Curious reader Joe Gunby wants to know what happened to an Athens landmark: J.B., the sausage man.

It's hard to believe there are Athenians who don't know who J.B. is, who never tasted his polish sausage dogs with the accurately named "Comeback Sauce." But J.B., who was an institution in this town and attracted customers from as far away as Tokyo, has been off the street since 2008. That's an entire class of University of Georgia students who have missed missed one of Athens' defining experiences.

"He was the perfect nightcap," remembers Spenser Simrill, a UGA instructor and customer of J.B.'s for 15 years. "He was always there with a big handshake, and I've seen him call cabs for people who couldn't make it home. He kept an eye on everybody."

J.B., the sausage man, with pictures of his setup.

J.B. attracted not only locals, but celebrities as well. "George Clinton, Issac Hayes, Andre 3000—they all came down to eat," recalls J.B. He served at fundraisers for musicians and politicians, fed AthFest volunteers and once hosted an all-day concert where the Drive-By Truckers and other local luminaries played. A quick Google search brings up articles from all over the country lauding J.B.'s food and character, and wishing their town would allow an entrepreneur like J.B. to flourish. 

So why is J.B. now spending his days sitting in his daughter's home on Commerce Road instead of "serving the people?" The story is complicated and as much about the changing face of downtown as it is individual decisions.

J.B. and his daughter, Tiffany, describe a Kafkaesque struggle with state health regulations, showing documents detailing their requirements (hot water, a floor for the wagon, ventilation for the cooker) and the modifications J.B. made to comply. He remembers lawyers who charged fees but delivered little help. And he recalls a particularly painful memory: showing up to feed the AthFest volunteers and hearing, "We were told not to eat your food. Blimpy's is here instead." Perhaps most revealingly, J.B. recalls the changes to Athens he saw from his cart. "I'd sit out there up into the night, in the cold. Sometimes I'd only make $18. But I told myself, 'The Lord put you here for a reason. Things are going to get better.' And they did. I watched that street develop, with the nicest restaurants. And it was right about then that the trouble started."

I don't know whether J.B. should have been pulled off the street. Maybe he was violating some ordinance, or endangering his customers by having fewer than four sinks in his cart. I just want to know where J.B. has gone, and it's an answer I don't like at all.

J.B. is 62. He came up in Hull, a sharecropper with 16 siblings. He enrolled in Job Corps, learned to read and write, and joined the Coast Guard. He built his business by himself, with recipes and supplies passed down from his great-grandmother.

"I did not choose the wrong thing," says J.B., emotionally. "I never did. I could've chosen drugs or to break in your house, but any money I made, I put it right back into this." He holds up a picture of his sausage wagon, the 40 Watt logo on its side. "Tell me, if I were a bad person, would I have chosen to spend the money I made like this?

"I raised my kids on this wagon. I don't mean money, but showing them a different way. That if you work hard, you can make it. People talk about poverty, how to bring some jobs. But then when there's someone who wants to work, this (he gestures at his documents) is what happens."

Still, J.B. hasn't abandoned his calling. He and his daughter hope to take the wagon to festivals or open a restaurant of their own. But right now, the situation is dire. They missed a recent festival in Toccoa because there was no money for food or fuel. His wagon, equipped to cook pounds of fish, chicken and sausage, sits idle in his daughter's backyard, as does the man who was such a part of the Athens community for so long.

We took J.B. for granted the way we take The Grit, Jittery Joe's and the 40 Watt for granted. We expect them to be there, and it's only when they're gone that we realize what we've lost. We could replace these institutions with an Olive Garden, a Starbucks and a House of Blues nightclub, and I guess we'd all survive, but who wants to live in a town that is just like every place else? Athens has some treasures, like J.B., that set us apart from other places and put us on the map. Isn't that the reason many of us choose to live here?

On my way out, J.B. gives me a jar of his famous Comeback Sauce. "J.B.," I ask him, "after everything you've been through, would you come back downtown if you could?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Child, if I could, I'd be down there tonight."

Does something in Athens ever make you wonder, WTH? Email it to [email protected]