Woodbury

The joys of living and working in small towns are plentiful, at least with the things that I have experienced–of which some people have commented could have only happened to me. When they say that, the old phrase that “crazies attract crazies” comes to mind and I shudder at the thought of any magnetism that I might possess. I have to believe that I am not unique in this sense and that others have encountered the characters that I have seen through the years. Each day, on the way to and from work, I pass through the small, charming town of Woodbury, Georgia. Some folks might recognize this town because they are from the area and others might recognize the name from the Walking Dead. Either way, you have your own perception of Woodbury and I’m about to give you some new insight.

 

People sometimes have the belief that small towns are quiet, small towns are steeped in Southern charm, or small towns are immune to the strange and bizarre. While I won’t argue that some small towns are quiet and filled with enough Southern drawl to sweeten tea, there is also often enough obscure things happening that New York City might even blush. I am somewhat reluctant to tell these stories because one might begin to wonder if I am imagining these things. But, I assure you, I have been witness to and sometimes even a participant in some of the strangest things that I’ve ever seen.

 

As Sophia from the Golden Girls would say, picture it…2012, downtown Woodbury, Georgia, on a warm spring afternoon. The trees were finally getting all their leaves and I was minding my own business when all of a sudden, in the middle of town, I spot a man in a white pantsuit. He was in a squatting position on the side of the road, in full view of the major state road running through the center of town, with his pants around his ankles. Mr. Poopsalot strikes again. He pulled on his whitey tighties so fast, but it wasn’t fast enough. I could tell they were about three sizes too big. Had I not been so shocked by all of this, I would have stopped and told him that he could have easily fit a pair of adult diapers in them britches and pooping on the side of the road simply wasn’t needed. Being the model citizen that I am, I flagged down a policeman to tell him about Mr. Poopsalot. He chuckled, asked me if I was serious, to which I said, “Do you really think I could make that up?” He thanked me for “making his day” and drove off to intercept the bathroom bandit. I have to wonder though what kind of day he was having that my report on Mr. Poopsalot would “make his day.”

 

Not even two weeks later, on another drive home from work, I was again involved with the police. I had been working late hours for several days in a row and finally earned a reprieve to go home on time. Karma must have sensed my excitement and had other plans. As I was driving, again through the middle of town, a man crossed the street in front of me on his bicycle. He jerked the handlebars too fast, intending I suppose to turn the bike, but causing it to tumble onto its side. In front of me. On my way home. On time. He was a good 100 feet in front of me when this happened, and there were no other cars around. I could just imagine cars coming through town and finishing this poor man off, as he lay in the road. The story of the Good Samaritan tugged at my heart and I knew that I couldn’t just keep going. But, common sense told me that I was not getting out of the car with this phony looking fall. So I pulled my Kia up alonside him, rolled down the window and asked if he was ok. “Mmmmmmmmmm,” he moaned. I asked if he was hurt. “Mmmmmmmmmm mmmmm mmmmm mmm,” he groaned. I told him to hang on as I called 911. Cars begin to approach us while I was on the phone with the 911 operator. Three people asked me, while I was on the phone to 911, if I had run over the man, all while giving me the stink eye. I assured them that I did not run over him, and that he simply fell over in front of me. Realizing that I was now blocking traffic, I moved my car to the side and got out to join the growing crowd. Several men asked the downed man if he was hurt and they received the same response. I told him that an ambulance was on its way and fast as lightning, he jumped to his feet, “I don’t need no ambulance! There’s no need for the po-lice!” He shouted with slurred speech as he stumbled around, to and fro, almost falling back into traffic. Myself and three other men corralled him like a steer, and guided him to the sidewalk. We tried to explain to him that he had fallen on the pavement and could have injured his head. He got within three inches of my face and told me that all that was wrong with him was that he was drunk and high. Oh really? I couldn’t have told that from the stench of PBR on his breath, or the fact that his pupils covered his entire eyes–like there was NO whites to his eyes.

 

As I stand there, trying to keep my calm with this drunk stoner, he comments to the other men, “She pretty!” I looked around to see what “she” he was talking about only to realize that the “she” was me. Then he asks the fellow next to me, “Can I do her?” Umm, I’ll answer that with a big fat no. As Dr. Suess might would say in such a situation, “No, not in the road, no, not with a toad.” The police soon arrived and pulled me aside to ask what happened, asking me did I smell the alcohol on the man. Well of course I smelled the alcohol on the man, it could have been smelled from across the street. And, if the alcohol wasn’t enough, there was always the lovely scent of the ancient hippie herbal remedy coming from his clothing. I’m glad Sherlock came to the rescue.

 

Most recently, in Woodbury, downtown Woodbury, on an early January morning, I spotted Teen Wolf. It was a man in what appeared to be a werewolf costume. On a weekday morning. In the middle of town. He had on a regular pair of jeans and a red leathery-looking jacket that had fur popping out of the sleeves and up on the collar. His face and hands were covered with werewolf-like fur. I had to take double, triple, and quadriple takes to verify what I had seen. But, it was indeed what was walking down the road. If I had not been on my way into work, I probably would have stopped and asked him what was going on. This time, I didn’t call the po-po. I was afraid they might have my number on the watch out list, as in, “watch out, it’s the crazy magnet!” I suppose I should be glad that he wasn’t pooping on the side of the road or falling out in the street in front of me.

 

Nonetheless, I will tell you that I appreciate the quirky characters in a small town. People can go on assuming that it’s filled with Southern charm and quiet streets. It is true–the genuine Southern charm that makes us so unique from the rest of the country. Truth be told, Mr. Poopsalot, Mr. Bicycle Man, and Teen Wolf are probably well known to the police and to the community, like Otis on Andy Griffith. True Southerners know that our small towns are chocked full of people like this, and in good conscience, we can’t shun them. As it’s been told before, true small town Southerners are proud of their crazies. We don’t hide  them in institutions or shun them when they come into the grocery store wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a sombrero. No, we give them a big ol’ smile and ask them how their mama’s doing.