

By Geoff Vasile


Whenever “Hang on Sloopy” came on the radio, my Mom would bite her bottom lip and immediately extend her dark brown arm, brawny yet slim, towards the radio. dexterously raising the volume using her index and middle finger, like she was holding a cigarette—all the while threading our boxy sedan through the neverending phalanx of Los Angeles traffic. She’d smile luminously and exclaim “this is your Mama’s song, Booboo!”—her favorite nickname for me, it caused ample grief after being overheard by my friends—and began a meticulous ten part safety check of my seat in rhythmic sync with the verse of the song.Sloopy lives in a very bad part of town—her powerful hand made sinewy from daily saxaphone playing, slamming hard with the downbeat to check the lock on the chrome seat-belt buckle. And everybody, yeah, tries to put my sloopy down—several of her Joe Frazier style jabs to my headrest to ensure it’s anchored immobility. A complete fastened safety check of the car and its passengers, in preparation of what would be the simple sedan’s metaphysical change from a 1987 Tomato Red Ford Tempo into an emotional conduit accelerator powered by a single chorus. Nine singing notes, originating as magnetic and electric pulse transformed into capsizing audio waves, converting the occupants, humans burdened with obligation, anxiety, depression, and driving responsibilities into pure galvanized locomotive emotional release. HANG ON SLOOPY, SLOOPY HANG ON yelled the car and its occupants. Nine simple notes, yelled with enough conviction can let you be reborn with catharsis. She had many favorite songs, but none had the significance of this one. It was a personal prayer and I would catch her uttering its refrain under her breath when things started to crowd in. It was my Mom’s mantra for all things ill, and I hope she was allowed one more listen.