Slim Whitman

Driving down NC-58, I was blasting music loudly like I always do. Waving at all the tourists who turn their blinkers on, brake, then don’t turn. And by waving I mean flipping them off, casually. I think Chris Penn would be impressed.

I notice tonight that a lot of lights are out. The weather wasn’t bad today, so it wasn’t some wind-related thing. Then I start to wonder if that extremely loud helicopter that buzzed over my house as I was dozing in and out of sleep this morning actually did crash somewhere near. I thought I heard a faint rumble a few seconds after it buzzed over, but thought nothing of it after I went to work and there was not a mention of such an occurrence. Of course, working for a newspaper now, and something being missed isn’t exactly newsworthy. But this shit would have been everywhere, right?

A little further up, I spot a bunch of police lights. It’s not a drunk check point, it’s a freaking Wednesday night nowhere near a holiday. The hotels here aren’t close to booked solid and the price of gas is falling.

But instead of wanting to deal with it, I turn down a side street. I know these streets go through in this area, and I don’t feel like dealing with whatever it is up ahead. As I turn down the main beach road, Jello Biafra starts singing about his inability to have intercourse while inebriated, and I turn it up.

I guess that was my mistake.

Three seconds later, police lights are flashing and a cruiser is speeding up towards my bumper. I’m like a deer in headlights when that starts to happen. My mind starts to process all the shitty things I think about cops and what they do when they pull you over. But, I click the radio to “Off” and pull over.

The cop takes his time getting out of the car. I always wonder if they’re just finishing off a coffee or maybe a last text message to their Lea Thompson (oh, yeah, two “The Wild Life” references in less than 400 words!) sexpot sitting in a donut shop. I know it can’t take that long anymore to do a quick search of a license plate. It’s all digital now, it must take five seconds. I guess they still want that fear factoring into what comes next – the questioning.

Finally, the guy gets out of his car. I watch him amble up in my mirror. I’ve already got my license and registration ready. I’m sure he saw me doing that.

“Hello, sir,” the officer says, shining his phallic light saber into my eyes. “Exactly what are we doing on this road so late at night.”

So late at night? I think to myself. It’s 11, 11:20 at the latest.

“Driving home from work,” I say. It’s the answer I always give these guys. I start to wish I had my “Stay out of Malibu!” shirt on. Seems fitting.

“Where you working so late?”

There is that so late, thing again. This time I decide to take the bait.

“It’s really not that late, sir,” I say. Before the rrr of sir is done rolling off my tongue, the sass starts to flow.

“Son, are you getting smart with me?”

“Not at all,” I reply.

“Well, it certainly sounds like you are. Will you just answer my question, without any lip?”

“Sure, I, uh, I work for a newspaper. We keep strange hours, compared to the rest of the world.”

“What do you mean, the rest of the world?”

I was starting to feel a bit pissed. I could feel my neck getting numb from the blood rushing to my forehead and not anywhere else. My hands clamped around the steering wheel.

“Um, non-newspaper folk?” I said. “Like you.”

“I’m out here every night,” the cop says.

“You work seven nights a week?” I reply, and instantly regret it. I see him grabbed his flashlight tight. I speak again to try and soothe that one over.

“I probably pass you each night too, then,” I say. “I usually give you guys a little salute, and I always turn my brights off as I approach.”

“So, you work seven nights a week?” he said smart-assedly. I liked his attempt.

“You get a paper every day don’t ya?”

“Nope. I hate the news.”

“Dully noted,” I reply. “Well, your dad, he got the paper every day, right?”

“Yes.”

“Even on Christmas.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, that’s because people like me don’t mind working all these crazy hours. Being out real late at night and all.”

“Listen, smart ass,” the cop finally broke my roll. Well, my sorta roll. “I pulled you over because I was just sitting here, eating my Chicken McNuggets, when I hear all this fuck, this, fuck this, fuck this coming from your car.”

“Yeah, it was a little loud, sorry.”

“Who was that anyways?” he asked.

“The Dead Kennedys.” I answered.

“Fuck, those guys hate the police. Even more than those, um, that rap group,” he spit out in full on hate voice.

“N.W.A.?”

“Yeah, them, them, them…”

“Rappers?”

“You getting’ smart-allecky with me ‘gain?”

“No sir.”

“Best not be.”

I looked at his badge. It had the name Ipock on it. A damn common name in these here parts, to use the parlance of our locale.

“You can go,” he finally said. “Just keep that noise down.”

“You got it,” I said, starting up the car. Jello sort of smirked at me in low decibels when I turned the radio back on. “Tonight’s the night that we beat up drunks!”

I got back on the main road and saw all the news trucks there now. All the television stations were there doing live shots for the 11 p.m. news. I pulled over.

“Move along sir,” a baby-faced cop said to me. I pulled out my press pass that I’d never used for any press activities except getting back on the island after hurricanes. I flashed it at the cop, hoping he’d not read too much and see that it said “correspondent” on it.

“Oh, okay,” the guy said and walked away. I always find it disconcerting how easy it is to just show a laminated pass that says “Press” and people just let you do what you want. If I had no scruples, I’d really take advantage of it. Especially with the press dying off and pretty soon, that kind of privilege. Instead, I just put it back in my wallet where it will stay, most likely, for months.

I walk over to the way over dressed for this 102 degree heat blonde. She’s not too smart, and other than her body, not too good looking. But she’s got something, I can’t quite place it. Maybe it’s the Brittany Spears eyes?

“What’s the big hullabaloo?” I ask her.

“The hulla-what?” she responds. I hear a chuckle from behind. It’s Lars, a cameraman who I used to see quite often in the old sports reporting days. He walks over and shakes my hand.

“Damn if a helicopter didn’t crash here this morning,” Lars says. “And no one heard it or knew anything about it.”

“I heard it,” I say.

“Sure you did. And we’ll read all about it in the paper, right? You just held on to this little nugget?”

“Nah, it woke me up this morning. Heard the damn thing fly over my house. Way too low, too. And I thought I heard a big thud, but then I went back to sleep.”

“Back to sleep?” the blonde shrieked. “What kind of a journalist are you?”

“One that knew this was exactly what would happen, hun,” I said.

I had gone into the office and told my editor about what I heard.

“OK,” she said, looking at her computer and her phone. Twitter was on both of them.

I guess a press release never came. Or it came at 7, 8, 9 or 10 o’clock. Way past her bed time.

I got out my notebook and got to work.

At 11:32 I had a story written. I called the newsroom. Only the old-timer was still there.

“J.B.,” I said into the phone. “Can you take a story from me. Old school style. Dictation?”

“Paper’s in bed,” he replied.

“Fuck, you J.B.,” this is big.

“Quack,” he said. He always quacked when he got annoyed. He took my story. Re-did the front, with the story on it. 11 inches of copy. One really bad cell phone camera image of a chopper blade stuck in a dolphin statue. I noticed it when I interviewed an emergency worker. It was off the beaten path, and I hoped no one else saw it. Damn good image.

At midnight, I got back in my car and called my editor.

“Enjoy the front page today,” I said. “Something happened yesterday. I think someone told you about it.”

I knew she’d yell at me in the morning. And it was fucking worth it. Just like it always is. Pissing off the lazy editors in front of you, taking up comfortable seats and collecting six-figure salaries to do rice-bowl worthy efforts.

I drove down the road a ways. I pulled out my CD wallet. Yeah, I still have a CD wallet. Fuck an I-pod. I pulled out the disc I was searching for.

“You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge!”

Seven minutes later, I was talking to another friend of mine who works for the county – Officer Billiken.

Next time, I think I’ll just play some Slim Whitman.