
Every picturesque vision of country life includes the tiny local store where patrons get bags of feeds and sugar. My country tale is no different except the bags of feed are potato chips and the sugar has already been baked into a delicious good.
The Plan B is that country store. If Plan A fails you always have the Plan B. It is a tiny little store located at the end of a very notorious road. This road is said to encompass all the bad things about Tennessee into one little area of NC.
What I have often found about such areas is that the people who live there are usually quite nice, if somewhat...well, let's say...country. I'm OK with that. I was raised around it and it does not bother me. If fact I have been known to be a little bit country myself. If the people who live on said road want to call themselves country that's fine. If you do then you'll be in trouble. It's rude to judge, people.
Anyway, the Plan B happens to be the social center for the entire area. I met the owner a few years ago simply by hanging out inside. We started chatting and my visits got longer and longer. Soon the owner and I were good friends and she offered me the chance to work at the store.
I love my costumers. We have a great relationship. One gentleman who comes is has a long standing "cuss" war with me. We both love foul language and he and I are always trying to gross each other out, much to the enjoyment of his teenage son. Other costumers are people a few words. One simple says " Pack o' Durango" and hands you the exact amount with change for the tobacco. We get the good the bad and the trashy. The pregnant teenager. The construction worker or old man who hits on anything that walks. The Customers who think that all the women who work there are the same person. And we even get the joy of getting to call 911 for domestic disputes.
All in all the Plan B is the center of our country community, farmers, meth heads, Transplants and church goers. It laces together the different types of people into one group. People for whom Plan A failed.
Ahh, yes, the old country store. The crack-head gathering place, the drunk stop on the side of the road, the hang out for old horny men...it defines our country upbringing.
ReplyDeleteIndeed! It sure does :D
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