Jackson has potholes. All kinds of them. From chatter-tooth inducing small ones in quick succession, to solitary asphalt pits that serve as Mario-Kart style driving obstacles. Locals have memorized the locations of the biggest potholes on their routes to work, and a newcomer is someone who doesn’t weave their way between lanes to avoid unnecessary car damage. Understandably, the state of the roads is an issue of particular concern to Jacksonians, and it is arguably the most visible physical manifestation of a failure to invest in the community.

For city officials, whose hugely underfunded offices are billed with attempting to fix the crumbling infrastructure, the problem is a nearly unsolvable nuisance (akin to the ever-multiplying gopher holes in the warning track of my high school baseball field, whose presence pitted the resident rodents against my coach in a struggle that reached titanic proportions.) On the individual level, however, the potholes, despite their ability to send the occasional car axle into the next dimension, aren’t all bad (again, like the gophers in the outfield, whose anxious chewing on the grass provide some company to lonely right fielders.) I’ll explain why:

The duplex in which I stayed is located on the corner, right next to a three way stop. Directly in the middle of the intersection, a pothole the size of the Muppets’ swimming pool threatens to wreak havoc on passing vehicles. Despite the frustrating nature of the obstacle’s existence, I developed a strange affection for it over the course of a few months.

I spent a lot of time on the porch, as one does here, and quickly learned the benefits of living near a pothole from the neighborhood’s longtime residents. Across the street, three weather worn plastic chairs were strategically placed underneath a shady tree, within 20 feet of the pothole. Every afternoon, at least one of what seemed to be three generations of men would emerge from the slanting house and take his place in one of the chairs (there was always an extra chair for visitors). After checking in about such topics as the weather and football with me (if I was around) my neighbor would settle in.

Jackson drivers tend to drive pretty fast, but large potholes have the same effect as speedbumps, forcing significant decreases in speed. In the case of our pothole, this slowdown opened up an opportunity for a well-positioned neighbor to shout greetings at familiar passerby. More often than not, there was a car idling in the intersection, its driver exchanging updates with the man in his plastic chair. Sometimes, the car would park, and whoever happened to be driving by would fill the visitors’ chair for an hour or so, waiting for the pothole to bring by another friendly face.