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GREENSBORO — Our city shifts a little when you cross the tracks and go over the hump along South Elm.

At first, you might not notice. But slow down, watch and listen. You’ll see.

There’s Butch, Downtown Jack, Sharpshooter Sarah and Bossy Martha, a shopkeeper whose Southern accent always draws a crowd.

Tomato plants across the street. A theater a few doors down. And the Magical Mystery Tour a block away, near the detached doll’s head and the sign: “Even If I Could Breathe On Land I Wouldn’t Vote For A Pathetic Human. ’’

This is South Elm. This is Old Greensboro.

Check the map. It’s the 500 and 600 blocks. A short strip, a few hundred steps. It looks a lot like it did a century ago, and at every step, its history, architectural character and eclectic charm seep from the sidewalks.

Charlotte doesn’t have it. Neither does Raleigh or Durham . This two-block area has a flavor all its own – so much so one local preservation expert has given it an unforgettable name: Greensboro’s Shabby Chic.

But can these two blocks, created at the end of the 19th century , remain intact through the 21st century?

It’s hard to say. Next month, Preservation Greensboro, a non profit watchdog of all things historic, is putting the two-block area on its watch list of our city’s top 10 endangered places.

The folks with Preservation Greensboro are worried , and the folks along South Elm are worried, too.

Look down West Lewis Street, and you’ll see downtown Greensboro’s biggest club, Lotus Lounge. It opened up a few weeks back, markets itself as an upscale hip-hop club and can hold 950 people .

Look past Planet Earth, the round air compressor painted blue and mounted in a vacant lot along South Elm. Across West Lee is a 10-acre site that the city wants someone to turn into condos, shops and possibly Guilford County Schools’ administration building.

Eyeball the vacant storefronts. There are a few. The old Fordham Drug Store. It’s been closed for seven years . The old Cascade Saloon near the railroad tracks. It’s been closed at least 30 .

Then ask anyone along South Elm about the future of the neighborhood.

They talk about parking problems, growing nighttime crowds, the see-saw economy and their own version of the bogeyman.

It’s the deep-pocketed developer — swooping in, buying up buildings and turning Old Greensboro into another example of the Homogenized South.

But think about it. These two blocks are incredibly resilient. The structures survived the t ornado of ’36. That’s 1936 .

Plus, the people there — characters all, mavericks many — wouldn’t let something like South Elm disappear.

It’s too important to our city. And it’s too important to them.

You see them pull into South Elm Place to grab a free cup of coffee.

You hear how Graham Heaton , the chef at Table 16, drops by Coe Grocery to barter one of his soft-shell crab sandwiches for fresh eggs and country ham.

And you hear about Butch . That’s all he goes by. Butch. He works at Coe Grocery; he’s the guy in the white beard.

A few months back, he ended up in the hospital for two weeks because of an aortic aneurysm.

He had a flood of visitors, many of whom knew him from over the hump, across the tracks. Even the visitors from Greensboro’s toniest address: Irving Park.

“I couldn’t get over all the people coming to see me,’’ Butch told Mike Joyce , the owner of Lion’s Crown Antiques .

That’s typical of what you hear. It’s one big front porch. Everyone knows everybody, everyone looks out for everybody, and everyone will sit for a spell to dish, dig and moan about most everything.

There’s Martha Forrest at The Tin Rooster . She calls herself “a pretty good bossy woman.’’

She’s from Greensboro, and she operates with her husband, Tony, a store specializing in interior design and home accessories.

But she has this accent, as Southern as red clay, and she’ll talk loudly about anything — frying turkeys, wearing petticoats, and when she was a child, being afraid to go to South Elm.

“No sir,’’ she says adamantly from behind her counter. “You did not. You weren’t allowed to come down here. You were told it wasn’t safe, and you didn’t ask questions. It was a mysterious part of town.’’

It was. Who knows why.

It’s been a self-sustaining neighborhood forever. Troxler’s Grocery. Sherwin Feed and Seed. Townsend Buggy Co. Fordham Drug Store. And the old business known as Blue Bell that grew into the country’s biggest overall manufacturer.

Downtown Jack will tell you all that. Around South Elm, they say this: “If you don’t know Jack, you don’t know downtown Greensboro.’’

Jack Wagner is 86 , a World War II veteran who used to make bicycle deliveries for pharmacist C.C. Fordham as a teenager.

Matter of fact, he and his mother huddled in their stairwell as the t ornado of ’36 roared by.

Today, he lives near that same spot, a block off South Elm, and he spends his days on East Lewis at Bellamy’s Auto Service .

With a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand. Garage coffee, he calls it.

“Black, and just the right amount of oil in it,’’ he quips.

And his take on South Elm?

“It’s changed quite a bit, and I’ll tell you, it’s changed up and down,’’ he says, shaking his Styrofoam cup for emphasis. “But today, we have a better class of businesses down here than on the other side of the railroad tracks.’’

Hit South Elm on almost any night, and try to find a parking space. There are none.

Then, hit the sidewalks. You’ll run into all types: young and old; black, white and brown; gay and straight; families wanting a deal and hipsters wanting to see what’s tight.

Six months ago , Mellow Mushroom moved into the old Southside Hardware building that once housed the popular Two Art Chicks gallery and turned it into one big room underneath a constellation of Gothic chandeliers.

Since then, the restaurant has drawn big crowds. They come to be seen, for sure. But they also come to eat, particularly the pizza — from the Mighty Meat to the Magical Mystery Tour.

Elsewhere, the artists’ collaborative across the street, has attracted attention, too. It’s easy to see why beyond the foyer ceiling of thrift-store ties and the “Pathetic Human’’ sign near the detached doll’s head.

Two Fridays ago, the Elsewhere artists who call themselves Elsewherians held their first role-playing game. It’s called CITY , and it’s a way for Elsewhere to connect with its neighbors.

They created restaurants inside their massive space and served homemade soup to anyone who came in. They put on costumes and became characters in a play. And they filmed the entire thing.

“You heard it right here!’’ one Elsewherian yelled into a digital camera two Fridays ago. “Positive change is a role of social practice!’’

Whatever.

Where else would you find that –— except over the hump, across the tracks.

Cross those four sets of railroad tracks that first opened North Carolina’s interior back in 1851 , and South Elm’s eclectic charm becomes as obvious as the incessant whistles of passing trains. A train whistle sounds here at least 30 times a day.

But the stories? Now, that’s what you’ll remember. Just slow down and listen.

Here’s one from Stephen Gee .

He runs South Elm’s Broach Theatre , and he’ll tell you about a Sunday afternoon a few years back. He had opened the theater for a performance by the Greensboro Opera when he saw a woman walking down the street.

She was swatting at cars. And she was naked. Gee called 911.

“Ah, you might want to get down here,’’ he told the operator, “because she’s already hurting my eyes.”

And here’s one from Sarah McDavid .

She runs South Elm Place with her husband, Allen . They’ve lived above their shop for nearly a decade — so close that it’s 15 feet from their cash register to their bed.

Seven years ago, she discovered a guy urinating on their Dumpster out back. So, she picked up her BB gun with a scope and pointed it out her kitchen window like some sniper in a TV show.

“If you hold that part dear to you,’’ she yelled, “You’d better put it back in your pants and get off my property!’’

He did.

Only on South Elm. Greensboro’s Shabby Chic. A place of many characters, many stories, and a guy named Butch.

Contact Jeri Rowe at 373-7374 or jeri.rowe@news-record.com