Freebirding It Up On Badstreet, Atlanta, GA

Stay away from the last house on the left when you visit Badstreet, Atlanta, Georgia. True story.

“Freebirding It Up On Badstreet, Atlanta, GA”

Walking through the streets in downtown Atlanta, Georgia, Mr. Beverly Hills and I finished up a dinner meeting regarding a episode of our podcast, we chatted it up about what was mentioned earlier. Different ideas, different guest, different stories, all of which were running rapid throughout our minds.

Few minutes of us thinking of future podcasts, I asked, “Why didn't we go to Adbullah the Butcher's House of Ribs restaurant instead?”

“The Black Cat and Dre were afraid on being forked by Abby and being chased out,” Beverly replied rather quickly. “I asked them when you were in the bathroom.”

We continued to walk back to our hotel, minding our own business, until I seen a sign I thought I never see. The sign simply read “Badstreet” with an arrow telling us where to go. I stopped, looked at Mr. Hills, smiled, and pointed at the sign. Beverly nodded, so we turned down the road and walked.

“Last house on the left?” I asked, trying to remember how the song went.

“Correct,” Beverly responded, humming the song out-loud.

After walking down the road for about twenty minutes, we came to the end of the street, which came to a “T.” At the last house on the left, Beverly and I spotted a few confederate flags hanging on the outside, with '80s hair rock blasting from the house. Beverly hit me, smiled, and I knew what he was thinking: lets see if we can see “PS” Hayes!

We started to walk up to the house when the music stopped and the house went silent. We stopped on the dime, nervous that whoever's in the house spotted us walking up. I looked at Mr. Hills and said “Uh, maybe it's bedtime for who's in the house, so lets take a picture and leave.”

After I said that, we heard a gun get locked and a unique, macho, gruff voice yelled, “Step closer and get shot!”

“We're from Minnesota and are here on a business trip and was hoping to see Mr. Hayes,” Beverly Hills hollered back. “We seen the street sign 'Badstreet' so we went-a-walkin' down, sight seeing and all. Sorry if we bothered you, sir.”

We started to walk rather fast back where we came from and got maybe seven or eight houses up and a black Porsche 918 Spyder drove slowly by us and stopped a house up. We walked by and the window rolled down. “Walk back!” we heard yelled out of the car. It was the same voice we heard yelling at us in the house to leave. We did as commanded, we turned back and walked back to the last house on the left on Badstreet, Atlanta, Georgia.

The Spyder turned around shortly after we did and followed us until we were two houses away from the last house when it sped up, took the left, and went behind the house. We walked up to the porch, opened the screen door, walked to the front door, and rain the doorbell. Not the usual “bell-tone” played, no, it was “Badstreet, Altanta, GA” by the Freebirds played. True story.

When the front door opened, smoke clouds bellowed out of the house and within seconds we seen a silhouette standing there. Second later we seen Michael P.S. Hayes standing there, dressed only Michael P.S. Hayes could, all sexy like. He welcomed us into his palace.

Beverly and I must of stayed there for hours, at least it seemed that way. We stayed away from whatever Mr. Hayes smoked, knowing we had to fly back and deal with the bosses in regards to our podcast we're about to start us, and didn't want to get fired because we smoked some weed.

Freebird Hayes talked about Terry Gordy and all the funny road stories with him in all the territories they worked in and all the stories on how they got kicked out of them. Wish we could of got them recorded to be released to air on the podcast but we never expected to meet the legendary Freebird.

I asked about the road stories with Buddy Roberts and Jimmy “Jam” Garvin and Michael talked for a long while about great times with those two gentlemen, how they got kicked out of bars for being rebels and how all the ladies drooled over them when they left each town. Man, I never expected to be entertained like this when we were down in the “Dirty South.”

After midnight, Mr. Pretty Sexy (the “P.S.” in Michael P.S. Hayes means “pretty sexy,” Michael told us during our time together), let us out for he can finish the night Freebirding it up and let us get back to our hotel for we can get some sleep for our flight back the next day. We left and didn't say one word to each other until we landed back in Minneapolis. “Wow,” Beverly said.

“I couldn't said it any better,” I replied.

Since then, Mr. Hills and I tried to “Freebird it up” but to no luck. Memories of road stories told flood my dreams at night, as do to Beverly. We both enjoy those dreams because we feel like honorary members of the Fabulous Freebirds when the “Pretty Sexy” one let us in for the night.

Freaks do truly come out at night,

“Dirty Dawg” Darsie