Looking back, I’m not certain why I dreaded the trip, although I’m inclined to think it was the dreary downtown and not the museum that I abhorred. The DIA was a 20-minute drive from our house, but the sprawling city felt a world away. To get there we would drive down Woodward Avenue, which is a more memorable route than the alternative of I-75, but in no way scenic. The first intersection we crossed was Ten Mile Road, where a pristine new highway was being built for the convenience of suburban dwellers like us; then Nine Mile where the houses were still quaint, but smaller; Eight Mile, ruled by strip clubs and gas stations; Seven Mile, lined with carwashes and churches; Six Mile boasting motels with color TVs; and Davison, where a historic marker indicates an empty factory with glassless windows, the birthplace of the first Model T. Woodward extends a few more miles until it reaches the Detroit River, but our stop, the museum, interrupted our passage into the main business district and the subsequent bridge to Windsor, Ontario. We parked the car before colliding with the skyline, and entered the museum, an imposing building preceded by tiny steps and massive columns.

Growing up I knew a few things about my family’s history in Detroit, but these anecdotes felt distant, yarns that had unraveled in an ancient time, on foreign soil. My impression of the city was more sullied, especially in relation to my hometown, a picturesque northern suburb filled with beautiful homes and well-manicured lawns. My siblings and I spent our summers swimming at the public pool across the street, playing in the softball league, and attending Tuesday night concerts in the park where one could rent roller skates from a special truck and suck Flavor Ices from their plastic tubes. Detroit seemed to exist in a world apart. Aside from the few trips to the art museum and the theatres, my family rarely ventured from the suburbs.

And so my fascination with Detroit did not begin until the summer I turned 22 when on a whim I accepted an internship with Metro Times. I had just graduated with a degree in musical theatre and because I could no longer see myself as an actress I figured I could at least put my knowledge of the arts to use by slaving at a weekly paper. Also, my boyfriend of one year, Eric, lived downtown while he attended college and this would create a chance to see him more often.

Twice a week, I drove my mom’s minivan down I-75 which quickly catapulted me into the urban hub. When I emerged from the freeway, gone were the sprinklered lawns of Huntington Woods and in their place stood a city besieged by concrete, rambling pavement, neglected roadwork, drivers who did not obey traffic signals because cops were preoccupied by worse offenses. After having now seen places like Chicago, New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, I was awed by this discarded metropolis, mesmerized by the desertion and decay. The naked storefronts, tiny dive bars, empty Peoplemover trains that wove atop the city looked like remnants of a bygone era.

My first assignment was to write an Abandoned Structure Squad article, a recurring news item fondly known as ASS. The text was to profile any empty urban building of my choosing and to reveal—in 250 words or less—the nature of its distress.

Though the purpose of the feature was never explicitly stated, I sensed a twofold reason: to reprimand the city council for its lackadaisical approach to demolishing dangerous half-buildings and—perhaps more importantly—to challenge the stereotype of Detroit’s worthlessness. Yes, there are empty, battered, and damaged buildings, it affirmed. But each one has a story; each one had thrived at some point. Detroit, ASS reminded suburbanites, was once home to twice its current population. Its basic source of misery is not crime, not a corrupt infrastructure, not a faulty education system, as people have alleged. It is your absence that has caused it to suffer.

The first shelter I chose was an empty corner store in a forlorn section of the Cass Corridor. It often caught my eye, not because of its vacancy—a common trait on this block—but because of its departed charm and slightly nautical exterior. The day I chose to investigate was damp and overcast. Since the structure lacked a door I walked right inside. Various debris thickly coated the ground (cardboard boxes, soggy newspapers, the bottom half of a toilet) and the access to direct sunlight—caused by a mostly missing roof—had nourished an army of plants, some stretching taller than my five-foot frame.

Through public records, I learned that the structure was built in 1925, owned by the city, and had not been inhabited for 20 years. John Thompson, the owner of Honest John’s bar down the street and a lifelong resident of the block told me he remembered the store as Rollo’s Confectionary. “It was a piece of art,” John told me. “A great little corner store” with a long bar, eight or nine seats, and an oak magazine rack. “It was where we all went to get our ice cream.”

When I saw my words in print a thrill went through me. In writing about 3912 Third Street I had called its waning form to life, interlacing myself into the fabric of my ancestral home.

The second structure I profiled was solicited to Metro Times by its owner, Saneetha Satterwhite. Nearing her retirement, Saneetha had been looking forward to refurbishing and moving into her frail Victorian home ever since she bought it three years ago. But the city, she told me, had done everything short of bulldozing the property to force her to abandon the project. Demolition notices (some that cited “neglect”) had made it impossible to proceed with the clean-up. The singling out was ridiculous, she noted, considering the two houses across from it had not been targeted for wrecking even though they were completely unfit for living. Her insistence on living there stunned me, until she began to describe the interior artifacts — marble-tiled mantles and stained-glass windows. From the street, I would never have guessed at these treasures but, as with most of Detroit’s wasting architecture, there was more there than initially met the eye.

My favorite ASS project was a three-story house on Eliot, not too far from the DIA. The structure was perched on several thin columns of cinder blocks and was seemingly vacant, although on my second visit I discovered a contractor around back. He told me that the house had been deposited on the lot twelve years prior and the city was just beginning to pay to restore the groundwork. Hoisting me inside, the builder showed me the chipped tile floors, peeling sheets of pastel paint, and flat wooden cabinetry. By the time we reached the top floor a slanted window frame confirmed my suspicion that the house sloped to the right.

In December, a few months after my internship ended, I moved downtown. My parents, having read my Abandoned Structure stories, were less than thrilled. Even Eric thought it was a bad idea. “You will hate it,” he said. “There’s no shopping, not even a decent grocery store. Every time you need something you have to drive to the suburbs.” I didn’t care. I rented the upstairs flat of a dilapidated home in the historic district of Woodbridge with two girls I barely knew; my share of the rent was $250.

Detroit is not a pedestrian town; every site must be driven to and every destination predetermined. One can see why visitors consider it vacant. But once the city has taken you into its confidence and revealed its haunts, the experience is even more satisfying than if glistening storefronts had advertised their treasures upfront. My favorite places were these: the Magic Stick, a large and dingy hangout with black-and-white tiled floors, pool tables, bowling lanes, and live music; Jacobys, a German pub where a lanky, ponytailed man in his fifties called himself Stirling Silver and often booked Eric’s band; Eastern Market, the 200-year-old open-air farmers’ stalls surrounded by fish and poultry stores and old-time candy shops. These unexpected spots of commerce warmed me with their friendly interiors and increasingly familiar faces; but I also found beauty in the city’s desolation.

During the summer I liked to drive through Rivertown, a collection of narrow pebbled streets harboring rows of low buildings along the water. The area used to be a warehouse district, but now most of the structures are bare inside. The absence of life gives the streets a ghostly feel, but one that is comforting in its quietude. I also enjoyed the sight of the old train station, also known as The Michigan Central Railroad Station, a gaping building designed in the Beaux Art style. The heavily vandalized exterior did not extinguish its grandeur, and though it was not on the way to any other place I went regularly, I sought it out from time to time.

Working in Detroit was yet another novelty. To sustain my (cheap) standard of living I worked as a waitress at Sweet Lorraine’s, a new restaurant in the Marriott Hotel, across from the Renaissance Center and Hart Plaza. I remember the first person I trained there, a pretty woman named Alicia who told me she previously worked as a dancer. “Oh cool,” I responded. “I was a dancer in college too; I majored in theatre. I’ve actually been tapping since I was nine.” When she responded to my naiveté, her laughter was warm and generous.

My working life imparted grimmer episodes as well. On the Fourth of July I joined our patrons on the hotel rooftop to watch the fireworks. When we returned to the dining room the TV reported that during the explosions a gunman had wounded nine people in Hart Plaza, 400 yards away. In the weeks afterward people talked about the attack as a fluke—a tenuous attitude to uphold in a city where gunfire is not too unique.

But not every startling moment was due to tragedy. Later in the summer I waited on a young couple from Ohio who had come to Detroit for “vacation”; when I handed them the check, the man’s request for directions prompted a chuckle.

“There isn’t a movie theatre in Detroit,” I had to admit. “The closest one is at the mall in Dearborn. If you take the freeway it’s about 20 minutes.”

The couple looked stunned. “Well, what’s a good area for strolling?” he asked.

If these people knew I lived downtown voluntarily they would have labeled me crazy. What would I have answered? That I loved the virtual smallness of this big city? I did. I loved knowing the twists and turns of the streets, and where the hidden gems were, like the restaurants of Mexicantown, where my friends and I might be the only white people eating burritos and drinking margaritas. Or the vacant lot across from my house—so dense with foliage that you couldn’t wade in more than a few yards. And the Motown Historical Museum, where Eric and I sang the tunes of The Supremes and The Temptations in the very studio in which those voices were immortalized. I loved Detroit. Loved its grit and dirty fingernails, its secret hiding places, and hidden pockets. Trailing through its confines was like returning to the arms of a lost lover, stumbling over the nooks and crannies of a body at once familiar and foreign.

And then, after eight months, I left. No permanent position had opened up at Metro Times as I had hoped, and I felt pressured—by my parents, my upbringing, and myself—to seek a more financially promising life. Eric and I broke up, at least for the time being, and I applied for another internship, this one at Marie Claire in New York. When they offered me the spot, I was so shocked I hardly had time to think before I packed my things and moved.

Two years later, I live on the Upper East Side. I generally enjoy the hustled pace of my new life, but on occasion I feel weighted with the feeling that accompanies desertion, with the knowledge that my departing footsteps traced a timeworn path.

Sept. 21, 2005

There are, without a doubt, several things about you that are interesting.

>> You are unaware of your beauty

>> You are unaware of your allure

>> You are not conscious of your natural talent

>> You hide your smile or pretend that you don’t or didn’t smile, not all the time, just sometimes.

All of these things are interesting but I think the one you could
build a speech on is the fact that you treat your life or I
should say you look at life like it is an empty canvas. And you
wait for a paint stroke or a pencil line to take you somewhere,
anywhere and when you have painted or sketched or created that part of your life, you just go out and get another empty canvas. Does that make sense?

>> I’d like to see you tomorrow, give me a call if you can.

>> M

>> ——

>> This is not a good idea.

>> Sorry about the support group, you should have started a fight club.

>> This is still not a good idea.

>> Sorry

>> K

>> ———-

>> What are you talking about?

>> M

>> ————

>> Sept. 22, 2005

>> I don’t know. I’m weird.

>> K

>> —————-

>> You’re not weird, maybe a little punchy.

>> So what are you up to Jackass?

>> M

>> ———————-
>> Eating cereal & procrastinating

>> K
>> ———————

>> What kind of cereal and what are you procrastinating from?

>> M

>> ———————–
>> Not very good cereal and I should be writing a speech, reading 3 chapters of art history, Oh and I sold another painting today, because I’m awesome but I’d rather take a nap.

>> K

>> —————–

>> Who did you sell the painting to?

>> And how much did you sell it for?

>> I guess you’re buying dinner next time.

>> M
>> ——————

>> to a lady who had been at the casino all night.

>> K

>> Sept. 26, 2005

>> I managed to give my speech with out throwing up or passing out. So what are we doing tomorrow?

>> K
>> ———————

>> What weirdo?

>> M
>> —————–

>> Hey asshole you should go outside right now its raining perfectly.

>> K
>> ——————

>> Dig it.

>> M
>> ————–

>> weirdo???

>> K

>> ————-

>> Sorry typeO. Don’t know, what did you have in mind. And congrats on not puking and passing out.

>> M

>> ————–

>> Sept. 28, 2005

>> What is this “Most Fallen”?

>> M

>> ———–

>> I told you, teen angst. I’ve had this email for years. It’s from a song I really liked in high school. Don’t return with your heart in your hands; you are most fallen. Do you play chess? No is not a good answer.

>> K

>> You are so mello dramatic. And beautiful.

>> Don’t tell anybody but I kind of likeya Yeo.

>> M
>> —————-

>> You really want mello dramatic? My old email was sadderstar. HAHA Gimme a break I am trying this new thing called being happy. It’s weird.

>> K

>> —————–

>> I want a copy of that song. And from now on I will call you chipper or chippy or the chipster.

>> M

>> —————

>> I don’t think you’d like it.

>> K

>> ————–

>> Oh. I see. Well thank you Minister of Music. I’m glad that you are here to determine what I like and dislike.

>> Jackass

>> M

>> ——————

>> So CHESS??

>> K

>> ——————

>> What? What? Define the “CHESS”. Did you mean “Yes” or “chest” or “Cheese”. What? What are you talking about?

>> You’re killing me.

>> I am not killing you now but I will later (WITH MY ROOK!) get it.

>> K

>> —————-

>> You want some….come get some.

>> So I’ve been thinking….

>> M

>> ——————

>> No.

>> Hey what are you doing tomorrow? My next photo assignment is portraits, would it be really lame & cliché to take them of the old people that sit in the lobby all day?

>> We should go to John King on Wednesday. I need photo books, maybe you can help me find something that doesn’t totally suck.

>> Yea then I’m gonna kick you’re ass at chess.

>> Kkkkkkkkkkkaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate.

>> ——————————

>> Dig it.

>> I had trouble sleeping last night. I don’t know why, but I kept thinking of “This Side of Paradise”. Well the first chapter anyway.

>> M

>> —————–

>> Oct. 2, 2005

>> I woke up this morning and found an email from you in my mailbox. When I got coffee in Birmingham the girl working behind the counter was named Kate. And just when I was wondering what you were up to…a “K” popped up on the screen of my cell phone.

>> I got your email about “This Side of Paradise”. I wasn’t asking if you read it, I was just merely thinking of it because I was thinking of you. You see it just popped into my head. I think the other night triggered it. Maybe it was the scene in the book or maybe it was the attitudes of the characters. I’m not sure what it was, just that it had occurred. It appears I can not escape you my dear. And I’m not sure if I want to…

>> M

>> In between helping some way too cheerful girls find a Jennifer Love Hewitt cd (why??) and alphabetizing the rap section (there is a rapper named KrumbSnatcha. What that’s amazing) I was busy convincing myself that you did not want to hang out with me anymore & came home to write an email saying that’s fine I understand.

>> But I guess, not, we’ll see.

>> I told my supervisor Troy he should read your book. I’ll let you know what he thinks.

>> K

>> ————————-

>> Why wouldn’t I want to hang out with you any longer? Just because you said no? And why did you say no?

>> M

>> ———————-

>> why? Well, your wife, to start…

>> K

>> ———————–

>> Ah. My wife. I guess I liked the world that we were creating that seemed outside reality. And this conversation seems to be one to have in the real world. I don’t know when or even if we will have it. Maybe in the stacks at John K. King on Wensday.

>> Curious? What if I didn’t have a wife? You said “to start.” What other reasons were there?

>> M

>> ———————-

>> It’s probably a good idea to just let it go. More reasons? I told you I don’t date. I am better at being by myself.

>> K

>> ————————————–

>> Maybe this is something we shouldn’t discuss or I shouldn’t discuss.

>> I had breakfast with James the other day. He said I’m not the same person I was two years ago. I knew that. I have been thinking a lot about that lately. People change I know, but I liked who I was back then or was beginning to be anyway. I guess that doesn’t say much about what I think of myself nowadays. I know it sounds kind of cliché…ok really cliché, but I’ll say it anyway. I’m beginning to become that guy I was two years ago again. The problem is…it is just during the time I spend with you.

>> OK enough.

>> PS. Is that the right spelling of Beginning or is there two “g”s?

>> M

>> —————————-

>> Actually this is stupid & I am an idiot. Just forget everything?

>> K

>> ——————————-

>> Yes you are an idiot. But what pray tell is so stupid my dear?

>> M

>> ———————————

>> Oct. 4, 2005

>> I should of kissed you last night. Even with that evil bitch giving us the evil eye.

>> M

>> ————————————-

>> Again, no. But what the hell has happened to mickey? Good deeds & jobs in New york. What??

>> Pin that shit to your shirt & have a good day jackass.

>> FRI SAT SUN SCARVES!!!!!!!!

>> K

>> ——————————————

>> What are you doing tomorrow?

>> The question is the title.

>> Did I ever mention I like your smile?

>> M

>> Supposed to hang out with Craig. Ten bucks says it won’t happen. Kath isn’t happy with me. My teeth are crooked. Goodnight.

>> K

>> ————————————-

>> Why isn’t Kath happy with you?

>> Your teeth aren’t crooked! Jackass.

>> And I would hope to lose that bet. I hope you get to see Craig.

>> M

>> —————————————-

>> Oct. 6, 2005

>> Did you get it?

>> K

>> —————————-

>> No. You suck.

>> M

>> —————————

>> Try that.

>> K

>> ————————–

>> Did you feed your cats or not? Are they alive or are they dead? More importantly…where is my naked picture? What can I say…I’m a dirty old man.

>> M

>> ——————————–

>> Did it work?

>> Not sure what that blur is in the first one, but I kinda like it.

>> K

>> ———————————

>> I dig it. You could say it is an Indian spirit, kind of like the illustrated man by Bradbury.

>> K

>> I sent a text but I guess it didn’t work, yes cats are fed they finally shut the fuck up.

>> That’s all you get.

>> K

>> ————————————-

>> Oct. 7, 2005

>> I’m feeling really shitty about a lot of things. Guilty shitty SALTY all of it. I’m sitting at Kath’s when TJ calls. When I get off the phone Kath says “Oh was that Mickey?” along with one of the worst looks she’s ever given me. Why are you hanging out with me? You are married. I don’t even know for how long but don’t think that long. What’s so bad that you’re taking me out & not her? I’ve been cheated on I know what it fucking feels like so What Am I Doing. No I won’t kiss you but Fuck it’s still something to be spending time with me & asking me to go to New York with you.

>> WHAT AM I DOING. I may not know shit about relationships but I do know that you doing ANYthing even just going out for coffee with some stupid 21 year old girl is not gonna look good to your wife. Your WIFE. So here’s what I think. I think I’m gonna get Fucked.

>> As Always. I think you wrote Killing Molly when all this fucked up shit was going on in your life and it was inspiration but that was years ago and you haven’t written in a while & now you have a normal job, normal wife, normal dog, normal apartment and you can’t write. You even said you write better now after hanging out with me. I think you’re trying to create this secret sneaking around affair in hopes of somehow sparking your creativity again so you can write another book. FUCK. Yea that’s great for me.

>>I know this is what’s going on. I fucking know it. 4 years ago when I was busy convincing myself that I was dying of a brain tumor and cutting the shit out of myself I was making art left & right & now. Then they put me on all these fucking pills now that I’m fine I can’t take a fucking photograph to save my life I know what your doing and this is the last thing I need. Hahahahah oh god I’m a fucking idiot. Is my life a fucking game? When do I get to play.

>> K

>> —————————-

>> Well…What do you do when you wake up one day and find the person you think loves you, doesn’t even like you? What did I do tonight? Well my wife got mad at me for wanting to spend time with her. And we fought and now she is mad at me yet again. She hates when I touch her and when I start to say something she cuts me off.

>> I have written a ton of things as of late and “Killing Molly” for your information was written after all that fucked up shit happened. And I haven’t written another novel, because of time is not on my side, also everything I have written is not a step up from “Killing Molly” so I am trying to improve my craft.

>> And what is this about a brain tumor? What happened there?

>> And why the fuck can’t anybody wish me a happy birthday?

>> And the NY thing is simple, I had no preconceived notions, I just knew that you had never gone and I wanted to drive, but I didn’t want to go alone.

>> And I enjoy spending time with you, so you can kiss my red haired
>> ass.

>> It seems to me you have built this complex thing up in your head, because maybe just maybe you don’t want to hang out with me.

>> And the one thing I do know is people and you my dear are good people.

>> M

>> ———————–

>> it’s not your birthday yet, I get a lot of headaches

>> and i’m sorry

>> K

>> ——————-

>> Sorry? you’re sorry?

>> Aren’t I the one who should be sorry?

>> You see I know this beautiful, young, creative woman that gets her time sucked up by some funny looking guy in a bad marriage.

>> So you see I’m the one that should be asking why? Why do you hang out with me?

>> And you are a headache by the way.

>> Jackass

>> Have a good night. I got the football game tomorrow.

>> M

>> ————————–

>> i don’t know

>> —————————

>> Oct. 8, 2005

>> I think God hates me

>> M

>> ——————————-

>> well then fuck god.

>> ———————————
>> Oct. 9, 2005

>> I just wrote this for some writing contest.

>> Enjoy

>> M
>> ———————————–

>> I like it but there’s just one problem. Or maybe you meant it this way but isn’t condensed milk thicker than regular? Not watered down. Like evaporated kinda.

>> K

>> I wanted the mother to misinform the kid. Or I could just be an idiot.

>> M

>> ————————–

>> Oct. 10, 2005

>> OK I wasn’t sure, coffee later?

>> K

>> ——————————

>> You weren’t sure if I wrote it that way or if I was an idiot. Yes coffee, I’ll meet you there after you get off work.

>> M
>> —————————–

>> Oct. 11, 2005

>> Today I came home and there were no emails from mickey313. What?!

>> The car wash sign says “Are U your worst enemy?”

>> & I didn’t find a coat, I am too small. We’ll search some more tomorrow.

>> K

>> ————————-

>> Here is the letter to Alex, see attachment.

>> M
>> ———————–

>> my mom says my eyes are blue, my dad says they are green. They look grey to me.

>> That letter makes me sad, hopefully chess & screenplay jobs in new york are enough to make up for things being shitty at home for a little while. (mostly I’m sad that nobody loves the dog… what the hell)

>> K

>> ——————————

>> Oct 18, 2005

>> This is for you

>> 3-0

>> She moved her rook without thinking. He took it with his queen. Three moves later she took his knight with her queen and said “She’s sneaky”. He smiled. If not outwardly then inwardly. As she chased his King around the board trying to maneuver him into check mate, he remembered holding her hand and calling her a mother fucker, because she was 3 and 0

>> Sweet enough for you?

>> M

>> ——————–

>> Oct. 22, 2005

>> Cute. Hey aren’t you supposed to be doing homework or something?

>> M

>> ————————

>> I am, aren’t you supposed to be typing a story?

>> K

>> —————

>> Hey do you got a blanket we can grub up tonight? I’m thinking for the roof at Lilley.

>> M

>> —————

>> I have many

>> K

>> ——————-

>> same as the title. I’ll see you around 10

>> M

>> ———————-

>> Oct 23, 2005

>> The car wash sign says “If you could relive tomorrow, would you?”

>> K

>> That night on the roof I kissed Kate for the very first time. We were snuggled under blankets watching the stars and wondering what star was it that hung over head with a hue of yellow to it. Then my lips met hers and the world stopped. There was no roof or sky or stars any longer. There wasn’t a sun or a moon or a gravitational force on the planet, because there was no planet. There was only Kate and I kissing for the first time. The next day we found out that the star wasn’t really a star, it was a planet named Venus and I wish I could say that the world really did stop and Lindsey and I had found a world of our own, but it didn’t and we hadn’t.

>> Well, that isn’t entirely true.

>> M

>> —————————————–

I stayed away from the festivities, the day of the game. No tickets, no invitations and no desire to buy $10 dollar mixed drinks and $7 dollar beers.

I ventured outside of Midtown twice last week. It was pretty scary. I have become far too territorial. I went to a new club downtown to a birthday party for a 40-something lawyer. I crashed the party. I knew the host and the bartenders. My plan was to make a few new friends. There are typically 3 women to every man, at the clubs downtown. It’s about 6:1 in the burbs.

As anticipated, the party was my version of heaven. Unfortunately, the men and women were not making nice. The women looked a little uptight. No one was buying them drinks!

The men were standing around in groups of 3 & 4 chatting and drinking cognac and imported beer. The women were seated at tables and the bar. The Queen of Midtown accompanied me to the soiree. The Queen had no prior engagements that evening and was gracious enough to accommodate me. We sat at a table, had some drinks and danced whenever the DJ played something old school.

Within an hour, a 30-something barely clothed woman came and sat with The Queen and I. Within 90 minutes, two more 30-something almost naked women sat down with me and the Queen. The trio stared me and The Queen in the mouth, for the remainder of the evening.

I had been to the club for a business meeting, about 3 days after the Super Bowl. There were a handful of people in the bar, eating and drinking, before the Red Wings game. I was making nice with the bartender, while waiting for a business associate. Mrs. Bartender had alerted me to the upcoming party.

When my associate arrived at the bar, Mrs. Bartender began haranguing him about his friend who was having the birthday party. Mrs. Bartender was not used to this new alien occupational force: black metrosexuals. Her husband and his/her friends worked construction, drank heavily, smoked big joints, played video games and boogered one another in the privacy of their basements. The black guys she encountered, at other downtown bars, in the past, always harassed/propositioned her because she has a big butt and an engaging smile. She resembles Pink with acne.

Mrs. Bartender did not get black guys that didn’t flirt with her or make indecent proposals. She wasn’t sure what the problem was but was sure she didn’t like it.

The Saturday of the birthday party, Mrs. Bartender remembered me from earlier in the week and hooked J. Paul up in a ghetto fabulous manner; serving me drinks at half price. A cocktail in the upscale clubs of Downtown Detroit are typically $10-$12 dollars per drink. The Queen and I had 3 rounds before she had had enough of the scantily clad 30-something women sitting at our table looking as though in need of a brutal all-nighter.

The 30-somethings looked downright envious of me and The Queen. It was obvious to the casual onlooker that she and I were having a great time. The 30-somethings watched us very closely. I wanted to attend to them but it was just not a good idea. I was in the presence of The Queen of Midtown and would not be forgiven for attending to common nearly naked wenches.

We left the club and went to one of the casinos to throw the rest of our money away.

The next weekend, when The Queen and I got together, I asked her if she had had a good time at the birthday party. The Queen frowned. I stayed after her to tell me what was on her mind. I had personally had a good time. In my mind, cheap drinks and a table full of women hungry for attention could only get better if the 5 of us had gone somewhere we could all be naked and at least 2 of them would pass out from heavy drinking!

I pressed the Queen for an answer. She blurted out: “What’s up with this metrosexual crowd? They don’t even act like they like women!” My head began reeling. I had an epiphany. The Queen was right! I went over the evening in my mind. It occurred to me that I encounter this scenario at every 40-something soiree that I attend in Downtown Detroit. The 40-something “metrosexuals” are very blasé when it comes to women. Most are not married, dress very sharp and always have fresh hair cuts.

This “metrosexual” thing seems to have reached epidemic proportions. It’s been about 2 years, since I was introduced to the term. A lot of Gen X men seem to have bought into this lifestyle to the detriment of GenX & GenWHY(???) women. The straight (pardon my pun) talk I’ve been getting from women reveals that there is no workable solution. The men are the product of the single parent household and too much cable TV.

The only thing I can suggest is: if you are headed to Dtownn send me an email. All the bars in Midtown are real basic. You will find my 30-something drunk rough necks; Todd and Buffy having a drink before the play; lots of Gen Y women in very tight clothing, doing the “Hustle” and waiting on someone to buy them drinks; a few Dragon Ladies looking to take advantage of some buffed young thug; Lisa, my psychiatrist, who also happens to be the greatest/finest bartender of all time, and yours truly, J. Paul Ghetto Esquire.

Until then.

I was oblivious to the hype and I had no idea that Super Bowl Sunday had arrived until Saturday night, when someone asked me where I was going to watch Super Bowl XL. I thought “XL” meant “Extra Large,” a size that, over the years, I have come to embrace. And I wouldn’t have known even one of the teams playing in Super Bowl XL if my friend Sister Rita, who lives in Pittsburgh, hadn’t signed her email “Go Steelers!” She told me that the “big game” was being played in Detroit, so I only assumed that the other team was from Detroit, the Tigers or the Pistons, the Edsels or some other “Mo Town” group.

It was my son Ian, the one who roots for the Yankees and bets on horse races, who informed me that the other team in the Super Bowl XL was from Washington.

“The Senators?” That was a team I remembered from my days when I collected bubble gum cards. “They were never good enough to win anything.” But he said it was the other Washington, the one out West somewhere, where it rains all the time and they have sightings of Sasquatch. “Not DC. Seattle,” he said.

“I didn’t know that Seattle had a football team,” I said, “just pine trees with space needles!”

Despite all the pressure to conform, to be a participant, instead of watching the extra large Super Bowl, I opted to sit there for as many hours watching the “Monk” marathon, reruns of a B-list TV comedy series. But I didn’t have to see a single commercial, Super Bowl XL or otherwise, thanks to TIVO. I was able to fast-forward through them all.

For my friend Gary, who is a “real sport” and the person I suspect of corrupting Ian and turning him to the Yankee dark side, Super Bowl Sunday, whatever the number, is an event beside which his wedding anniversary pales. He caters a party every year.

“The boys are coming over about 2 PM with the beer and tequila,” he announced. “I went to a new caterer who did it up big. Five varieties of chips and enough dip to float a boat. Cool Ranch, Post-Soviet Union Russian, and my own secret Onion Blue Cheese Surprise. Three hundred chicken wings imported from Buffalo because the Bills don’t need them.” Whoever they happen to be, I thought. He was trying to lure me there. “There are individual pizzas this year,” he said. “You can add your own toppings! Are you interested?”

But I wasn’t, and I didn’t – munch a chip, or mix a dip, or chip a tooth on bad take-out. Although I did manage to consume peanut butter, that new Smart Balance with Omega 3s, both smooth and chunky, that I ate directly from the jars with a spoon. So while Adrian Monk was solving murders, touching parking meters and straightening museum pictures, running through hand wipes, I did down several hot chocolates from the eight-variety flavor carton I won at the office Christmas party, from right out of the packets, without the necessity of adding milk.

Does that make me un-American? A fringe person? A candidate for being wiretapped? For having all my emails scrutinized and my personal Google searches logged and poured over, exposed for all to see? Does that make me suspect? Perhaps. Because I wear in public a sweatshirt that says “Hug A Poet” instead of “Dallas Cowboys” does that make me likely to be carted off in handcuffs like Cindy Sheehan, the Gold Star mom who lost her only son in Iraq? After all, besides not watching Super Bowl XL, I am opposed to one more American dying in Iraq! So am I now a prime contender for “rendition”? Am I likely to be yanked off the street into the back of an unmarked van by men in black and spirited off to some gray-market country and tortured?

It makes me wonder. And I hope the commotion I hear on the steps outside my apartment is from my neighbors celebrating the victory of their Super Bowl XL champions, and not the “Thought Police” coming to take me away!

Oy vey, when is baseball season going to start?

Go Mets!

___________________________________________________

Joseph E. Scalia, Author/Artist: FREAKs, Pearl and No Strings Attached; Scalia vs. the Universe: Watercolors From My Different Other Life

In an ironic twist of fate, Detroit’s Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick joined forces with a prominent local businessman, Roger Penske, to promote our area’s many positives to the Super Bowl visitors . . . What an interesting pair! Kilpatrick is known as the nation’s hip-hop mayor, and recently won re-election by infusing the campaign with a “city versus suburbs” dimension. Penske is a white suburbanite who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise. He led the Metro Detroit (Super Bowl) Host Committee.

Kilpatrick and Penske collaborated to ensure a successful Super Bowl, by galvanizing business and civic leaders and thousands of volunteers to work together. It seemed like a monumental task, but both leaders did the job. As much as I personally dislike Kilpatrick, I must give him credit for representing our community well. Penske worked tirelessly, and I was impressed with his commitment, energy and effort.

Enough about the Super Bowl, as football really isn’t my “cup of tea” . . . Quite frankly, I was more excited when Detroit’s Comerica Park hosted the 2005 Baseball All-Star Game this past July.

At one time, Detroit used to have a small Chinatown located near Wayne State University. The area has disappeared, but there are plenty of Chinese restaurants, language schools and grocery markets in the Detroit metropolitan area.

On January 28, 2006 I had the pleasure of attending a Chinese New Year’s Eve Party at Stevenson High School in Livonia (a Detroit suburb). I was invited by my sister-in-law, Julia, who immigrated to the U.S. ten years ago and became an American citizen in 2005.

I had never been to a Chinese New Year’s celebration before. The 2006 Chinese New Year – the Year of the Dog – officially began on January 29th.

The affair started off with an extravagant buffet dinner in the school’s cafeteria, with food items representative of Mainland China, Hong Kong and Taiwan. There was an abundance of meat, vegetables and rice. A bountiful feast! I learned that the Chinese not only enjoy eating, but believe that eating good food brings harmony and closeness to relationships. I also discovered that they place a great deal of importance on a food’s texture, flavor, color and aroma . . . I ate black moss seaweed and dried bean curd for the first time in my life.

The dessert table consisted of Chinese pastries, red bean soup, and tangerines. My taste buds did not like the soup. The baked goods were either overly sweet or bland and tasteless. The tangerines were quite sweet, and I was told that tangerines are considered to be a symbol of abundant happiness.

After the buffet, there was over two hours of continuous entertainment consisting of 17 separate parts or programs featuring Chinese music, song and dance. Most performers were young, and wore bright and colorful costumes . . . Red and yellow were the predominate colors. I especially enjoyed watching the Chinese dragon dance and the juggling act, and listening to the haunting sounds coming from large barrel-type drums.

There were about 300 people in attendance. The great majority were of Chinese extraction, and very little English was spoken . . . As a result, I definitely was an observer rather than a participant. I became acutely aware of everything around me . . .

Towards the end of the evening, I went outside of the auditorium to look at the various food and craft items that were available for purchase. After buying a few things, I strolled around for about 30 minutes.

I listened intently as a group of high school seniors talked about their hopes and dreams for the new year. There was a common thread. All were hoping to get accepted to the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor. Some expressed concern that they might not get in because of the university’s continued reliance on subjective, non-academic criteria in their admissions policy. To compound this strange reality, historical data has shown that the university had turned away qualified “over-represented” Asians (to include the Chinese) to make room for “under-represented minorities.”

Happy Chinese New Year!

Grandpa was quite an unusual character in our working class neighborhood on Detroit’s West Side, just a few miles from the city’s central core. Ours was a lower middle class haven inhabited by white urban ethnics and blacks who’d migrated from the South. It was a hodgepodge of cultures, typical of most big cities in America, but there were no Jews. The Jewish people lived in their own ethnic enclaves and were basically an unknown quantity.

What made Mr. O’Brien (as the neighbors affectionately called him) different? Grandpa had a soft brogue that sounded laced with music. He wasn’t the usual “rough and tumble” sort of guy that lived in the area. He did not curse or drink. He was quite cultured even though his formal education consisted of only six years at a Christian Brothers school. He didn’t carry a lunch pail or work in a factory. He ate lunch from a brown paper bag and was plumber who carried a toolbox with great pride.

Grandpa also had a small, thriving vegetable garden in a well-worn city block with more concrete than grass. He walked five miles each day, so he knew more people than most in our rather insular community. When young thugs bothered him, he’d hit them with his sturdy wooden cane. He was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes. He rarely got mad or excited, except when he was listening to a Tigers game on the radio or watching a boxing match on the television.

Surprisingly enough, Grandpa’s daily treks through the bustling Detroit streets allowed him to speak to God. He could block out the sounds of the city as he walked, finding food and solace for his soul. Grandpa fully understood Henry David Thoreau’s words, “I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.” Detroit was just another big city to Grandpa, as his journey from Ireland to America had seen him living and working in Cardiff, London and Toronto.

Grandpa’s innate spirituality was at the very core of his being and made him very special. He was a man of intense prayer and deep inner peace. He lived a simple life, and he wasn’t the least bit enthralled with the things of this world. He was a gentle person, but strong in spirit. He taught us that the hectic pace of the world distracted us from God. He was a devout man. He lived and breathed the Good News.

Grandpa wasn’t tortured by feelings of regret, doubt or defiance. If he were alive today , he’d be the first to shrug his shoulders and laugh at the writings of the bitter and angry John Patrick Shanley. He would’ve quietly scolded Shanley for failing to recognize that institutions like the Catholic Church and the US Marines are made up of all types of people, both good and bad…

When Grandpa died at the ripe old age of 92, the streets of Detroit lost a weary but contented traveler… He died a happy man who’d led a full life.

In 1997, I journeyed with three of my six sisters to Ireland. It was our way of paying tribute to the land of our ancestors, and especially to Grandpa O’Brien.

We felt closest to our beloved grandfather when we visited Croagh Patrick in County Mayo. En route to Croagh Patrick, we visited Grandpa’s birthplace – Cork city in County Cork.

Cork is a lot like San Francisco, its sister city. It is an old port city with rolling hills and Victorian houses. The River Lee divides Cork into two sections, and as a result, an astounding array of bridges and quays form trails throughout the city.

Grandpa’s family home was located in a tough, impoverished part of Cork A dark and dreary neighborhood filled with people hardened by life. We were glad that Grandpa had escaped the mean streets of Cork.

Croagh Patrick is where we felt Grandpa’s ghost the most… It is where St. Patrick prayed, did penance and fasted for the people of Ireland. It’s a wondrous place! Croagh Patrick was known as Crochan Aigh, the mount of the eagle, before it became associated with St. Patrick. The legend is that St. Patrick retired to the summit of the mountain for contemplation, fasting, penance and prayer. He remained there alone for 40 days and nights, following the example of Jesus Christ and the great Jewish prophets Moses and Elijah.

As pilgrims, we climbed Croagh Patrick and followed St. Patrick’s footsteps. There are three levels to the peak or summit, which is called St. Patrick’s bed. As we made our journey, we felt humbled by God’s powerful presence and the awesome beauty of His creations.

When we came down the mountain, we crossed a small road and visited the National Famine Memorial of Ireland. It’s worth the stop, to see the sculpted coffin ship embedded with stark depictions of human skeletons.

On the plane back to America, four sisters discussed how their grandfather probably daydreamed of the land of his birth on his daily walks…

Mr. Novack planned out his day as he drove to work. He had two shipments of shocks coming in and a shipment of bumpers. As his Ford Mustang hummed on the road, he also wondered what his wife had packed him for lunch. Ron exited the freeway and made a left onto Michigan Ave. He pulled into the parking lot of the Wayne Assembly Plant for the 5,493rd time in his life. 18 of his 33 years with Ford Motor Company have been spent at this plant.

Ron walked the south side of the parking lot and into the employee entrance. He thought about all the times his son had come to surprise him and then Ron smiled because security never seemed to stop his son from entering the plant. His son wasn’t an employee, just a daring young man. Mr. Novack had done well for his kids and his wife. Three square meals a day, a nice roof over their heads, and never a want for anything or so he had hoped. The security officer said, “Good Morning Ron.” And he returned the salutation to the guard as he headed deeper into the plant.

At 5:03 am, Ron Novack sat down at his desk. He looked over all the shipping invoices that were due in today. He checked the computer log to make sure there were no discrepancies, and then he sat back and looked at the framed picture of his first grandchild, Stanley, sitting on top of his desk. Just then one of the Hi-Lo drivers that work under him popped his head in Ron’s office. He asked Mr. Novack if he had heard any news about anyone that might get the ax. Ron said no. The driver left and Ron got up from his chair, as it was time to walk the plant floor.

Ron is a second generation Ford employee. His wife’s father worked at Rouge Steele and was the one that got Ron his first job at the company. Sure, he could have done something else. But he was fresh out of the military, with medals still on his chest and his first child already on Earth. So he did the right thing and got a job that paid well, with a company that had incredible benefits. Through the years he has always kept in mind that people’s lives depend on him. The customers that drive Ford products, the employees that entrust him with making decisions that will them and their families safe from harm.

Now his job is even more crucial, because he is the only one who knows where everything in the plant is. Where’s the shocks? Ask Ron. Where’s the dashboards? Ron knows. Where’s that thing that goes to the . . . other thing?

Find Ron, he’ll tell you.

Mr. Novack stepped back into his office after taking care of a few mishaps that had to be straightened out. He sat down at his desk and pulled out his lunch. He also took out the little ten inch TV that his employees got him for Christmas a few years back. As he ate his ham on white, smothered with mustard, he watched the news conference by Mark Fields and Bill Ford. They said the same thing the paper had said this morning, except, Ron could tell that a lot of what they said had been more for investors and stockholders, than employees. He finished his sandwich, turning off the TV. He put the TV away. He went back to looking at invoices.

Ron’s phone rang; it was his son. They talked about the layoffs and his son mused that they couldn’t possibly fire his dad, because then they wouldn’t be able to find anything. Ron thanked him for the compliment and prepared to say goodbye. But he was afraid and wanted to tell someone, something about deepest his fears. So he told his son about the two men in the plant that were escorted out by security. They were informed of their firing right after the news conference. Security wouldn’t even let the men pack their own personal belongings. As Ron told his son these things, he felt a little better, a little less alone. They exchanged their good-byes.

The rest of the day Ron kept waiting for Security to walk into his office with a couple of boxes. But they never came. So he finished his work and his day and headed to his car. He thanked God a little on his way.

Author’s Note: Ford Motor Company manufacturing plants are like small cities inside their walls. There are 1000′s of men and women with stories of all sorts that go untold. This story of my father is a simple story; it is about a man that has worked for a company that has treated him wonderfully at times and poorly at others. It’s a story about a true American Hero. One that gets up everyday, goes to his job and does it the best he knows how. So, like the millions of stories that could be found in the walls of these plants, I think his is a story that deserves to be shared.

At the last minute, a decision was made to go to my place for a quick restroom stop. As fate would have it, I elected to check my answering machine. A friend, who I had met in 1995 on a religious pilgrimage, had left a message. She had decided that she did not want to be home alone for Christmas, so she figured that I would open my home to her. What an unexpected surprise! Her message simply stated that she was scheduled to arrive at 11:15 p.m. She left an arrival time and flight number, but no airline information.

I was frantic! My sisters said to act like I never received the message, but I knew that I could not do that. I frantically called the airport, trying to determine what airline had a flight leaving from Miami and arriving at Detroit Metro Airport at the designated time.

After some time, I discovered the essential information and then drove to the airport. I live about 35 miles from the airport. It was very cold and snowy night, and the airport was a zoo! The plane was delayed about a half-hour. My dear friend was so excited when she saw me. She had one grocery bag with her belongings in it. She was like a kid in a candy store. Seeing her reaction made me happy. She has bad legs, so the airline loaned me a wheelchair to get her my car. She was so tired and frail. I turned on a Christmas tape, and she slept most of the way to my place –about an hour’s journey because of the snow.

When we arrived, she asked me to turn on EWTN (Mother Angelica’s station), to turn on my tree lights, and to let her sleep in my living room. She was too fatigued to go upstairs to the room I had ready for her, so I fixed her up on my pullout sofa. She talked about 20 minutes, mainly about how happy she was to be spending Christmas with me. After I told her about my sister’s traditional Christmas gathering, she fell fast asleep.

When I went downstairs to wake her up for 10 a.m. mass, she was laying on her back with her eyes open. Her face and hands were cold. I called 911, and the fire truck came almost immediately. The firemen pronounced her dead, and told me that she had been dead about four hours. The police came. Then, the men from the morgue came and removed her body. It was an unbelievable experience! My dear friend had died during the night of cardiac arrest. She was 78 years young. Thank God she died in a nice warm home, and not at home by herself.

Be kind to one another!

The focal point of this piece is not how stupid I can be in social situations. The discourse of this report reveals one of an office worker’s best kept secrets: the accumulation of work wives and work husbands.

The average worker devotes more than one third of their lives to work-related activities. That time, spent with people who would otherwise be strangers, creates a dynamic that our families and friends never contemplate. We develop very safe, very intimate relationships with people that we never have sex with and never visit in their homes. We rarely get to meet their significant others, even though we hear about them all the damn time! What we don’t tell is: how we indulge ourselves in our lusty routines, scrutinizing every movement that our co-workers of interest make, as they chew their food or have a cup; examining them from head to toe, as they are walking by. We look up the crack of their asses as they are riding the escalator. And other men try to look at your johnson when you’re standing next to them at the urinal!

I love derrieres. I can tell if one of my female co-workers has gained or lost 8 ounces or when they don’t bother to wear panties. I am especially pleased when a busty female comes into my cubicle while I’m sitting and unassumingly shoves her cleavage in my face.

I have worked in offices, as a professional, for 17 years. I have learned the most intimate details about people’s lives and never get to visit their homes. This discussion is not about interoffice affairs or lusting after the delivery man or the postal worker in the tight uniform. This is about one of our dirty little secrets in the workplace.

“THE INITIATION”

As soon as you come into a new office environment, people begin sizing you up to determine what role they will play in your work life. Trying to express the right combination of professionalism and comportment only serves you for so long. IF YOU ARE ATTRACTIVE, people want to know you. I am 6’2” and better looking than some girls. I knew from working and living in female dominated environments, during my college years, that it pays to be “everybody’s boyfriend”. Picking on one or two women is destined to get you in big trouble and in some cases out the door. The women that don’t throw their skirts over your head,when you first arrive eventually settle down and simply treat you like that sex toy they used until the batteries died. It’s better to be objectified than unemployed.

The media typically portrays office settings as male dominated. That has not been my experience, here in Detroit, as a civil servant. The majority of the staff in the building where I work is female. Many of the best positions, in civil service, are reserved for men but the Governor and her crew are in the process of changing that. The first line supervisors, most of the journeyman level positions and the majority of the clerks are female.

The women that have healthy relationships with men will approach the moment you arrive on the scene. If you can avoid getting your face slapped or a harassment suit and you don’t try to bone up to every available woman you meet, you will get yourself some work wives.

Married women are far more adventurous that single women. I’m not sure why that is. I am sure that married women will step right up and “test” you. A smart man will not make any untoward moves during the probationary period. No propositions, no staring and NO touching. There are exceptions to be sure. Repeated jabbings of breast in your chest or the backing up of big butts onto your crotch on the elevator are hard to resist. On occasion, these gestures can backfire on you. I fall backward like the guy that got stabbed on the stairs in “Psycho” when hit with tits. I whisper in the ear of the women on the elevator that we will “have to get married” if they fail to move that butt away from my expanding crotch. If it happens a 2nd or 3rd time it’s “on”. If they cease and desist, I try to be their friend. When the planets are in the correct alignment, I have myself a new work wife.

The up side of these clandestine relationships is: you never have to go to lunch alone or sit by yourself at break time. And Work Wives make attractive bait for single women that see them with you.

The new President of my fan club admitted that seeing me with WW#1 had initially aroused her curiosity about me. Ironically, The President is a close friend of a former work wife that transferred to another location.

Having a healthy attraction can work for you. Sexual tension can go one of three ways. You will fuck or you may fight or (my preference) have an ongoing relationship with lots of smiling, with the occasional hug, when you haven’t seen them for a few days and the occasional meal or drinks after work, which brings us back to last Friday.

Work Wife #1 decided, two hours before the function, that she and I were overdue for drinks and a little gossip. She called me and announced that we would be going to the party together. I eliminated “No” from my vocabulary after my first marriage. I knew I had invited at least 3 women to meet me at the function. I bet on the law of averages. WW#1 called back and informed me that she needed to go to her car, so she would meet me at the function. As I was boarding the elevator, Work Wife # 3 called for me to hold the elevator door. WW#3 is my only never been married work wife. She has always relied on the kindness of “gentlemen” for support and bar tabs. She immediately wanted to know if I was going to the after-work affair. I couldn’t say no. We walked through the tunnel to the bar. Seated right at the entrance of the bar was the new President of my fan club. I obediently sat next to the President. We needed to go over some numbers 52, 36, 47. The rest is not worth repeating.

When Brianna, WW#1 arrived at the bar, I was sitting with the President and was unable to attend to her in a manner to which she has become accustomed. I was guilty as charged. So today, I immediately began apologizing and boo boo kissing. I knew Friday that I had messed up. The President had not confirmed her attendance at the party, so I carelessly invited several female acquaintances and 2 Work Wives.

WW#1 had to find out that she was not the only woman in the building that I’m interested in. The damage was not critical. At the end of each day, we conveniently park our work relationships at the door and pick them back up when we’re in need of a little attention. Irrespective of the level of emotional intensity, as long as you can avoid butt-naked sex, you’re usually safe. There have been occasions when I met a spouse and they put my hand in a vice grip and stated that they had heard A LOT about me. I learned, early in the game, to leave the sexual details of my life out of my conversation with the married work wives. Work Wife #2 is a widow. We talk about our sex lives in graphic detail but her boyfriends rarely find out about our talks. We have been at parties when she blurted things out but no one cares or remembers.

Having work wives and husbands does not have to have a downside. The relationships I am describing with wives 1 & 2 have been nurtured for over a decade. For the most part, there have not been too many “spill over” problems. Brianna and I attend a lot of partiies together. She has a girlfriend that likes to flirt with me in front of her real husband. We had to come to an understanding. I told her to sleep with me or leave me be! We never did the do. When I see her out now, I always get status on the whereabouts of that husband. If he’s in the room, I don’t stay long. Ironically, if he isn’t there she’s pretty tame.

Work wives are personally good for the libido. I get enough attention from them and the women that see us interacting together to act like I have some sense around women. It takes a bit of discipline to have relatively wholesome relationships. There is however no suitable alternatives in the workplace. The penalties for sexual harassment are severe. And, if you or your co-worker is married and you do the nasty, YOU WILL BURN IN HELL! Travel the safe route this holiday season.

Anyway, it was late in the afternoon on a Saturday in 1978. I had gone downtown to hang out at the Library street branch of the Detroit Public Library because that is where the foreign language stuff was kept. I was looking up a Dutch phrase for my aunt, which was written on a family heirloom cookie maker. I found it, although I do not recall it exactly, to mean “good luck” or some such thing. Apt, since the cookie maker was two hinged iron plates you held over the fire on the stove, cooking one cookie at a time; too long on the fire and you had a cookie that could be used like a martial arts weapon, too little time on the fire and you wound up with a gooey mess. I still love that branch to this day.

I left the library and promptly missed the bus. I took it upon myself to walk up Woodward Avenue, the main street of the city, to the Cultural Center (where the DIA, main branch of the Library, Detroit Historical Museum, and so on are located). On the way I encountered my city.

I passed boarded up businesses, including the old Motown studios. I passed by homeless people who stared at my new coat covetously. I passed adult bookstores, bars, party stores, shoe shops, the huge old Hudson’s. A man comes up to me. He was dressed in a long coat, black gloves, and a hat. He asked me what size my girlfriend wore. I ignored him at first, a little scared. He repeated his question, a little louder this time. Worried that my silence irritated him, I finally answered. I said, “Size of what? Shoes?”

“No, ring. I’ve got lots of rings,” he said, pulling open his coat to expose a large inventory of rings, watches, necklaces and so on attached to the lining with safety pins.

I though this kind of thing only happened in the movies!

“She doesn’t like jewelry,” I said.

“Maybe you like to smoke?” he asked. I am not sure if he intended to sell me cigarettes or something in a baggie.

“No, thanks,” I said, walking faster. I kept walking, my street vendor friend beside me for almost a block until he decided I was not going to buy. He turned a corner, obviously hoping for better luck.

It is a couple of miles up Woodward to the Cultural Center. I arrived cold, foot-weary, and wondering if it would have been better just to wait for the next downtown bus. Why had I walked so far? I know now, although I did not know it then: It was a rite of passage for me. I had to do it to prove to myself, and to others, that it could be done. I had not been mugged, raped, or murdered. There were encounters along the way–but with people, like myself, who were simply living their lives. I still wander about the city, when I can. I take my kids downtown and to the Cultural center, too. I want them to know, so they can tell their friends, that it can be a fun place to visit.