My muse, Madelaine, had a graduation party last weekend at a new downtown club. I invited The Prince of Darkness to accompany me. The Prince of Darkness works like the devil, so, needless to say, it’s difficult to get him out of his crypt.

The Prince of Darkness had surprised me earlier that afternoon by inviting me to join him for a cocktail at our favorite midtown watering hole. After cocktails, I convinced The Prince of Darkness to return to the crypt, change clothes and head downtown with me.

We had a little trouble finding the club. East Jefferson, on the south side of the avenue, between the Renaissance complex and Belle Isle, can politely be described as a neighborhood in transition. There are warehouses, old mansions, an amphitheatre and vacant lots. The landlords refuse to sell at reasonable prices. Most of the properties sit and deteriorate, because of neglect and water damage, or they spontaneously combust, in the middle of the night.

As I discovered that night, the area between East Jefferson and the river has become “No MAN’S Land”!

Standing at the door of the club were two security guards–five foot9 and fivefoot10–in metrosexual combat gear. Fivefoot9–wearing a crocheted black skull cap, sleeveless mesh shirt, black fatigues and combat boots–demanded we raise our arms. Fivefoot10–who was too fat for a mesh shirt–walked behind me and grabbed me by my man boobs! His hands lingered on my pecks, then slid down the seams of my jacket. He patted me on the hips, then grabbed the contents of the front pockets of my trousers and jiggled the contents up and down–like he was trying to make music with my ass!

The Prince of Darkness had forgotten to remove his baby pitchfork from his pant pocket. I always carry a cork screw on my person. Fivefoot10 shook my right pocket, which contained the cork screw, until I demanded he let go! Fivefoot9 insisted that we get rid of our party accessories, before entering the club.

We had to go back to the car. When we returned, fivefoot10 motioned for me to raise my arms. As I stepped forward, he made that Prince sliding behind Appolonia move and stood behind me. He slapped both hands on my pecks, firmer than the last time, and gave my titties and the contents of my jacket a firm shake. His hands lingered on my chest. After what seemed like a full 60 seconds, fivefoot10 moved his hands down my coat seams, like he was caressing a mink coat with Halle Barry in it, finally resting his hands on my hips. His right hand became disoriented. I had removed the corkscrew from my trousers. Fivefoot10′s right hand wantonly fingered my apartment keys, like he wanted to move in with me! He flipped my wallet round and round with his clubby left hand.

At that point I began cussing. I accused him of having sexual relations with his mother. He took his hands off of me. The punk didn’t even offer me a cigarette, yet he took great liberties with my person! How many unsuspecting men had he violated, in the name of security?!!

After our ordeal, we made our way to the third floor of the club and sat at the bar. The drinks were moderately priced, so we had quite a few, to try and calm down. J Paul had never been molested by a man before, and in public no less! The Prince of Darkness had been molested numerous times, however, this was the first time a fivefoot9 metrosexual security guard had ever grabbed his testicles on the sidewalk in front of a club. We were mortified.

As the night went on, the cheap drinks served as some consolation. The molestations turned out to be the most exciting part of our evening.

The music was particularly bad. Twice within 2 hours, the DJ played “Cold Blooded.” Despite the bad DJ and all the stuffed blue denim, we hung out until 1 a.m.

The Prince of Darkness had to have a midnight feeding, so we went to my favorite eatery in all of downtown Detroit, Lafayette Coney Island. Detroit has national reputation for coney island restaurants. Lafayette Coney Island had to be the inspiration for Belushi’s Greek restaurant character on Saturday Night Live. Two loose burgers and an MGD and one can go soberly home for a good night’s rest.

It was still relatively early. The bars close around 2 a.m. in Detroit. We still have a factory town mentality. Back in the day, one needed at least 2-3 hours sleep before going to Ford, GM or Chrysler. We have not evolved here in Dtown, except for our closeted sexual preferences.

We were finishing our meal when Dick and Jane arrived. We were hogging a table for six. Dick glanced at our table and headed for the back door. Jane and I made contact, so I motioned for them to come over to the table. Jane literally pulled Dick by the arm, to make him come and sit down.

Dick and Jane were with two female friends and some kid from Chicago. Jane sat down next to me and began quizzing us about where we had been that evening. Jane’s friends were sisters. The sisters were quite drunk. One of the sisters was celebrating her birthday. Birthday Girl plopped down next to The Prince of Darkness. The flames bouncing off of The Prince of Darkness must have made her warm. Birthday Girl made her sister switch seats with her. After Birthday Girl moved, she began fanning herself and pulling at the top of her blue halter top. Birthday Girl began playing peek a boo with Jane and J Paul revealing her tan line and two padded inserts inside her brassier and titties worthy of fondling.

The waiter came over. This was the crew’s first time at Lafayette, so they asked us what they should order. The Prince of Darkness barked: “loose burger”. They did not understand. If he had said: “cheese bhurgha” they would have gotten it. I told The Kid from Chicago to try the “special”. After three tries, I successfully explained what made it–hot dog, covered with ground beef, chili, mustard and onions–”special”. Meanwhile The Prince of Darkness was barking out more commands to Jane, her new husband Dick and the sisters.

Jane and the sisters were from Grosse Pointe. Dick didn’t talk much. He wanted to leave and go to American Coney Island next door. The two restaurants are buttressed against one another. American Coney Island tries to bite Lafayette’s fame, having moved into the adjacent building. The tourista get fooled. Dick must have come in the wrong door. Now it was too late.

I tried to pay the bill and leave, so they could have the table to themselves and Dick could relax. The Prince of Darkness wasn’t ready to leave.

Jane teaches kindergarten. She also happens to be a extremely beautiful at 5′ 8″ with raven hair and a wispy winona rider physique. As I suspected, Jane is very popular with her students. She had my attention, as soon as she made her entourage sit at our table.

Their food arrived. They had followed The Prince of Darkness’s commands and ordered 4 chili fries. Jane and the sisters ordered traditional coney islands. The Kid had a special and Dick had a loose burger.

We chatted some more, as they ate. As it turns out, Jane teaches at a school I used to visit in a former work life.

I paid the waiter; we said our goodnights and headed on home. The 30-minute repast with Jane and her crew had salvaged my evening.

I have been to several clubs in the Woodward corridor, like the one Dick and Jane had gone to that night. Me and The Prince of Darkness decided we would stick to the new clubs on Woodward and stay away from the south side of East Jefferson. No more “walking on the wild side” for J Paul.

Until the next time.

In 1998, General Motors announced that it was leaving the New Center to move into a state of the art complex created by Ford. When “GM Culture” abandoned the area, Crowleys, Pegasus and other businesses that had defined the area followed suit. By 2000, the area had lost its economic vitality. The State of Michigan attempted to infuse Midtown with consumers by moving employees into the old GM building. The frugality of mortgage burdened state employees was severely underestimated. We’re cheap. There are a very limited number of retailers and the area has yet to find a suitable replacement for the quality and ambiance of Pegasus or Lellis.

Midtown Detroit is on the economic rebound but process has been excruciatingly slow. The demographics have shifted dramatically, over the past 5 years, but the retail environment has not caught up to the new consumers. The area purports to have a population that has higher average incomes per capita than anywhere else in Michigan. Unfortunately, there are no supermarkets or upscale eateries to compliment the burgeoning middleclass professionals.

“THANK GOD FOR CVS”

When I had an automobile and credit cards (post-divorce), I was perturbed that CVS and the area liquor stores had high-priced groceries on their shelves. Since that time, I surrendered my Lincoln towncar at the end of the lease and did not drive off with another pimp. I have learned lessons in ghetto economics along with a dose of humility, here, in the Motor City.

When I first moved in the area in 2000 with 2 cars and good credit, I only ventured in the CVS to obtain prescriptions and vitamins. It was almost an aggravation to stop there en route to my many destinations. 5 years later: no cars, no nagging wife and no credit cards, CVS has become my market, my drugstore and my health food store. Walking 4 blocks with a gallon of milk in one hand and a 200 ounce container of laundry detergent in my weak hand is better than 20 minutes on the treadmill and 4 sets of weight lifting. The trips to CVS also equalize my drunken excursions to Popeyes and White Castle.

“A LITTLE HELP IS ON THE WAY”

At the corner of Woodward and Custer a sign claims the lot to be the future site of a Walgreens. I’m praying that some smart independent grocery chain (Spartan can you hear me?!!) will decide to grace us with its presence. Rumor has it that a very good downtown restaurant will be reopening the recently abandoned space in the Fisher building. The blaring hip hop music in the Clubhouse Tavern has been scaring off the more uptight theater goers. In any event, the area is in need of some balance to the 4 liquor stores, the 5 lottery dealers and Burger King et al. The guest at the St. Regis Hotel and pedestrians like me want and deserve better retailers.

“TODD AND BUFFY: WHERE ARE YOU?”

The new housing starts in Midtown will most certainly force retailers to return to the area. It can’t happen soon enough. I love White Castle hamburgers but I’ve had them for Sunday dinner one time too many!

Recently, I was accosted by a Gaggle of Matrons as I was crossing the bridge from Cadillac Place (old GM building) to the St Regis Hotel. The women had made a louie instead of a ralph. They had been told, by the concierge, that there were “shops” they could visit. I directed them to the New Center One building and was summarily accosted by another person on the bridge. We chatted for 4 or 5 minutes. By the time I got to the escalator, in New Center One, the Gaggle of Matrons’ tour was over. They had not ventured into the furrier’s shop and were a little intimidated by the ghetto fabulous fashion of Biz R! I was tempted to send them over to the Fisher building for a dose of Pure Detroit but I decided to leave well enough alone. They looked like they were farmers on vacation, so I expected they were on their way back to the hotel to beat down the concierge for sending them on such a lousy tour.

The retailers that remain in the area have loyal followings that allow them to keep afloat. I pray to the god of retail and commerce to deliver us a market and a better pizza joint (sorry Papa Romano!). We have 2 decent bars, 2 pharmacies and Chinese take out, so I’ll be able to make it in the meantime. Buffy, I need you and Todd to complain to the Economic Development Corporation so we can have some upscale eateries and at least one real good bar.

If it worked just south of here in Cass Corridor, it can also happen here.

I hustled down the hall to F and rang the buzzer. An elderly woman in a white turban opened the door (I think her name was Millie) and I was faced with the site of her underwear-clad husband poking through our food while an anguished delivery guy in a gold lame vest was sopping up phosphorescent curry from their hideous tablecloth and matching purple shag carpeting.

“Hi, uh, I’m uh, your neighbor, you know, from down the hall in E and…”

“Oh, yes, yes, come in,” the old woman said. I noticed that in addition to her turban, she was wearing a white smock and white rubber gloves.

“I think you have our order,” I said.

“Oh, yes, what a mistake. But we love this place, we order from them all the time.”

OK, I thought, is she trying to convince me that this is really her order? That somehow she was doing me a favor by signing for, opening, sniffing, and possibly eating my dinner? At least her husband’s underwear was clean – spotless.

“Don’t worry,” Millie said, “Joey here, he added three dollars tip on your card.” In twelve years I’d never as much as borrowed a cup of sugar from these people. Now I was hanging out with them in their underwear, watching them eat my dinner, and now, repack it so I could serve it.

The delivery man finished mopping up. He repacked the plastic containers into the brown bags and we headed back into the hallway toward my apartment. “I am so sorry Sir,” the delivery guy said, “it must be the new man at our place, excuse me, but he is an idiot, he said clearly apartment F.”

Before we entered my apartment I stopped and asked the delivery guy, “did they start eating any of it? Any at all?”

“Oh, no, no Sir.”

We entered and I started unpacking the food, I figured the less my guests knew about Millie and Joey and the exploding korma, the better. But then my sister, who was visiting us for dinner, pulled a garlic naan with a huge bite out of it from a grease-stained sack.

“Uh, I’m not that hungry,” she said. “Me neither, me neither, me neither,” a chorus of other guests echoed around our dining room.

I wondered, should I call the police? Is there a statute against absconding with thy neighbor’s chutney? Or, is there a special unwritten law of apartment living that applies – whosoever gets delivered the takeout food owns it, like when someone gives you back too much change or maybe when you’re undercharged for a pair of shoes. (As if.)

I looked over at my wife – she was pouring out bowls of peanut butter Cap’n Crunch – and all of a sudden, I felt guilty for taking that meal from Millie and Joey, they looked so excited.

That was seven months ago. I haven’t been able to look either of them in the eye since then – but I’m not sure if I’m ashamed of them, or of myself.