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illustration by KERRY AWN |
The next sensation to waft over us is the acrid smell of bat guano which welcomes visitors to the other side. Our beloved winged skeeter-eaters may be one of Austin’s most popular attractions, but they sure do stink. Looking down to the right we can make out the statue of South Austin’s patron saint, Stevie Ray Vaughan. With his back to the downtown skyline, Stevie Ray keeps a vigilant eye on the south. My mind wanders to an irreverent bit of comedy performed by our friend Chip Pope: “Isn’t it ironic that Stevie Ray’s statue is on the jogging trail?” he says. “I mean, no one symbolizes aerobic exercise more than Stevie Ray. Seems like they should have put the statue between a pawn shop and a rehab clinic.” Now, now, Chip; you’ll get in big trouble talking that way.
The first level of South Austin, between Town Lake and Riverside Drive, is deceptively beautiful. The trails along the river, the open spaces of Zilker Park, and the scintillating beauty of Barton Springs Pool make one look around and say, “This doesn’t look like Texas anymore.” But the Zilker Park Christmas tree, which is really just strings of lights draped from a really tall pole, reminds us that we are in Texas and there ain’t no big trees around.
Kerry is a mite jaded about the whole Zilker Christmas experience. “Kind of hard to get into the spirit,” he says, “when every display is sponsored by some corporation with a big sign in front of it. Christmas, brought to you by Dell.
“Besides, if they really wanted to be South Austin, they’d leave the lights up all year round. Save the taxpayers a few bucks.”
“Come on, let’s venture into level two for some lunch,” I suggest. After all, the second level between Riverside and Oltorf has some of our city’s finest restaurants. We drive down Congress, past the world-famous Continental Club, and pull in behind G�ero’s. As we turn into the alley, our progress is suddenly blocked by a Volvo in the middle of the alley. Three guys have a long crowbar wedged into the front right tire, trying to straighten out the axle or something. It seems a real South Austin moment.
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“South Austin’s a good place to break down,” Kerry says. “Lots of guys know how to work on cars. Most of them are already carrying crowbars. That’s actually how most of South Austin was populated. People broke down in cars and decided to settle there.”
Level two is where much of the old Austin spirit is found. The music clubs, laid-back restaurants, and funky shops remind one of days gone by when Austin was a mecca to hippies and drifters who lived life in a sunshine daydream. Life goes by at a slower pace here; you’ll see more boots and jeans than suits and ties. Even on a Monday a fair number of folks are sucking down margaritas with lunch.
Kerry grumbles that G�ero’s no longer serves breakfast during the week. “Used to be you could come in here, eat for a buck or two, then stretch out and read the paper. Nobody’d bother you, nice and quiet. I asked them why they closed and they said no one came in. I know, that’s why I came here!”
After lunch we head down Congress. “Look at these stores,” Kerry says, laughing. “They’re just garage sales with store fronts.”
We go to the gateway to level three, the HEB on Oltorf and Riverside, where we are sure to find some colorful characters. “Hmmm, nobody being frisked by the cops,” Kerry says as we pull into the parking lot. “It’s early yet.”
Inside the store, everyone seems disappointingly normal. I guess I was expecting double-thumbed banjo plunkers, but it’s just regular people getting stuff for lunch. I ask Kerry if he needs anything while we’re there. He picks up some mousse for his hair and a jar of popcorn, making him the weirdest person in the store.
While I’m waiting for him to go through the check-out line, I look out in the parking lot and see the vintage South Austinite I’ve been looking for. An enormously fat man with a big grey beard sticks a couple of sacks of groceries in the back of a rusted, primer-coated gray Bronco. A burning cigarette dangles from his lips and the exertion of loading the groceries causes him to rest his gargantuan belly against the tailgate for a few minutes before he moves on. Finally he waddles around to the door and heaves himself into the vehicle. As he pulls out, I chuckle at the “Take Back Texas” sticker on his bumper. If only I had a dart gun and some tranquilizers! We could tag him and study the migratory patterns of the red-necked peasant.
With our stock of mousse and popcorn replenished, we head down a stretch of South Congress that looks like the main road through Beirut. They’ve been “working” on this piece of road for as long as we can remember and it doesn’t seem to be getting any better. Part of that slower pace of life, I suppose. Then it occurs to me that perhaps the crappy road is merely a deterrent to unwanted visitors. Take back South Austin!
“I told you this was a good place to break down,” Kerry says. “There’s an auto parts store every 50 yards.”
“One of my first jobs in Austin,” I tell Kerry, “was delivering parts for one of these stores. My first day at work I’m sitting in the boss’ office about 7:30 on Monday morning and I’m barely awake. I look out the front window and there’s this rough-looking chick in tiny cut-off shorts waving at everybody going by. I’m thinking, ‘Hey, the folks down here sure are friendly.’ Two minutes later a pickup truck pulls over in the parking lot, they talk for a second, and she hops in. My boss didn’t even blink. I guess he was used to seeing sights like that.”
“Yeah, I call this the Drew Nixon highway,” Kerry says, in honor of our former state senator with a yen for hookers. “Don’t seem to be many girls out right now.”
“It’s early yet.”
Down amongst all this sin and sordidness, the only businesses to rival the parts stores are Christian bookstores and gun shops advertising “Concealed Handgun Classes.” Reminds me of one of my favorite passages from the lost gospel of Cletus: “If thy neighbor offends thee, plant a cap in his ass.” If Robert Bryce wants to find out what really happened to Madalyn O’Hair, the queen mama of atheists, I suspect there may be clues lurking on level three.
The newly renovated Ben White Freeway marks the division between levels three and four. This wide, modern road makes it easy for folks who work downtown to skip over vast portions of South Austin as they scurry out to their spacious homes in Hill Country suburbs. A sort of ghostly chill strikes as we proceed past Ben White, as if we’re entering some forgotten zone.
“This used to be the big highway out of town,” Kerry tells me. “All these businesses along here were thriving until they built 35.” Some of the places, like Hills Cafe, have closed. Others, like the St. Elmo-tel, have managed to hang on. Junkyards and industrial businesses seem to be doing well down here. Cheap land and not a lot of questions asked.
Past Stassney we enter the fifth level. Now we’re out in the country with lots of wide open spaces. The hills begin to roll and fortunately, since it’s autumn, we are treated to the peak of Hill Country foliage; the trees are actually three or four different shades between green and brown. If you’ve ever wanted to decorate your yard with rusted appliances and cars parked on cement blocks, you can come down here to shop. We pass a lot with rows and rows of old refrigerators (Look, kids! What a neat fort!) and washers and dryers that have long ago done their last load. Right next to that is a junkyard with a sign that reads, “Donated Vehicles for Sale.”
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You don’t have to travel too far off of Congress to find closed businesses on corner lots being overtaken by ferocious weeds. Apparently all that high-tech computer money isn’t trickling down this far. Somewhere between downtown and Circle C, the city’s “smart growth” plan has some serious holes in it.
We decide to go back to Congress and take it all the way to the end. William Cannon represents the boundary to level six; abandon all hope, ye who enter here. There are some truly scary places down here. Windowless little bars that remind me of that store in Pulp Fiction; if we walked in, I wouldn’t be surprised to see some guy holding a shotgun call a friend and say, “Zed, looks like the spider just caught a couple of flies.” We pass one club with a big sign out front that states in no uncertain terms, “Front Lot for Motorcycles Only!”
“Hey!” Kerry yells, “we ought to go in and see if they’re interested in starting a comedy night. Looks like the perfect location.”
Clearly we’ve reached the end of the line when we pass another car lot with a sign reading, “Austin Police Department Abandoned Vehicles Unit.” I guess if the cars don’t sell fast enough back at the “Donated Vehicles” lot, they give up and move them down here. All of the flotsam and jetsam from our beautiful city seems to drift down south and settle.
If you press on through level six, you eventually come to the last level of South Austin marked by the ominously named Slaughter Lane. Down here the residential areas are characterized by imaginative architecture and distinctive homes. As far as the eye can see there are tracts and tracts of gray and brown duplexes. This part of town would have given George Orwell the creeps.
“If you live down here,” Kerry says, “you damn well better love thy neighbor. Because living in these duplexes, he’s going to be right on top of you.”
As we cruise down Slaughter Kerry spots a sign that reads, “Christmas Lights Installed.” Now that’s the sort of entrepreneurial spirit that’s made South Austin what it is today.
“Judging from the lights around here,” Kerry says, “that guy’s doing a land office business.”
“Yeah,” I agree, “and it’s year-round work!”
As we call it a day and head back north, I realize that spending time in South Austin is a good thing. With all the people crowding into our city from California and New York, sometimes Austin feels a little too cosmopolitan, a little too similar to any other city in this country. We’re the capital of Texas, dammit, and we ought to be proud of that fact. South Austin is our foundation, our base, our connection to those Texan roots that run deep and true. If it weren’t for the southern half, what would Austin be? Another college town overrun by computer geeks and yuppies. South Austin is that wild streak, that cowboy spirit, that country soul that makes this city such a special place to live. We may poke a little fun at you, South Austin, but we love you; don’t ever change!
Perennial “Best of Austin” Readers Poll winner for Best Comic Kerry Awn appears regularly at Esther’s Follies.
Community listings editor J.C. Shakespeare placed in this year’s Funniest Person in Austin contest.
This article appears in December 4 • 1998 and December 4 • 1998 (Cover).