Joey wasn't much, just a humble brown '37 Dodge indistinguishable from thousands of other cars on the road in FDR's America. He wasn't as glamorous as a Packard or Duesenberg, but he was dependable and always got his owner Al to work as a 6th grade teacher at P.S. 12 on 14th Street. But the old days were long gone and so was his owner. Most of Joey's friends were gone now too, the sad inevitability of being old. He remembered Rick, the snotty Buick convertible that rich lady from midtown Manhattan used to drive. Rick used to boast how well-heeled his owner was. And then there was Walt, the '35 Plymouth from up the street that some punk teens once stole and took for a joyride until the cops got them. They're all gone, Rick is now part of a structural support beam in Atlanta and Walt might now be part of that Tesla Cybertruck across the street. And the punk teens? Joey heard that they both got drafted into the war a few years later and didn't come back from France.The old neighborhood just ain't what it was in '39, either. For one thing, the Dodgers used to be a New York team. Bet the kids don't even know that, Joey mused. There were also a lot fewer hipsters back then. Like his current dumbshit owner, a guy born in 1990 with a bunch of anime tattoos who wears fedoras and LARPs as a 1930s gangster even though gangsters all drove Cadillacs with bulletproof plating and he'd have gotten his ass beat if he set foot in Queens back in the old days. Back then you minded your business. And these kids like that Nissan Armada bragging about his Bluetooth and iPad holder? Bet he'd never last a week during wartime rationing when you needed stamps for a gas fill up. Don't get started on the music these days. You think Sabrina Carpenter could hold a candle to Martha Tilton? Fat chance there.
>>28747252is this the intro to a Scorsese movie?
tl;dr
