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.

Get Down Moses, Chapter 1

The young guy stared him down. They pulled into the parking lot almost simultaneously from opposite ends. A young parking lot attendant just stared at the both of them. He wasn’t about to interfere. It was one of the perks of the job. And there were few.

“Hey, asshole!” the young guy, driving an orange F-150 with flames down both sides yelled. “I was fucking here first!”

The old guy, who probably hadn’t shaved in 10 days or so, got out of his car, clicked his key to lock the door and walked up the monstrosity of a truck.

“Put your dick back in your pants,” he said. “This is a no-fucking zone.” And he walked away.

The young kid, angrier than he’d been in years, revved up his engine. It had a Hemi, so why the fuck not, he thought. However, just as he did this, his hand slipped from the gear shift and his foot slipped as well. His truck lurched forward slamming directly into the car in front of him. The old guy looked back, expecting his tiny Saturn to be destroyed. He laughed out loud when he saw that it wasn’t his car, but the one next to it. The one with the plates that said “Gator 8.” He knew exactly whose care it was.

The old guy moseyed over to the bar across the street, opened the door and peered inside. He found who he was looking for pretty quickly. He wasn’t hard to find. Anywhere.

“Hey Moses,” he said, “Some skinny kid just slammed into your car.”

Moses, who played linebacker for the University of Florida three years ago before being kicked off the team for steroid abuse, looked up from his newspaper.

“What the fuck,” he muttered, folding the paper up and placing it down on the table in front of him. “I’ll be right back,” he said to the two ladies sitting at the table with him. One was Dynasty, a former stripper who was known to get around with the Gators’ players back in the day. The other was Sheena, a local barfly – just 22 years old, but already half way to the grave.

“Who’d you say hit my car,” Moses asked the old guy politely. The old guy walked outside with Moses and pointed across the street. There the kid was nervously looking at his bumper and the smashed up back bumper of the car he’d hit.

“That guy,” the old guy said. “He’s a real charmer too.”

“Thanks,” Moses said, patting the old guy on the back. “I owe ya a beer.”

Moses walked across the street. Not even looking to see if any traffic was coming. He never looked. Figured if anyone was coming, they’d see ol’ Moses parting the sea and stop. They always did.

“You. Me. Discussion. Now!” Moses said, pointing to himself, the kid and the dirt in front of him. The kid looked scared now. He didn’t know who Moses was, but he was about to find out.

“Did you hit my car?” Moses asked politely, but sternly.

The kid looked at Moses. Then his car.  Then Moses’ car. He swallowed hard. The next words out of his mouth were going to determine the path of the rest of his life, he thought.

“Um, uh,” he could only manage.

“Listen kid, it’s a simple yes or no question. You either hit my car with your truck. Or you just so happened to park an inch away from my car, with a big dent in your car that corresponds to the dent in my car. Orange and blue paint swapped. So…Did. You. Hit. My. Motherfucking car or not?” He added the pauses between most of the words. Mostly to keep himself from getting angry. The last time he got angry it cost him his scholarship, and as a result, his NFL career.

“Sir, um, I,” the kid once again sputtered.

“OK. We now know you don’t understand the English language. A lot of folks used to think that about me. They’d say ‘That Moses, he can’t speak.’ Or ‘That Moses, he real dumb.’ Well, kid, I think you know I’m not dumb. And I’m pretty sure from the looks of you that you’re just playing dumb. So, let’s have an answer in the next five words.”

“Um.”

“One.”

“What?”

“Two.”

“Shit.”

“Three.”

The old guy watched from across the street, now with a pint glass of Guinness in his hand. He figured the kid would have either started crying or bleeding by now. It was sort of disappointing.

“Yes,” the kid finally said.

“Thank you,” Moses replied. He reached into his jacket pocket, causing the kid to recoil. Moses pulled out a piece of paper from his notepad, the one he kept at all time to write down the moments of his life. He’d done it since he was 12 years old and a teacher said to him “One day Moses, they’re gonna want to know about your life. You should write it all down.” And Moses did.

He licked the tip of his pencil and wrote down some words. Then he handed them to the kid.

“Kid, this is my insurance information. If you could kindly reach into your car, and write down yours we can be done with this.”

The kid scrambled to the truck, opened up his glove box and paused. There was his grey 9mm pistol. Moses saw it to.

“Kid,” Moses said. “Don’t even think about it.”

The kid heard the clicking of the hammer of a gun. He looked in the side view mirror of his car and saw Moses holding a 45. It was cocked, and most definitely loaded. He reached for his insurance card and pulled it out.

After closing the door, he handed it to Moses.

“Thank you kid,” he said, uncocking the hammer and putting the gun back under his belt. “I always like to be civilized about such things. Let’s go inside my establishment across the street and wait for the police to get here. And don’t worry, I ain’t saying nothing about your little German friend in the glove box.”

“Um, uh, thanks,” the kid said, following Moses into the bar.

The old guy watched as the two went inside. He smiled at the kid. The kid just stared. The same stare he’d given the old guy before. He raised his hand to the old guy’s face, pointing one at him and pretending it was a gun.

“Bang,” Moses said.

Everyone laughed.

Ten minutes later, the cops were there. They always showed up at Moses’ pretty fast. It was either something bad, or something good. Luckily, McGinty thought after he’d written up the accident and handed both sides their paper work, it was a good one this time.

I am not a role model

I get scared when it’s easy.

That’s what the 27 year old kid said to me about writing the other day. He’s followed too many of my paths in life, but he seems to keep coming out of it on the right side. Smart kid that one. Except that whole using me as a role model part.

After that conversation I had to sit down and think about it for a bit. Who was my role model? I mean, I take after my dad in some ways. I am really bad with my money. I get drunk too much. I’m bad at relationships.  But, I have to say nothing much else.

My grandfather? I always wanted to be like him. He was quiet. So am I. He followed his heart. I do that. He was an accountant who never missed a day of work. I have only used one sick day in my career as a journalist.

But, once again, I don’t see enough. I didn’t model myself after him. Or anyone I guess.

Is that strange? I have no idea.

This is why I find someone emulating me to be a bit disconcerting.

But, lines like “So what if all my heroes are the losing kind” have to come from somewhere, I guess. So who am I to stop a kid from being whatever he wants to be. Even if it’s like me?

A couple of police cars are circling my house at the moment. I was outside just a few minutes ago, looking under my car with a flashlight. I wonder if my awesome neighbors, of who there are just motel guests, called them on me? It’s not a good thing, not being able to just check out under your car at night without a drive by of two cop cars. One, peering into my house with a light while slowly creeping by. I raised my bottle of beer in a salute to him, and then they just parked in the empty parking lot across the street. Guess they’re going to “Keep an eye on that one!” Good luck kind sirs. Why don’t you just go back to harassing folks driving their cars on a public road at night. It’s certainly what you are good at. But, like I said, you’ve got to pick something and try at it. And when you fail, take it as an omen.

The keyboard fights back sometimes. It doesn’t seem to want to produce for me. I sometimes wish it were easier. Just to sit down and type and see results. It probably is, but I don’t take the time to just say fuck it and do it. That’s certainly the next goal. To have the nuts to do that. I’m 41 and not getting any younger. My eyesight is failing faster than my teeth are rotting. One day it’ll be interesting to see if I can still tell the difference between foods when I can no longer chew or see it. Happy days indeed.

A paragraph can be one sentence.

Or it can be two. Like this.

But it never seems to matter, unless you are keeping track. If they run on and on and on and on together. Or just stay apart.

I met a lady yesterday. She seemed oh so happy to meet me. I didn’t buy it for a second. Her office had no windows. And she dressed like she shops at Kato. I hope one day I won’t marry a woman like that. It would be enough to put the gun in my mouth for me. I wouldn’t even have to think about it.

It also dawned on me that for over a decade I was ruined by one person. At first, it wasn’t ruinous, at least in my opinion. Then it was. And it festered. I like the word fester. But not when it pertains to my life and the way it has been wasted. Like a limb with a cut that isn’t treated and eventually becomes infected. It will either be cut off or saved. But a lot of that has to do with effort.

I once was told to never give up. But that seemed so silly. I learned early on that you can’t win every time. And if you expect to, that’s a lot different than actually doing so. And I’ve yet to meet that one person who won all the time.

My neck and back hurt many times now. I think it’s from over sitting.

Last week I had some money. This week I have none. Next week I still won’t have any.

It seems darker outside than usual. I think it’s because my eyes are failing. Will my eyes failing become my new teeth are rotting? Only time will tell. At least that’s what Jimmy Cliff once told me.