Jivewater Longform: Ain’t nobody got time for that!

Blue Lights Special

Newsoms Investigative Report

Part 1:  Blue Lights Special

NEWSOMS– It has as many acres as people.  Its two main exports are peanuts and marijuana.  By last count, 315.5 people lived there in 2013. “Ol’ Stumpy” accounts for the half.  However on this humid July afternoon as I pull into town, the population sits at 316.5.

 I’d come straight from the Jivewater Publications offices with orders to cover the Watermelon Festival in Muffrussburrow.  AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” blared on my car stereo as I approached the Newsoms town limits. (I had turned off the Country radio because I could’ve sworn they had been taken over by a Hip Hop station and Luke Bryan had crossed over and had a new hit with Missy Elliot). As the guitar solo came up, so too did the Newsoms water tower.

“Speed limit, what the hell is a speed limit?  I’m on the Highway to Hell!  There are no speed limits!”  About that time, Johnny Law, Jr. and his bright flashing blue lights was in my rear-view.  My trip to the Muffrussburrow Watermelon Festival just took a little detour.

I’d always heard the tales, but personally had never been through Newsoms. I’ll never forget when Nana came to Christmas dinner two years ago without any presents, “Cause the G*% d@#$ Po-lice done writ me a ticket for speeding and took all the moneys I had for y’all’s damn presents,” she said. “I need to pray to Jesus for them, Lord they need some Lord in they life.” Nana was 93 years old and, in my clinical opinion, senile at the time. She needed a pillow in her seat to see over the steering wheel. You have probably cussed her as she rides in the left lane on highway 58 going 45 miles per hour.  Yes, she is from North Carolina.

In describing what happened, Nana simply stated, “Lord a damn frog in my leg jumped and made my leg move and hit the damn gas pedal.  I ain’t never been so scared in my life, I reckon I was going almost 40 miles an hour!  So this sumbitch done pulled me over, talkin’ ‘bout how I need to slow down, and this is my town (nunah nah nah nah), and in this town we obey the laws and such and such.  So I did what any good Christian woman ought to do, I told him I’d pray for him and he best find the Lord before it’s too late.”  Before it was all said and done, Nana paid a ticket of $215 for going 39 in a 35.

As I looked down at my speedometer of my 2009 Ford Fiesta, quite possibly the most poorly named car in production (I assure you, no one driving a Fiesta is fittin’ to party), I was doing 52 in the 45.  “Sonofa…” I thought.  “You got to be kiddin’ me, now I’m about to become one of their statistics.”

I pulled over into what seemed to be an old bank.  A sign of better times, when there was money to be deposited.  He lumbered out of his cop car, spittin’ out what I assumed to be Red Man juice, if the pouch in his front pocket was to be believed.  He then waddled to my window, to which I had now rolled down, and said, “Boy, you ’won shut that car off, and give me that license and re’stration.”  I informed him that it was in fact, “hot as balls”, and that I’d like to be comfortable while he reamed me a new one.

“That ain’t gon do boy, shut it down ‘for I shut you down.”  Seeing as how I already had accommodations for the night that didn’t involve county jail, I relented.

After what seemed like an hour, he returned with a ticket of $295 dollars, along with a nugget of wisdom, “Boy you best drive ‘round this town, less you fittin’ to obey the laws.  Have a good ‘un.”

I made sure he had his back turned to me before I flipped him the bird and fired up the 3 horses in my Fiesta.  After having sweat through my shirt, I was quite parched.  I saw a gas station right up ahead and quickly made my way there. Inside, I was greeted to a spirited conversation among locals.

“I think its sum bullshit,” I overheard one say, “his beady-eyed ass missed 11 races already, how you gon’ make him eligible for the championship?  You ain’t see Dale Sr. sittin’ out no races. You can’t tell me it’s the same anymore.  Now it’s all pretty boys and who looks good holding a Coke bottle after the race.”

“I tell you what else,” said another, “they have more damn speeding penalties than ole Johnny Law out there on 671 now.  I remember when they would haul ass down pit road at 180 mile’n’our.”

“Don’t get me started on that asshole.  He gave me a ticket this mornin’, cuz I touched the yellow line with my tire.  Said I was ‘failing to control my vehicle’.  It’s damn ridiculous, they ought to investigate their ass.”

As they bantered on, I made my way to the counter and asked about the special.  I was told to go grab a Sundrop and came back to a famous Drake’s hot dog.  It was love at first bite.  About that time, a man in his late 60s strode in, wearing a cowboy hat and Colonel Sanders suit, with a fresh mint julip in hand, and dual Glocks strapped across his sides.

“Hey Mayor Nutt,” I overheard one of the locals bellow.  About that time, a “ka-ching” sound emanated from the impressive Colonel Sanders suit.

“Haha, got another one! Got to love those speeders!” said Mayor Jumbo P. Nutt.  “Hey Cindy, how ‘bout you get me three of those Drake dogs to go.  I’m late for a little business meeting, and put it on my tab.”

The Mayor abruptly left as soon as he’d entered, climbing into the back of a Lincoln Town Car.  I overheard him yell to the driver, “Reginald, you be careful ‘round them corners now, I don’t want mint julip and ketchup on this here suit.”

“What the hell was that all about?” I asked to anyone that would answer.  All I seemed to get in return were mutterings under their breaths.  I shrugged it off and walked back out into the late July heat.

I was about to climb back into Chick Magnet when I heard an unfamiliar voice from behind me.

“So you want to know about the Mayor do you Sonny?”  I turned to see an old man with no legs and only a right arm.  He was sitting outside the store on a white bucket, “brownbagging” it. The top of a 22 ounce Bud Light can peeking through the top of the bag. He had a backpack beside him, and a twelve foot cane pole leaned up against the ice cooler.

“Name’s Thurgood, but everyone ‘round here calls me Ol’ Stumpy. Buncha assholes.”

I shook his good hand.  Ol’ Stumpy was a war veteran who did two tours in Vietnam.  After the war he returned home to Newsoms.  He married shortly thereafter but the good times were fleeting.

“Oh, his wife was crazy, but he didn’t help the situation,” said one local under the influence of Jim Beam.  “So he’s got a little side piece, and his wife finds him with his hand in the cookie jar, so she does what any person would do, she goes and gets the axe and starts swinging.”

“She got my leg, but it won’t my good leg, knowhaimsayin?” said Ol’ Stumpy on the subject.  “Ol’ Stump ain’t got stumps e’rywhere, some pieces are still in their original glory, print that!”  A few years later, he would lose his left arm in an industrial accident, which left him financially set.  “Then the diabeetus came back for my other leg.”

He now spends his days drinking out in front of the store or fishing in the ditches around Newsoms.  When he’s not doing that, he’s trying to convince the ladies he isn’t all Stump. “It usually don’t work, but sometimes it’s my day, what can I say?”

“But naw, this Mayor, this town, I could fill your head up!  Put me on your back and carry me to my fishin’ hole and I’ll tell you e’rything.”