Wrong Side of the Tracks....L-I-V-I-N

In every county, city and town in the USA, especially the South, has an area they call the "wrong side of the tracks." (WST) The WST can encompass an entire town or just one street, it just depends on who you are talking to and where they live in relation to the specific area. The definition of a WST also varies from person to person, what is one man's WST is another man's Martha's Vineyard. There is always a certain tone in the speaker's voice when this area is mentioned, or if somebody lives there, it's like a black eye on their life resume. You know what I mean...I use Bartow as an example:

(Imagine two guys, Ricky and Shane, who work at Georgia Power, talking about a new hire)

Ricky: "You know that new boy on the job? I think his name is Leon."

Shane: "Yeah, he's aight but he acts funny. Why?"

Ricky: "You know he's from Kingston, right?

Shane: "Oh lord, that explains it..." (insert sarcastic tone)

See? Anybody from any county can imagine a similar conversation about a WST in their county. Me personally, I don't have anything against Kingston. Kingston doesn't tax me. Kingston has not bedeviled me with speeding tickets. Actually, some of my best 10 and under basketball memories took place in their old gym. But some people I know always have that tone when referring to it. "I wouldn't go to Kingston if you paid me!" You get the picture.

You also better be careful not to accuse someone of being from a WST when they are not. Many people, especially in small towns, will differentiate and claim unincorporated areas as their home. If you look at an old map of your county, you may see some named areas that you have never heard of. Many of these were simply old voting districts, a crossroads or an old train stop that found their way into the topography. However, many of the residents of these places, while having an address of the nearest post office, will claim the area as their actual home. I once accused an old man of being from Cartersville and he retorted, "Sheeeeeyat, I'm from Rodgers, boy." Rodgers? I looked it up. It's a crossroads on Cassville Road that encompasses maybe half a mile inside the city limits of Cartersville. But, by God, he "ain't from no Cartersville." When I was at the store, I used to purposefully accuse old men of being from another place, just to get that reaction.

Me: "You're from Acworth, right?"

Old Man: "Boy, you better quit talkin that mess. You know I'm from White(s)."

Much merriment for yours truly.

In Cassville, we didn't have a ton of square mileage, but we had a couple of WSTs just the same. Honestly, our WSTs were not crime ridden,  moreso it was just full of characters that may commit petty crimes from time to time. The main one was a trailer park that was situated about half a mile from the store. It had about thirty trailers with a paved road running between them, with their mailboxes at the entrance. Two things in Cassville were a sure bet: 1) if you checked the police blotter, somebody from this address went to jail the night before and 2) they were probably drunk from the last twelve pack they bought from me. These people certainly came by the store every single day and I got to know them very well. I knew their habits, their mannerisms, their families, and their life stories. They weren't all "wrong" or "bad" so to speak, they just had a peculiar way about them, and it defined everyone who called it home.

Like George, who drank more than anyone I have ever seen and still managed to hold a job. Every morning, he would meet us at the door when we opened at 6AM, shaking violently with DTs (unfortunately you can't drink beer in your sleep). He would say "hey big guy!" as he blew past us to the beer cooler. He would be shaking so badly, he would have to go to the bathroom, chug a 22 ounce Budweiser and come back out to pay for it. He literally could not reach in his pocket to get his wallet.

Or Randy, who used to abuse morphine and meth at the same time. He somehow pulled off being completely relaxed and wound tighter than a snare drum at the same time, which I thought to be impossible. But accomplishing the impossible happened every day in Cassville. This man once brought his electric guitar to the store, plugged in an old amp, and unleashed a methed out version of "Crossfire" by Stevie Ray Vaughan in the parking lot. You know what? It didn't suck. He would pace the floor, sweating like a hamster running in a wool sock, order an ice cream, forget that he ordered it, buy a Mountain Dew and ask who's ice cream I was holding. He once tried to steal about 20 Dixie Outfitters t-shirts, got caught by my brother, and proceeded to cry on his knees in the parking lot. "I love y'all, man, I'm sorry. I love y'all!" He died during a party in the trailer park sometime in the early 2000s. The coroner said he had been dead for four hours but nobody noticed. He was stranded, caught in a crossfire. RIP Randy.

My grandmother lived near this trailer park and she noticed the comings and goings of its citizens. One day, she was working in her garden and young man walked by and asked to borrow $2.00. She wanted to know what it was for..."milk for my baby," he said. She gave him the $2.00. Unfortunately for him, he was walking and she had a lot of work to do. So, when he came walking back by with an obvious Olde English 800 malt liquor bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, she confronted him. You know the Southern woman confrontation.....hand on the hip, one eyebrow raised, pointing with her tiny shovel. "Don't you ever ask me for money again, you heathen!" ("Heathern" is also acceptable). The kid actually apologized. Nothing like a guilt trip from 75 year old woman standing amongst her cala lilies and 150 birdhouses. I love you Neen and miss you every day.

The population of this trailer park was fairly transient over the years. However, their transience did not seem to affect the WST cloud that blanketed the modular metropolis. I remember one family that lived there for years, until one day they pulled up in the man's pickup truck with what seemed to be all their wordly possessions. Clothes, shoes, toys, food, lamps, a recliner, and various NASCAR memorabilia stacked in the bed of the truck, with their three children sitting on top to hold it down.

"What the hell? Where y'all goin'?" I said.

The man replied, "Hell, her damn car backfired last night and burnt the house up. This is all I could get out, we're movin to Kingston. Thank God I was able to save that Earnhardt helmet, huh?"

I didn't see them for years. Although Kingston is 4 miles away, that's light years in small town Georgia. It's like a black hole sucks them up and they are sent to another galaxy. I remember one guy moved out of the trailer park and I asked where he went. His old neighbor said, "Hell, he moved to Rome," in a tone that would be more appropriate if he had moved to Sri Lanka. Rome is apparently unattainable from our particular location, that 24 miles might as well be 24,000.

A new trailer was installed and a new family moved in. A guy named Junior, who could not read, his wife and son. Junior would come in and hand me a list that his wife had written and I would get the groceries for him. He drank like a fish, smelled like an old gym bag and had zero teeth. He once peed his pants while I was getting yet another twelve pack of Natural Light for him. As I watched the stain expand across his pants and his boots get wet, he just stood there with an expressionless face, open mouth breathing. It was about 2:00 in the afternoon. Just another day in Cassville. A year later, they were gone too.

Then you had the guy who had a "new" car every week. By "new" I don't mean late model, I mean simply a different car than last week. He pulled up one day in a '86 Chevy Van with an airbrushed wolf on the side. Apparently, the airbrushing doesn't just apply to Gatlinburg t-shirts. This wolf was snarling over a canyon with lightning striking in the background. Forget "Starry Night." This is artwork. It was about 37 shades of brown, only half of the windows were tinted and there was a bullethole in the back glass. The week before he had a Firebird.

"Yep, traded that, three shotguns and a fly wheel for this baby. Sweet deal, huh?" Sweet. That's the word.

There are a million stories from this tiny map dot. One may call the entire town of Cassville a "WST." That's alright with me. If it gets me stories of missing appendages from fights over catching your woman with another man (another story, another day); Fudge Rounds and Yoohoo for breakfast for your kids and blowing your paycheck on Jumbo Bucks while you are geeking on meth.....bring it on. God bless em all.