By midnight that Friday there were thousands in Paradise Park munching on blackened barbeque chicken and gulping beer from peanut butter jars, ready to cheer for their candidate in the Soul City Mayoral debate sponsored by the Biscuit Shop.  Cadillac thought it was an hour more congruent with partying than politics, but he had a wing in one hand and a pen in the other, about to learn that in Soul City, how you party is very political.

The Mayor of Soul City was Emporer Jones, a six foot three, three hundred thirty pound, seventy two year-old man in a three piece deep blue white chalk pinstripe suit with a line of gold pocketwatch links as long as a normal man’s arm leading your eye across his corpulence.  A leonine mane of graying curls ringed his face.  He’d been the mayor of Soul City for twelve long years and this year would be his last.  Four decades back he made a name for himself in Soul City when he won the Nut-Holding Contest in the Summertime Carnival.  The Nut-Holding Contest required men merely to stand holding their nuts as long as possible.  Emperor stood there six days, fourteen hours, and twenty-eight minutes straight, sometimes sleeping while standing and holding his nuts.  His record still stands.  They put his picture in the Soul City Defender and in no time flat he was campaigning for city council.  Now, after six consecutive terms as Mayor, he was at the end of a life in public service and Soul City was about to start over with a new, and undoubtedly lesser, man.  As Emperor stepped to the podium they chanted, “Don’t Go!” so loud it seemed certain he would’ve been re-elected the moment he agreed to run.  He wanted to run but the stress of being the Mayor of Soul City had made it impossible to lose the weight that his doctors and girlfriends were on him about.

In Soul City the Mayor’s prime function is to DJ for the town.  All the speakers in all the sidewalks are connected back to the central turntable at the Mayor’s mansion and every two years the people go to the polls and choose a Mayor based on what he plans to spin while in office. 

This year’s ballot consisted of the Jazz Party’s Coltrane Jones, the Hiphop Nation’s Willie Bobo, and the Soul Music Party’s Cool Spreadlove.  Emperor Jones, of the Independent Party, had the DJ skills and the taste to integrate a variety of sounds and create a balanced playlist.  The candidates had neither the vision nor the ears to get beyond their party’s narrow platform.  Whoever won would stick to the music of his party alone, which could unbalance the mood of the town and lead to all sorts of catastrophes.  It was a critical point in Soul City history.

Everyone wanted to know who Emperor thought should be the next mayor, but Emperor looked at all three candidates with disgust.  He refused to endorse any of them.  They all made him cringe for the future of Soul City.  Especially Cool Spreadlove.  Who was now an hour late.

“I’m gonna open this evening’s festivities,” Emperor Jones boomed into the microphone, “with a thank ya to our sponsor!”  He turned to look for Granmama and from behind him she trembled into view, her soft droopy skin shaking with each careful step.  Her smile was brief and reluctant, but the entire park bloomed at the sight of her dentures like a valley of flowers rising to attention when the sun comes up over the horizon.

            “Granmama been sponsoring the Mayoral debates for 144 years now!”

            “142!” Granmama said, annoyed.  “Get it right, kiddo.”

            “So we got to keep supportin Granmama!  She is Soul City!”

            The Soulful cheered.

“Y’all know her biscuit shop at the corner of Ebony and Mecca.  Go down there and get a sack of six of Granmamma’s soft, flaky butter-baked-in biscuits!  They so light and flaky if there’s anything left to swallow after ya finished chewing…”

            The crowd answered as one, “YOUR NEXT BISCUIT’S FREE!”

“Granmama,” the Mayor said, “think this’ll be the year you finally get around to putting cornbread on the menu like you been talkin bout?”

“I don’t know,” Granmama grumbled dismissively.  “It’s hard as shit gittin the biscuits right.”

“For the last time,” he whispered, “no cursing on stage!”

“Fuck you, fatboy,” she whispered.

An aide rushed up.  “She doesn’t obey Death,” the aide whispered, “why would she obey you?”  The aide gently coaxed her off the stage.  The Mayor ripped a hanky from his pocket and dabbed his sweaty brow.  “In all my years in Soul City,” he said grimly, “this is the most important election I’ve ever seen.  You may think this is about music, but it’s not.  It’s about character.  The character of this very city.  A couple years with just one sound on the speakers and we’re going to become a completely different city!” 

A muffled grumble came from the Soulful.  It was nearing one in the morning.  They were eager for the music to start.  They loved Emperor, but in everything he did he went on forever, from holding his nuts for days to being Mayor for years to speechifying for hours when it was least wanted.  “When I was a boy,” he said, “my Grandmother used to say, ‘Sound’ll shape ya!’  What she meant was music is just like food!  You are what you eat and what you hear makes you what you are.  On Monday, when you go to the polls, don’t think about what you want to hear, think of who you want to be and who you don’t wanna be because…”

“Enough with the gum-flappin, fatboy!” Granmama yelled, turtling her way toward him.  “They wanna hear some fuckin music!”

Emperor Jones cut his eyes at her, but said nothing.  Even a man as powerful as Emperor dared not talk back to Granmama in public.  He walked over to a set of turntables and a mixer, took a power cord from the hands of a smiling aide, and as photographers from the Soul City Defender and the Soul City Inquirer snapped away, he plugged the cord into the base of a street lamp.  “I declare the debate begun!”  The Soulful cheered wildly.  Emperor looked down the stage and saw Cool Spreadlove still had not arrived.  He was now more than two hours late.  Emperor shook his head in disgust.  

First to the turntables was Coltrane Jones, sporting a chocolate brown suit with sharp black wingtips and a black beret tilting off his shaved and gleaming dome.  He flicked on the mixer, pulled the sonic earmuffs over his beret and spun through a history of jazz.

Once, the Jazz Party had ruled Soul City.  In the 40s, 50s, and early 60s, they’d dominated even more completely than the Blues Party had before them or the Gospel Party, who prefer to be called God’s Party, before them.  In the mid 60s the Soul Music Party took control of the Mayor’s mansion and stayed there throughout the 70s, so powerful they even kept the Disco Party out of office in the late 70s, though that was partly due to a mid-decade merger with the Funk Party.  In the 80s and 90s the Hiphop Nation was dominant and now that Emperor’s reign was coming to a close many believed the Hiphop Nation would soon be back in the mansion.

It was almost two when Willie Bobo from the Hiphop Nation ran up to the turntables in a crispy clean white wife-beater, baggy sweatpants with the left leg rolled up to the knee, and a black Negritude U. baseball cap clinging to the side of his head at an impossible angle, so obtuse he was either employing glue or defying gravity.  A thick gold chain hung halfway down his chest.  At its end was a gold bust of his mother.  He grabbed the microphone and said, “Yo, yo, Raggamuffin Projects in the house!”  The candidates weren’t supposed to speak directly to the audience during the debate, but no one could ever stop Willie Bobo.  He was an unpredictable little being, now genius, then asinine, now violent, then tender, a grown man, but still a boy.  Four b-boys in black Adidas suits and shelltoes with fat laces flipped into headspins and windmills as Willie spun the party back to the South Bronx and hiphop’s founding moments.

It was a little shy of three when Cool Spreadlove’s Princemobile roared up to the park, blaring “International Lover.”  Spreadlove waited as busty women poured out of the red Corvette as if from a circus clown car until one of them walked around the car’s nose and opened his door for him.  It was surprising that he had even made it.  Spreadlove was never where he was supposed to be because he was cursed with charisma.  Nothing was easier for him than making people love him.  So all he did all day long was make love to people.  He hadn’t had a job in 15 years.  But he did have a bevy of Sugar Mamas who loved him so well they supported him completely.  Some even financed his dates with other women.  He even had one of his women paying for his Mayoral campaign.  But you can be sure the little smidgen of juice clinging to the edge of his moustache as he strolled into the park wasn’t hers.

Spreadlove stepped to the stage in a white floor-length fur-lined mink draped over his white Gucci suit with a white shirt and white leather shoes that shined like diamonds.  He had long manicured nails and a freshly-sliced basketball-sized fro, so you knew he wasn’t putting his hands on any records or earphones over his doo.  Instead, he had two fine mamas in short shorts and strappy stilettos running between the turntables, the crates, and his lips.  Standing perfectly still, he whispered in their ears what to play, leading the party from an Al Green sermon about being tired of being alone to Prince saying you could smash up his ride—well, maybe not the ride—to P-Funk preaching about Chocolate City.  That was always a Soul City favorite, but Spreadlove and his women got as much as applause for their music as for their little show.  Never let it be said folk don’t like the theater.

Spreadlove had loved all sorts of women all around the world, but his kryptonite remained the blonde, blue-eyed American white woman.  He was transfixed by them, whether or not they were pretty.  Just something about the sunshine in that hair made his mind all slushy.  Emperor knew that if Spreadlove were mayor it’d be just a matter of time before John Jiggaboo was invading Soul City.  Ten years ago Jiggaboo had come to town looking to sell some shampoo.  Emperor used the stuff himself and felt Jiggaboo Shampoo’s malevolent tingle.  He thought, there’s something real funny about this shampoo, and promptly banned it from the Soul City market.  Black people across the country fell in love with Jiggaboo Shampoo, but Emperor steadfastly refused to let it into Soul City.  Emperor thought, Will Spreadlove continue my ban on Jiggaboo Shampoo?  No.  He’ll probably invite Jiggaboo and his white women to come party in the Mayor’s mansion. 

But Emperor wasn’t too worried about Spreadlove.  He knew there was no way Spreadlove could win, because Spreadlove never campaigned, because he was always having sex.  What neither Emperor nor Spreadlove knew was that his women loved him so well that they campaigned for him behind his back, even when they knew he was off somewhere inside someone else.  Spreadlove couldn’t be bothered to look at the polls, but without even trying he was solidly in second place.  Anybody but him, Emperor prayed.

       Every day downtown Soul City saw Huggy Bear Jackson smooth by in that pristine money green 1983 Cadillac Cutlass Supreme custom convertible with gold rims, neon green lights underneath, and a post-state-of-the-art Harmon Kardon system with 16 speakers, wireless remote, 30 disc changer, and the clearest sound imaginable.  If during the recording of the song the guitarist had plucked the wrong string he could hear it.  If someone had coughed in the control room he could hear it.  If the singers were thinking he could hear it.  Everyone in Soul City waved as he crept slowly by, cruising at 15 miles an hour or less, passed by joggers, and as he turtled into the distance, people said with awe and condescension, “There goes the Steviewondermobile.”

            Yes, Huggy Bear’s ride elicited an encyclopedia of emotions because despite an eye-paining beauty that would’ve put the vehicle directly into the African-American Aesthetics Hall of Fame there were significant problems with the ride.

            First off, he drove slowly because he had to.  No matter how long and hard he pressed the gas the thing would not go above 25 miles an hour.  Also, the electrical system was so taxed by the sound system that there were brownouts, when the car would only go 10 or 15 miles an hour, and blackouts where the car would just stop cold, maybe right in the middle of Freedom Ave or Funky Boulevard.  And that $25,000 sound system only played songs by Stevie Wonder.  He’d had it built like that.  There was a special sensor they sold at Soul City Systems and when you put in a non-Stevie record it was promptly spit out.  He didn’t know if records that Stevie had written and not performed or records like “We Are the World” on which Stevie had had a tiny part would work.  He didn’t ask and he never tried.

            The ride had attained its vehicular elegance and superior sound because Huggy Bear had put a bank-draining amount of cash into it.  It had massive problems because he was very picky about what he spent his money on.  If the carbureator was falling apart and needed only $600 to be like new and Dolemite Jones from Soul City Systems called and said he had a new sub-woofer, the best ever made, just $2,000, you can guess what he chose to do.  Huggy Bear was what your momma would call “nigga-rich.”  Someone with, say, a multi-thousand-dollar neck chain and nothing in the bank.  Someone with a hot Lexus who lives with they Moms.

            So he cruised with Stevie every day.  Stevie fit every mood.  If he felt upbeat and wanted to groove he pushed button number one and Stevie preached: “Very supa-stish-uuus… write-ings on tha wall…”  If he felt sad it was #17: “Lately I have had the strangest feel-ing…”  When he had his sweet, late mother on his mind he soothed her memory with #12: “You are the sun-shine of my life… That’s why I’ll always be a-round.”  When thinking politics, #73: “A boy is born!  In Hardtime, Mississippi!  Surrounded by… a world that ain’t so pretty!”  Every June first, as the sun sang out and the days got hot, #129: “Ma cher-ee a-mour… love-ly as a summer day!”  When he started a new relationship, #97: “Send her your love… with a dozen roses… make sure that she knows it… with a flow-er from your heart.”  Yes, he loved Stevie’s entire catalog, even the 80s shlock like Jungle Fever, loved it with the unquestioning devotion the faithful reserve for their God.  Huggy Bear was a devout Stevie-ite.  To him Stevie was a wise, gifted, mystical being, most definitely from another planet and of another consciousness, part eternal child, part social crusader, part sappy sentimentalist, an unabashed lover of God and women and all things sweet and just.  When he cruised down Freedom Ave blasting Stevie he was taking lessons on life.  He was meditating.  He was praying. 

            Each Sunday morning Huggy Bear rose with the sun to wash, wax, buff, and pamper his cathedral on wheels.  He walked to the gas station to fill his portable can (walking ended up being faster).  And then he sat and chose the day’s album, carefully matching it with his mood, spending as much time on this as many women take to get dressed for a big night.  When he found the perfect album he laid back, way back, and placed the first finger of his right hand on the bottom of the wheel so that his hand rested between his legs (there was something phallic about it, but he chose not to follow that line of thought).  Then he eased away from the curb and cruised into downtown Soul City and onto Freedom Ave, looking for his homeboys Mojo Johnson, Boozoo, and Groovy Lou.  They were all Stevie-ites and they all had they own little chapels.  Together they would turtle down Freedom Ave, all four rides blasting the same Stevie songs at the same time.

It was essential to ride down Freedom Ave in a pack on a Soul City Sunday afternoon because on a Soul City Sunday afternoon Freedom Ave was awash in music.  Everyone in Soul City was devout, but not everyone was a Stevie-ite.  At last count there were at least 20 religions in Soul City beside Stevieism: Milesism, Marleyites, Coltranity, the Sly Stonish, the Ellingtonians, Michael Jacksonism, Wu-Tangity, Princian, Rakimism, Mingusity, Nina Simonian, P-Funkist, James Brownism, Billie Holidayites, Monkist, Hendrixity, the Jiggas, the Arethites, Satchmoian, Barry Whiters, and Gayeity.  Soul City was a place where God entered through the speakers and love was measured in decibels.

So Huggy Bear smoothed down Freedom Ave looking for his crew. He passed Hype Jackson, DJ Cucumber Slice, and Reverend Hallelujah Jones, passed the barbershop, the rib shack, the Phat Farm, the Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles, the Baptist church, the weave spot, the drive-thru liquor store, and Chester McGroovy’s strange little shop, more like an open closet really, filled with his unique antiques—certified authentic Negrofied artifacts including a pair of Bojangles dancin shoes, a guitar played by Robert Johnson, a sax that belonged to Bird, some of Jacob Lawrence’s paint brushes, Sugar Ray Robinson’s gloves, a Richard Pryor crack pipe, and all sorts of things from slavery including actual chains, whips, and mouth bits, as well as Harriet Tubman’s running shoes, Frederick Douglass’s comb, and Nat Turner’s bible.  Purportedly, the stuff had magic residue left over by the Gods who’d handled them, but no one ever found out because Chester McGroovy refused to sell anything to anyone, even if they had more than ample money.

The streets were more crowded than normal because the Soul City Summertime Fair was on.  There was free food, step shows, dominoes, spades, and a shit-talkin clown with a small pillow for a nose who walked up and dissed you, playfully but pointedly, persistently talking about your clothes, your ears, and your momma until you buried a stiff fist right in that big old honker.  Then he laughed and thanked you and walked away.  And then there were the contests everyone loved.  The Neck-Rolling Contest in which contestants were judged on how fast they could whip their head around, how wide of a circle they could make, and how many consecutive 360s they could pull off.  Contests for sexiest lip-licker, most ornate Jesus piece, best pimp stroll, who could keep a hat on their head while cocked at the sharpest angle, and everyone’s favorite, the Nut-Grabbing Contest, a slow motion Negrified marathon really, wherein contestants simply hold their nuts as long as possible.  The regional record-holder, Emperor Jones, had stood there holding his nuts for six days, fourteen hours, and twenty-eight minutes straight.  He slept standing up, his right hand securely gripping his nuts.  Incredible.  Sadly, this was the first year in many that there would be no CPT contest because the Summertime Fair organizers had finally given in to reason: despite immense anticipation each year, the contest never ever really got off the ground because none of the contestants ever arrived before the contest was cancelled.

Huggy Bear finally found his crew hanging out in front of Peppermint Frazier, the 24-hour ice cream and chicken wing spot, talking to a few guys from an underground Tupac cult.  Mojo, Boozoo, and Groovy Lou jumped in their rides, calibrated their stereos to today’s sermon, Songs In the Key of Life and set their cruise control to 18 miles an hour.  Then all four of them turtled down Freedom Ave parade style, a small cruising cumulous cloud of sound, boombapping the block with a quadruply quadrophonic Soul City Sunday afternoon blast of the master blaster.

            But at the corner of Freedom and Rhythm, as they got to “Sir Duke”—“Music is a world within itself/ With a language we all understand, With an equal opportunity for all to sing, dance and clap their hands/ But just because a record has a groove, Don’t make it in the groove/ But you can tell right away at letter A, When the people start to move,”—the Steviewondermobile slowed and the sound began to die.  The gang pulled onto the side of Freedom and cracked the hood.  Yet another battery dead.  Mojo drove off to Soul City Motors to pick up a new one.  But for ten minutes the Steviewondermobile would be without sound.  Tragedy?  Huggy Bear never broke a sweat.  He was prepared.  He’d had Dolemite put in an emergency backup battery that was connected only to the sound system.  He could boom the system even when the car wouldn’t start.  Did he know that if the backup battery was connected to the electrical system instead of the sound system that he could’ve kept on driving?  Sure he did.  But it was Huggy Bear’s world and in Huggy Bear’s world the music could never die.  So he sat in the Steviewondermobile, stuck at the corner of Freedom and Rhythm, chilling with Groovy Lou and Boozoo to the soaring sounds of Stevie’s seamless soul stew and the world he saw with his so wonderfully clear inner vision.