Growing up poor in a moral and cultural cesspool has its perks. Did I just use the plural? I meant to use the singular. The perk is, if you survive such an upbringing, you come out at the other end with stories. Yes, “stories.” That time, I meant to use the plural.
Remember how Mr. Rogers used to take you to Make-Believe Land? I’m escorting you to Make-It-Go-Away Land. There are no puppets where we’re going. If there were puppets, they’d all be carrying tiny foil spoons—for freebasing.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

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Those of you familiar with the X-Men will also be familiar with the concept of mutants. Mutants are homo superior, the next step in human evolution—persons born with special powers. I, too, have a mutant power: the uncanny ability to attract drunks.

I am, of course, only theorizing. Mutants are born with their special powers. I’m not 100 percent certain that I was born the master of drunken magnetism; it’s just as likely that I was exposed to poverty particles at an early age. Those poverty particles may have altered my DNA in such a way that allowed me to create boozehound-attracting welfare pheromones. The Fantastic Four were granted their powers by cosmic rays, and they’ve been the subject of two high-grossing action films. The X-Men and Spiderman have multiple films to their credit. Do you see where I’m going with this?

When my inevitable biopic reaches theaters, I look forward to seeing reenacted my many experiences shaking hands with drunks. My powers manifested when I was a boy; there’s plenty for Scorsese (who else?) to work with. My great-grandmother would send me into a convenience store and I’d come out with a stumbling stranger praising me for being such a well-mannered young man.

There’s something about me that compels drunks to shake my hand. Likewise, there’s something about me that compels me to wash my hands afterward. Washing hands is mundane normal person stuff though, so forget I mentioned it.

If I’m not a mutant, or a sponge for poverty particles, then how else would you explain all the drunks who’ve insisted that I shake their hand? The less rational of you might posit that I’m not a hooch-magnet at all, that Martinsville is just teeming with degenerates and alcoholics. Fie! I suppose you’d also have me believe there are no such things as poverty particles. You’re just jealous that it’s me that the drunks wanted to touch.

So, before a movie can be made chronicling my early encounters with drunks, someone is going to have to find a way to dodge a lawsuit from NASCAR. Martinsville is a moral cesspool, yadda yadda, henceforth, etcetera. But in addition to its staggering unemployment rate, another chief cause of drunkenness in Martinsville is the racecar culture.

Now let’s not get hung up on my depiction of racing fans, eh? I grew up in a race town. I know that not all race fans are quarrelsome drunks. However, I also know that binge drinking is a major custom among NASCARites. Don’t any of you dare deny the racing community’s alarmingly high population of no-goodniks. Martinsville has its fair share, and come race weekend, countless others arrive from all over the country. I’ve shaken their hands. I’ve cleaned up their vomitus. I know their dark and ancient ways.

I’m not condemning racing fans for abusing alcohol, or even for imitating their favorite drivers on public roads. Wait—no, we should all scold them for that. My aim is only to show that race fans take their sport and its related customs very, very, very, very, very seriously. Hold, I forgot one: very. There. Six it is.

Martinsville offers its residents little, if anything, to pride. Unemployment had skyrocketed before I graduated from high school. The local government passed a law that actually made it illegal to dance after midnight. The mall was practically empty and overrun with elderly perambulators who, following their morning walks, spent the remainder of their days sitting on benches and staring menacingly at strangers.

With that in mind, it shouldn’t be hard to understand why Martinsville Speedway is such a point of pride for Martinsvillians. Even our yearly Octoberfest festival was appropriated by NASCAR. “Octoberfest” became “Speedfest”—but I’ll fill you in on that disgrace in our next installment. For the time being, Speedway is further evidence of the influence racing wields over the Martinsvillian populace.

I saw the racing culture up close and personal when I entered the workforce. My first job was at Texas Steakhouse & Saloon. I bussed tables, sat customers, and regularly cleaned up vomitus and broken glass. I was surrounded by drunks. Not surprisingly, my superpowers were pushed to their limits.

During my stint as a host and busboy, I was told on at least five occasions that I should join a pit crew because of my cleaning speed. One customer, in tears, hugged me and called me his hero. I was regularly handed business cards. Within 13 months, I received two raises. I was dubbed “Speedy” by my fans. My boss programmed the alias into my profile on the timeclock. A local pseudo-celebrity was born.

My prestige as Speedy didn’t often extend beyond work, but on one occasion, it saved me from a bully’s menace. The bully’s father, one of Speedy’s fans, told his son that I was going to lead a pit crew someday, and that I commanded respect. One week, the kid was splashing chocolate milk up my nose. The next, he was apologizing and passing along his father’s admiration. Go, Speedy, go.

Whenever I found my early fame going to my head, my penance was simple. I reminded myself exactly what it was I was famous for, and voila, my pitiful self-esteem was restored! I wasn’t like I was fighting for human rights or teaching illiterate crack addicts how to read rehab literature. I was a nimble busboy in a culture that thrived on speed. Goodbye, glamour.

Given my livelong avoidance of racing, I was fascinated with its sacredness among my countrymen. Families dined together in matching Earnhardt T-shirts. Ford and Chevrolet fans bickered incessantly over which was the superior manufacturer. Dale Earnhardt and Jeff Gordon devotees were like rival gangs—think the Crips and the Bloods. Praising Jeff Gordon in the wrong company could leave you cold.

In life, Dale Earnhardt was regarded as an American hero. In the aftermath of his demise, Martinsville plunged into a citywide depression. The Monday following his death, I saw my classmates in tears. Many of their parents, they said, were inconsolable. My stepfather devoted a corner of the living room to Earnhardt memorabilia. I never understood the importance of racing collectibles in the first place, but I was truly at a loss when Earnhardt memorabilia became religious icons.

My favorite piece of sports memorabilia hung from the wall of Texas Steakhouse’s reserved party room, the jail room. The jail room was decorated from top to bottom with pictures of racecars and their drivers. One photo depicted a team of drivers arranged in two rows. Visible beside the ear of one of the front row drivers was the “dangling participle” of one of the gentlemen in the back.

Oh, those speed demons and their shenanigans! The driver’s surly grin was enough to let you know your eyes weren’t deceiving you. It gave me something to show my friends—“Look, guys! There’s a penis on the wall.” Because when you’re growing up in Martinsville, a phallus on a restaurant wall can be as good as it gets.

Martinsville Moral: Examine all of your old photographs. Genitalia might be lurking where you least expect it.

Next Time, in Martinsville: “Oh My God! That Woman Skinned Matt Damon’s Right Buttock with Her Foot!” or “Oh My God! That Woman Skinned Matt Damon’s Left Buttock with Her Foot!” (I forget which buttock.)

Charles Smith, or “Speedy” as he is known in Martinsville and possibly by past girlfriends, is a columnist for the New River Voice. In his biopic, the New River Voice staff suggests James Franco to play Smith, though Franco would have to shave his head.