High grass and Camaros: The story of HOAs and their Uselessness

When I lived in Athens, I lived in a neighborhood that required membership in a Homeowner’s Association. It was not an independent HOA, this was created by and run by residents in charge of their own neighborhood. We would have monthly meetings to discuss neighborhood business and vote on certain issues, usually regarding lawn care, covenants, and the spending of our $85 per month dues. We elected officers to oversee the operation and every resident had an equal say in the goings-on of our little community. Sounds like the epitome of democracy, right? Yeah, if democracy was scrubbing out my eyes with a Brillo Pad, then yeah, it’s democracy.

I call shenanigans on HOA membership in its entirety. I have never been to a 3-hour monthly meeting that accomplished less and drove more wedges between people than an HOA meeting. Neighbors telling neighbors what to do, when to do it and how? Like a lead balloon. You have distinct types of people in the HOA, and when these types must interact and money gets involved, watch out. If you never thought that a retention pond could lead to a physical altercation, think again brother. You want speed bumps on the street to slow down the teenagers? You have to figure out who is going to do it, when they are going to do it, what it will cost, should they be made of asphalt or plastic, how far apart, how many, will it violate city codes and for God’s sake, what about the children? This has to be put to a vote. Cue the Brillo pads to the eyes.

First, you have to understand who you are dealing with. You have the old people in the neighborhood. They have seen it all, been members of HOA’s before and know way more than the “Just out of college, First time homebuyer, Slightly hungover from last night” (JFS) crowd. Then you have the people with kids, people without kids, people who work all the time, people who do not work at all, housewives, people who love dogs, people who hate dogs, the guy who gets drunk and likes to shoot his rifle at 2 AM, the lady who stays jacked on pills and fights her boyfriend at the drop of a hat, the guy in the first house on the right that has a party every Friday (which pisses off the old people, housewives, and people with dogs), and the numerous randoms who pay dues late, have an immobile vehicle in their driveway or tape measure their property line so when a dispute arises (which it will, usually with people with kids, dogs and the guy who has the parties), they are fully prepared.

All of these people have a right to have their voice heard. They also group together with like minded residents to form cliques and form voting blocs. The old people band together against the teenagers. The people with dogs and kids against the rifle shooter and the pillhead. It’s a colossal disaster, which is why I ran for and won the vice-president election in my second year in the neighborhood. I am a glutton for punishment. Plus, I was a member of the JFS crowd and we needed to be represented. The speed bump problem was thrown on me after four months of filibustering. After the last two hour discussion that ended in walkouts, a nasty rift arising between the people who work all the time and the housewives, and three people proclaiming they would quit paying dues, they just said, “Screw it, Stephens, you got it.” I got it done in 48 hours. Called a guy I knew, he installed them at 2:00 one afternoon, and charged us cost of materials plus a few extra dollars for himself. Problem solved. You know why? I didn’t ask permission. I didn’t run it by anyone. I didn’t get out an Excel spreadsheet to compare and contrast the benefits of asphalt vs. plastic. I let a man who knew exactly what we needed install the right speed bumps and I wrote him a check.

Was that the end of it? Nope. Several groups were angry with me that I didn’t present the information to the entire neighborhood to approve the work. Some people thought the speed bumps should have been staggered. Some thought they should be black instead of yellow. The JFS crowd stood and made a gauntlet for me to run through before I was stoned to death like a witch in Salem. That was my first and last time as an HOA member. I never went back to another meeting and we moved about six months later. I still get the lowdown from my fellow JFS (now a part of the people with kids group) members. They’ve fired three different lawn care companies, it’s been discovered that our back property line has been encroached by ten feet and the cops go to the pillhead’s house once a week now, which really angers the old people, the housewives and the property line guy. Aaaaah, memories. Now I live in a ‘hood with an HOA run by a property management company. They issue the rules. They get the grass cut. They fine people for breaking covenants. There are no meetings or officers. We have no say-so in anything and it’s freakin’ beautiful. Totalitarianism at its finest.

I could not imagine an HOA back home in Cassville. First of all, nobody would attend the meetings. People in Cassville are not interested in what you think about the appearance of their property. We are going to have an immobile vehicle in the yard, so deal with it. In fact, this is a requirement to live on some streets. Every guy has a car they are “gonna fix up one day and that baby gonna run like a damn top.” This is usually a Camaro or a Mustang. All it needs is new paint, wheels, a windshield, all brakes replaced, head gaskets, odometer, radio, gear shift, new pistons, axles and a passenger seat (which was taken and used as a tailgating chair at Talladega). It’s like the Building Fund at the church, nobody knows its true purpose, but it will always be there.

Second, lawn care is optional. If you live a mile from your nearest neighbor, why should you care about his property value? What if we like six foot stalks of polk salat in our yard? It’s better than growing corn in the front yard, which some people are apt to do. That can be dangerous though. After a particularly violent thunderstorm the night before, I was working at the store the next morning and listening to everybody’s stories. One man, who had his corn planted in his front yard, informed me that the “got dam storm blowed his got dam corn in the got dam road.” Imagine having an HOA on that one. The thoroughfare covered in ears of Silver Queen. The horror. Let’s vote on it.

Third, and most important, is the dues issue. $85 a month. That’s about five cases of Budweiser. That’s two cartons of Marlboros. That is gas money to get to Panama City Beach (pronounced Pan-a-maw and dropping the City and Beach completely, of course). We have better things to do with our money, clearly. We’ll keep our cars rusty, our grass knee high, and our vices.... you can have your HOA.

Obscure Song You Should Download

The Allman Brothers Band was formed in Daytona Beach, Florida and forged in the studios of Capricorn Records in Macon, Georgia. Along with his brother Duane, Gregg Allman recruited a group of musicians that were able to mix elements of rock, blues, country and folk music and create a sound that would come to signify Southern rock. In fact, Gregg said it all when he told VH1 that saying "Southern rock" is redundant, because it was created by us, so it's like saying "rock rock." Anyhow, with all their mega hits, they also generated dozens of songs that are lost to the radio for various reasons, usually because they like to jam for minutes at a time. This song is my favorite ABB song of all time, and I have never heard it played on the radio. Gregg wrote it and Duane slays the slide guitar in an awesome solo. Enjoy "Dreams," y'all.

Five Realizations for This Week

1)                      If whale sharks decided to go medieval on us, we’d be toast. I could see a diver on GPTV swimming alongside a whale shark, with David Attenborough narrating, “And this lovely creature with all it’s size and power, is positively harmless, eating only phytoplankton…” and then it turns around and swallows the diver whole. Years of marine research down the toilet and the big guy over at the Georgia Aquarium becomes 10,000 pounds of steak.

2)                   Speaking of animals, Bangladesh natives are the wildebeests of the human world. You ever notice how wildebeests are always the #1 choice of predators everywhere? Lions, tigers, cheetahs, woodpeckers….you name it. Wildebeests are mercilessly slaughtered by every living thing that lives and breathes in the jungle. It’s almost like they plan it. “Hmmmmm, here is a muddy pond with absolutely no escape route right next to this pride of lions….over here everybody!” says their leader.

When a disaster hits Bangladesh, it is freakin’ biblical every time. Earthquakes, landslides, typhoons, gas price increases…on to that celestial shore they go, by the thousands. Call me insensitive, but the numbers don’t lie.

3)                   Everybody in northwest Georgia believes they have Cherokee (pronounced Char-kee) blood in them. “Hell, my daddy’s great grandpa was on the Trail of Tears and took a wrong turn and ended up in Adairsville (pronounced Dars-Vull).” It could be the whitest redhead on the block and they would still claim it. It’s a badge of honor for us. And to return to the homeland in North Carolina to pay homage (also known as compulsive gambling), is a rare treat.

As for me, I’m 1/32 Cherokee…no really, I looked it up!  =)

4)                        I’m glad that “pre-worn” cowboy hats are fading from existence. I blame Kenny Chesney for this ridiculous fad, with his fake pectoral muscles and shellace. (shell necklace). He was so much cooler when he was fat, wearing flannel and singing about East Tennessee. Instead, he became some fraudulent Jimmy Buffet clone and he started wearing a “pre-worn” cowboy hat. The people who participated in this laughable haberdashery along with him were about as far from a real cowboy as you can get. If this were Star Wars, Kenny Chesney would be the Emperor and his hat would be the Death Star, sucking in one more moron with it’s tractor beam. Join my Rebellion. Take off the hat. You want real country? Get one of your granddad’s old Faron Young albums and play “Hello Walls.” It’s more country than a dirt road covered in fried chicken with a river of Jack Daniel’s running beside it.

5)                          Although I am on the Paleo Diet, watching everything I eat and drink, counting calories and measuring protein like a mad scientist….I still want to go to the Varsity and gobble down two hot dogs all the way with a the biggest Frosted Orange in history. That sh*t is delicious.

Obscure Song You Should Download

Formed in England in 1967, Traffic is one of the most underrated bands of all time. Their uniquely fused music is unlike any other band you will ever hear, one song will have saxophones and flutes, the next will have a Mellotron and a mandolin. Steve Winwood's voice is the perfect addition to this amalgamation of jazz, folk, psychedelic and progressive rock. They have some songs that have notoriety these days, mainly "The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys" and their rendition of "Feelin' Alright." Other than that, you will rarely hear them unless your Dad has a sentimental moment and yanks out his old record collection. If he does, he probably will bring out this album and you need to give "Freedom Rider" a holler. I promise you won't be disappointed.

Scattered, Smothered and Covered Up in Traffic

         

God Help Us

   Living in the Atlanta area for the last three years, I have been exposed to some of the worst traffic in the nation. The mega growth in the 80’s and 90’s created a metropolis with a handful of bedroom communities that now total over 5 million in population. Some experts predicted that by 2025, Atlanta and Chattanooga would be one gigantic megalopolis. At one point in 2003, Henry and Forsyth Counties were in the top 5 for population growth in the nation. These counties were mainly rural and the owners of the land were happy to sell their acreage for a premium price and move to St. Simons Island, a popular destination for the rich and shameless here in Georgia. Subdivisions were constructed in record time, red lights were installed on what used to be dirt roads, and mortgages were thrown around like candy. This property was prime because it was close enough to Atlanta to get to work but far enough away that new residents did not experience the hustle and bustle of city life. With this influx of human beings, the interstates in the metro Atlanta area have become parking lots from 3:00 – 8:00 in the afternoon on weekdays. It is absolutely maddening.

Once, when I was in college, it took four hours to get from Athens to Cassville.  A water main busted on one highway in Cobb County and that sealed the fate of the entire metro area. See, since they are all connected, it set off a giant chain reaction. I turned my truck off on I-285 and sat on the tailgate for 45 minutes. The water main that busted was thirty miles away. The same thing happens when people have fender benders, flat tires, the DOT is surveying land, or a squirrel is slain in the right lane and its lifeless body remains on the interstate. Everybody has to stop and gawk like they have never seen a dented quarter panel.

"Y'all Ain't Doin' That Right"

            The DOT is another issue. Have you ever watched them? One guy operates a jackhammer while ten others stand around smoking cigarettes telling that guy what he is doing wrong. They take three hour lunches. They don’t work when it rains or snows. They get paid handsomely to do this. They also decide to “work” when it is the least convenient time. Need a road paved? I-85 and Pleasantdale? That is in Gwinnett County, Georgia, population 700,000. Let’s start at 2:30 pm on Friday! Here come the orange and white barrels for thirteen miles, a speed reduction, a closed left lane and forty five steamrollers, forty two of which will likely never move. Remember folks, you paid for those steamrollers too. Then we all get to sit in traffic for hours while one guy works for ten minutes and takes a break. Another guy cranks a steamroller, realizes that the wind picked up 10 mph and switches it off, claiming that the potential erosion of topsoil supercedes the necessity of his labor (well, imagine a Georgia twang and more four letter words). Then a “bossman” comes out, stands around surveying the situation for about fifteen minutes, talks to some guy named Randy on a Nextel phone and then leaves for the rest of the day. All of this worthlessness takes about two weeks and completely destroys the afternoon commute.

            The installation of red lights is another sore spot for me. I have no idea what person(s) are responsible for the decision making process, but they are right there with the guy who thought it was wise to bring kudzu to the United States and the other guy who thought the Ford Edsel should be sold to the public. These are the guys who take four hour lunches, are never in their offices and their phones always go to voice mail. In Bartow County, there are several intersections that desperately need red lights. You know, the ones where if a wreck happens, the EMT’s will have to remove the victims from the asphalt with a sponge. There must be an unwritten rule, a magic number of deaths and injuries that must occur before the DOT will act. On the contrary, there are some red lights that are inexplicable. The ones where you could literally get out of your car, build a bonfire and dance around it in a loincloth and be back in your car before the light changed and nobody would see you.  In fact, last year, a red light was removed in downtown Cartersville because so many people complained about its uselessness. When have you ever heard a red light being removed? It had been installed only a year before, in an area that had not changed in years, replacing the four way stop that was working just fine. Meanwhile, another motorist is torn apart crossing five lanes of traffic by another going motorist going 60 miles per hour downhill on Main Street between Starbucks and Publix. Leave it up to the Georgia DOT.

 The Untimely Death of my Waffle House

  I also blame the DOT for the dilapidation and decline of my exit on I-75. For years, the exits on I-75 were in numerical order. Exit 1 was at Lake Park, Georgia near the Florida line and the last exit was in Rocky Face, Georgia, on the Tennessee state line. My exit was #127. I call it “my exit” because I spent so much time at the Waffle House there, that I actually became a squatter. Seriously, I could have challenged ownership of that area on grounds of adverse possession and probably had a fighting chance.

That Waffle House is one of many sources of awesome memories from my childhood. I remember one night, my parents, my brother and I decided to make it a Waffle House night and crammed ourselves in a booth at about 9 PM. The place was absolutely full of people and most of them appeared to drive a truck for a living. You can always tell a truck driver apart from others, they always have that “been up all night” look. That is not an affront to truckers at all, that is a hard job and absolutely necessary to our economy. Anyhow, we had just ordered when one of the truckers went to the jukebox put in one single quarter. When you only put in one quarter, you already know what you are going to play. He entered the three digit code and returned to his seat with his coffee. Seconds later, a sad saxophone and Bob Seger’s raspy voice began to play over the speakers. “Turn the Page” is a staple of Waffle House jukeboxes everywhere. As Bob belted out the first few words, the truckers all seemed to tap their feet or nod their heads in time. Before we knew it, as the chorus came on, they were all singing along to the top of their lungs, especially the line, “there I am, up ooooooooon the stage!” Men who did not know each other, from different states and walks of life, were singing Bob Seger together in a Waffle House in Cassville, Georgia on a summer night at 9:15 PM. As the song ended, they all laughed and shook hands and high fived. Everybody finished their meals and went their separate ways with coffees to go. It was a nice moment.

That particular jukebox was wonderful. I had a lineup that I played each time I went. “Come Monday” by Jimmy Buffett; “Hold on Loosely” by .38 Special; “Hotel California” by The Eagles; “Ramblin’ Man” by The Allman Brothers and whatever the best country song on the board was at the time. It was often a George Strait song. The 90’s had some good country that was popular, and on the contrary, there were also some god-awful travesties that found their way onto that jukebox. One of which was “Indian Outlaw” by Tim McGraw. Lots of people thought this song was great, judging by the number of plays it received. I think this may be the worst song ever. My usual waitress, Sharon, thought it sucked too. When it would come on, she would roll her eyes and take a cigarette break. Not only were the words to the song unfathomably ridiculous, he mixed in a few lines from “Cherokee Indian Reservation” by Paul Revere and the Raiders to go ahead and insure that the song would be terrible. I guess anything worth doing, it’s worth doing right. Congratulations, Tim, for ruining my hash browns and coffee for at least six months in 1995.

Back to the DOT, they decided in 1998 that our exit numbers should be changed. They were going to number them according to the mileage between each exit to help travelers gauge their distance and time more efficiently. Soon thereafter, crews of men were all over I-75 taking down the old signs and replacing them with shiny new green markers with our new numbers. I should have gone out there and offered them a hundred bucks for our sign. We went from #127 to #296, which meant we were exactly 295 miles from Exit #1 in Valdosta. Consequently, our exit also became a target for new truck stop construction. A Pilot station and a TravelAmerica station opened within months. A Comfort Inn, a seedy bar and an adult video store followed. The entire area went downhill quick. My Waffle House, which had stood in the same spot since 1974, serving our community faithfully all those years, closed. They could not compete with 24 hour Taco Bell, Burger King, Subway and McDonald’s, a recession, and the health food craze that scared off fringe customers. The building now sits, boarded up, with weeds in the parking lot and graffiti on the plywood over the windows. Every now and then, a broken down car will be sitting in the parking lot. When I first saw it, I could not believe my eyes. I called my brother in Oxford, Mississippi to deliver the sad news. He sat silently on the other end of the phone for a good ten seconds. He and I spent a lot of time there, especially when I started driving, and now it was gone. It all started when the DOT changed the exit numbers. We had our own number and we were just fine. When we became a mere mile marker, the whole thing went to hell in a handbasket. The county cops basically live out there now, serving arrest warrants at the cheap hotels, where drug dealers pay for rooms by the week so they can peddle their poison to the other trash that live there. The DOT had to install two red lights due to the heavy traffic on the exit, but they were too lazy to install left turn lanes to get back onto the Interstate, so when a tractor trailer turns left to get back on I-75 at the usual snail’s pace, you completely miss the green light.

So, in short, prior to 1998, we had three gas stations (American owned), a Red Carpet Inn, a Waffle House and no red lights. In 2010, we have seven gas stations(who knows who owns any of them now?), a Red Carpet Inn and a Comfort Inn, a bar, an adult video store, Taco Bell, Burger King, McDonalds, Subway, Popeye’s, Country Pride Restaurant (the TravelAmerica 24-hour joint), two red lights and no Waffle House. Progress? Not hardly. All it has brought is the disappearance of an institution, traffic, crime and a collection of low rent people strung out on drugs who spend their welfare checks on lottery tickets and beer. The DOT can kiss my scattered, smothered and covered ass….127 times.

           

           

Obscure Song You Should Download

This is a 1962 collaboration between John Coltrane and Duke Ellington called "In A Sentimental Mood." It mixes Ellington's piano and Coltrane's saxophone perfectly, considering the name of the song. There are no words, but it does not need words, as this song will make you think simply by listening to its peaceful sound. It reminds me of being in New York, sitting in a quiet bar, watching the snow fall outside and people walking by when I was there over New Year's. All I could think was, "life is pretty dang good." Thanks John and Duke, you are geniuses.

Welcome to Northwest Georgia...Part One

“How y’all doin?”

This is a phrase that means something in northwest Georgia. It can be spoken to many people, or just one, but it conveys a sentiment that your fellow man cares about you and yours. We used to greet people this way at Cass Grocery. Our customers would respond in many different ways:

“Fine! How y’all?”

“Good! How’s your momma ‘n them?”

“If I was any better, I couldn’t stand it.”

“Workin’ my ice (“ass” to the rest of the world) off, how you?”

The conversation would continue from there. You could find out so much from a person in those few minutes. Add those up over years and years of service and you get to know a whole hell of a lot (another northwest Georgia saying) about somebody. That’s what I loved about being there, the camaraderie of the people and their general kindness toward us and their appreciation. When I won the countywide spelling bee in 5^th grade, I got more pats on the back than I could count. “That boy right thar….he gonna be somebody,” I heard one man say to his brother. Unlike many places I’ve seen, people were actually happy for your success because they took de facto ownership of it. I even find myself claiming others successes, you wouldn’t find a happier person for Richard Samuel (Running Back at UGA from Cassville) than I…well, maybe his momma, but I digress. I assume that most small towns in northwest Georgia resembled our little hamlet.

What do I mean when I say “northwest Georgia?” In my mind, it is all the counties that border Alabama from Haralson to Dade, from Dade to Murray County, from Murray down to northeast Cherokee County, from there across Bartow and Polk and all that lies in between, with the inclusion of north and west Cobb County. (Cobb, contrary to popular opinion, is not all subdivisions and Land Rovers. Trust me.) When I have ventured into other metropolises, like Cedartown, Rome, Summerville, Dalton, Chatsworth, Ellijay or Calhoun or if you get into the outer reaches, like Fairmount, Flintstone, Felton, Esom Hill, Ball Ground, Eton, and the like….you get the same kind of person that I grew up with.

I speak with authority on these topics because of my years at the store. I was an archaeologist in Air Jordans and I loved every second of it. I’m proud of the fact that we were one of the last full service gas stations around. I’m also glad because walking out to those gas pumps gave me the first glimpse into life in our little corner of the universe. It was a circus out there. Somebody would pull up and my Dad would holler, “Got one on the front!!” Out I would go into this…..

 I had people pay me for $5.00 in gas in unrolled pennies. I had a guy pull up one morning at 7:30, still drunk from the night before, and get $0.27 in gas so he could get to Cedar Creek Road two miles away and go to bed. I’ve had people get gas in milk jugs, water bottles, paint cans, and once, in a Thermos. I had a guy get $3.00, pay with a twenty dollar bill and tell me to keep the change because it was Christmas Eve. There were rags, newspapers, sticks, and grocery bags for gas caps. There have been wasps (pronounced “waw-st-es” by real southerners), spiders, dirt daubers and hornets making their home under the gas door. There were Hefty bags, old dresses, plywood and cardboard for various windows on the vehicle. I have seen more mismatched rims, hubcaps and tires than I can count. I have seen Mustang hubcaps on a Camaro, Explorer hubcaps on Pontiacs, Acura hubcaps on Chevrolets, and many with no hubcaps at all because they sold them to a pawn shop. There were coat hangers holding hoods down, bungee cords keeping hatchbacks from flying open, missing mufflers to make the car sound louder, and some leaked oil so badly that I had to put cat litter down to keep somebody from throwing a cigarette on it and burning the place down. Bumper stickers and personal license plates were an artform. There were airbrushed masterpieces from Panama City or Gatlinburg, such as “Southern By the Grace of God,” “Misty and Dwayne 4-Ever,” and “Smart Ass White Boy.” There were classy stickers like “Eatin Ain’t Cheatin,” “Redneck Bitch” and Calvin pissing on everything from Ford and Chevrolet to the IRS and the President. I have had to pump gas with the handle sideways, upside down or at a snail’s pace because some of the older model vehicles could not accommodate the gas any other way.

This is the tip of the iceberg. You could see all of this in one day. Once I finished pumping gas, I was expected to bag groceries, make sandwiches, hot dogs and barbeque, monitor the hardware, keep the coolers stocked and make sure the cigarettes were prominently displayed. The cigarettes were a huge deal. I mean, paramount to the success and failure of a customer’s day. Essentially, they are twenty pieces of paper filled with tobacco attached to a fiberglass filter (or not). We sold almost any brand you can imagine. There are more kinds of cigarettes than vehicles on the road. Just listening to Dad order them on the phone would give you a seizure. “Yes, I need three cartons of Parliament Ultra Light Menthol 100’s in a Box.”  Ridiculous. If you measured the store’s size and compared it to the cigarette rack, I would say it took up 1/10^th of the entire store. The Surgeon General says cigarette smoking can cause lung cancer? Heart Disease? Low Birth Weight? Ha. We follow a different creed here in Cassville. We are of the “Hey, Smoke Up Johnny!” mold. One man named Doc used to buy a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon and four packs of Winstons every single day (except Sunday, when he would buy beer from a bootlegger). He was seventy years old, what did he care? Wildly enough, Doc probably weighed 140 pounds soaking wet. I have no idea how that little man was able to smoke and drink that way, but he did.

When a customer becomes a regular and they are a smoker, you immediately learn their preferences. Sometimes, orders get cancelled and you are out of a certain brand. A few people make do and just get something similar. However, most people are loyal to one brand and by God, they stick with it. Seriously, they may be more loyal to a cigarette than their own family. When we were out of a brand somebody wanted, that’s when the three act play would begin.

Act One: (denial)

First, the customer, we will call him “Jerry”, approaches and orders.

“Gimme a pack of Marlboro Red’s in a box.”

You then deliver the world-crushing news. “Sorry Jerry, they marked ‘em out on us, can you use something else? I got ‘em in a soft pack.”

You see the dread. You witness the perspiration trickle down their temple. Hats come off. Fingers run through hair. “Oh man.” They take a deep breath and look down at the floor. “Are you serious?” they ask.

Act Two: (acceptance)

After a few seconds of thought and meditation, their eyes meet yours.

“Well, I can’t smoke them Lights or them Mediums, no flavor. Them soft packs gets crushed too easy.”

The decision making process kicks into gear. You can hear their thoughts. They are pondering the trip to Wal Mart. You gotta save them from themselves at this point, “Jerry, I got Basics, they are cheaper and they are in a box too.” He shakes his head, “Basics ain’t worth a shit, it’s like smoking cardboard.” They give you the sad look. The look of a child who just got the kybosh on a trip to Six Flags. Cue another forlorn glance at the empty rack where the Marlboro Red’s once were.

Act Three: (overcoming obstacles)

Jerry is now craning his neck, pawing his chin, pondering his next move. This is the single most important decision of the day. There is no margin for error. One wrong choice and all hell will break loose. Another deep breath. He examines the cigarette rack and it’s 75,000 choices. A sad sigh exits the nasal cavity.

“Awright, gimme a pack of Newports.”

A menthol cigarette that is more expensive, the sensible choice. I shrug and lay them on the counter. Jerry pays and immediately starts slamming the pack into his palm. You must pack the tobacco or it does not smoke right, they say. I did not know smoke did anything but rise into the stratosphere and deplete the ozone layer. You must apologize to Jerry for being out of his brand, though.

“Awwww, that’s alright, I smoked these when I was in the Navy. I had to switch though. Man, these goddamned things’ll kill you!”

He chuckles and leaves. The day has been saved. Wal Mart lost four cents.

Welcome to Northwest Georgia.