CHARLIES TRADIN POST, RIP

Everything dies. Charlies Tradin Post, off McDonough Blvd across the street from State Pen, was in its earthbox and food for worms far before I pulled up yesterday with the kid, bent on replacing worn to shreds Liberty overalls and picking up few spools of 5lb test line. Overalls woulda be $15 instead of the $35 Sears gets for 'em. Fishing line a few bucks instead of the $15 Bass Pro ribs one for. And then there woulda been the impossibly dreary bullshit from the Post's proprietor, Charlie, half Injun, all asshole, tall and wiry and shock of long Seen God white hair, denim apron always on, forever fighting with Hispanics about prices and whether or not they were in his country legally.

Been going to the Post since I was a little kid. Used to buy baseball and football gear there. Bought my first catcher's mit there for $10. Bought my first rod n reel there --- a push button caster, Bill Dance style --- a rod n reel I still love to use; strong enough for cats and largemouth bass, "delicate" enough for pans and crappie. I'm wearing a pair of discontinued Levi's I bought at the Post right now, as I type. Bluer than winter's crepuscule, rivets that shine like newly minted pennies. Don't make 'em like that anymore.

Post was large. Post was cavernous. At the front ran the display cases from corner to corner. Full of shells and game calls and hats and reels. Charlie's antiquated register hulked at door entrance. He mostly used a phonebook sized calculator and made change from a weathered Tampa Nugget cigar box. From the displays sat huge rectangular bins confused with lures. Soft plastics, saltwater plugs, crankbait, spoons, rooster tails. Rows of saltwater rods lined the left hand side of the Post. Beyond fishing gear began menswear tables loaded with Levi's, Dickies, Carhartt, Key, Pointer, Liberty. Battle Dress Uniform --- jungle, desert, tactical, etc. Barn jackets. Railroad jackets. Discontinued hunting coats, fishing vests, shooting vests. Football and baseball and basketball jerseys and shoulder pads and helmets and cleats.

Amateur taxidermy decorated corners. Fox, minx, badger, mallard, turtle. Static radio monotoned gospel or R&B. Huge negresses poured into black Levi's helped men find their jeans size, explained "bootcut," debated best fried chicken in southeast Atlanta (Popeye's always the victor).

I asked Charlie to stock steel shot so I wouldn't have to buy it from Bass Pro. "Steel shot?!" he yelled, incredulous. "No one aint gone buy that stuff. Only shells I stock is shells I can sell and thems buckshot. No one shoots game no more. They shoot people."

I laughed. "Don't ever close up, Charlie," I said.

"Been tryin to close for a goddam decade," he said. "Aint shit here no more. Aint no city. Every tom dick n goddam harry buy shit off they computer. No one comes in here no more. No one walks thru here no more. It's s memory. People walkin thru here. Been tryin to close since I goddam opened." He shook when he spoke and never looked at you, his glint blue eyes like what I'd imagine ancient prophets to have... Elijah, Ezekiel.

"I come here, Charlie. I love this place," I said.

"I love it too," he said. "Love it to goddam death."