Less than a week removed from my hometown but just a couple hours after the latest in a long line of questions about how long I plan to be in Detroit, I'm finally sitting down to spell out some of my madcap adventures in the Crease of the Michigan Mitten.
Everything here is different as far as I'm concerned. I could very well be an alien in more than perfunctory ways. Yay, I've learned quite a bit lately and feel somewhat like a child or really stupid teenager.
For starters, I have a Southern accent. Didn't know that. If I hadn't had the extroverted masses telling me in a near-constant manner, I probably never would know it. Though I sound bitter about that, truthfully I admit that it is almost flattering because it makes me a different kind of exotic. In a land full of various ethnicities, I am a rareity. A good ol' boy come North for the winter. Everyone seems to dig it.
Friendly, oh man. These folks are friendly or at least much more so than I expected. It isn't like I thought I was moving to either New York City or France, but I certainly didn't believe I'd be encountering so many nice people. My boss is extremely rockin. My other co-worker, yep. The bartenderesses and the barflies -- one and all, friendly. This makes the transition so much easier.
Like Saturday night. On the advice of a myspace pal, I went in search of a little martini bar named the Double Olive but finding none, I turned tail and retreated to my new favorite bar, The Trail Bar. So I'm sitting there and not feeling especially outgoing. I order a sandwich and a beer, then turn my attention to the football and baseball games taking place on their many fine TVs. Lo and behold, a young man in all black -- but not all black like the folks I left in Macon -- takes the stool next to mine. He was in a chipper mood and seemed like a dandy fella all the way around.
...well, except for the turtleneck. Those of you that know me well -- and I mean like we've had sex well -- know that I have a giant, almost inheirent distrust of turtlenecks and the people who wear them. I believe it stems from my jealousy of turtles, but that's neither here nor there. So this guy was in a black leather jacket and black knit turtleneck, clean-cut and clean-shaven, which didn't matter because I didn't care to speak with him about anything. He was wearing a turtleneck.
Well, time rolls on and the whiskey river rolls further, so in time I'm receptive and we start chatting about the World Series game as we despair equally at the many times the Red Sox tried to lose the game. He turns out to be a swell guy and all, then starts giving me the run-down on the cool places to go. Again, I'd already been given a primer on the scene by a young lass named the Owner of the Lonely 'L', but all her opinions were affirmed in the detailed and repeatious pronouncations of Homeboy G. Turtleneck.
Lest you think I was unaware of any potential coming on by him of me, I assure you that I was on the watch. He never made a move and several times referenced the ladies as well as a breed of things he called "faggots". Unlike days of yore or even in the UK now, he wasn't referring to a bundle of sticks or a pack of smokes.
He isn't alone. In just six days I've heard the word faggot used more than I ever have in my entire life after third grade. Then again, maybe I wasn't listening.
One of the repeat offenders is my other co-worker, Junior. He's an awkward 20 year old with an appetite for chewing tobacco and a passion for college football. On Thursday, it was just he and I at the shop because my friend/housemate had school and the boss had a meeting elsewhere. At lunch, he asked what I was in the mood for and I replied that I'd prefer it if he took the reigns and played tour guide.
We ended up at a wretched pit of a shithole called Crestwood because it was the only Bikini Bar around in which he'd be allowed at his age. I should have specified a nudity free lunch, but I didn't and was introduced to what I believe is a phenomenon occuring only here. Apparently there are several lunch counters in the greater Detroit area that specialize in bikini clad food service. Junior named four off the top of his head within a two mile radius of the shop.
And nothing says hygiene like vastly exposed bar parts.
What I had envisioned was another meal at one of the other Detroit cultural markers, a Coney Island. Those of you in the know, a Coney Island is a hot dog -- usually with lots of chili and a perhaps a sprinkling of onions or something else that exacerbates the gaseous affect of eating a low-grade meat conglomeration. Well, up here and for absolutely no reason that is apparent, a Coney Island is a type of restaurant. No, it isn't an eatery that serves only hot dogs, it is nothing more or less than a diner. But they don't call it a diner, they call it a Coney Island. And it isn't a chain like Burger King or Dairy Queen. It is literally a reference to a type of restaurant and thusly, everything is either Leo's Coney Island or Tony's Coney Island or American Coney Island, etc. To highlight why this confuses and even bothers me, let me remind you all that Coney Island is about as close to Detroit as Macon, GA is.
Still, I'm going to open my own chain of Coney Islands one fine day.
Holy shit, the roads! How could I have gotten this far without talking about the roads?! And not the roads to Detroit but the roads in Detroit... and Dearborn and Livonia and Redford and all these places that comprise my present habitat. Let me put it as simply as I can: It is as if the streets were paved two hundred years ago then repaired by a five year old with a love of orange barrels and concrete patch.
It only fits, though because there are -- I've been told -- 20 abandoned skyscrapers in downtown Detroit. Today I ventured down that way to take a look-see. Yep, whole highrises completely unused. The saddest in my opinion is the old train station which was built around the time that Grand Central Station opened in New York -- we're talking old here. So I approach it thinking it must be city hall or something because it is so antiquated and grand, but no, it in ruin and been left for dead. Stuff like that makes me wish I had a millions of dollars.
Of course, the price of cigarettes here make me wish the same thing because it'd take that much bank to afford to buy them here. Thus far, I've avoided having to because I brought a carton of Camels with me and thankfully, my consumption of these prized smokes has been reduced from two packs down to one a day. Still, there will soon be the day when I will pack my bags and head south to Ohio to get a couple of cartons there because there is no way in hell I'm paying $48 a carton for anything that won't automatically make me sexy and successful and brilliant.
While I was sniffing out the digs downtown and tearing up over the loss of so much great architechure, I had a chance to peep the beautiful parts of the still-breathing Detroit. Around the Fox Theatre and Comerica Park, there is a joint called the Town Pump. H.G. Turtleneck told me about it and so I stopped there to pick up what they call the Metro Times, which is to inform me of all the goings on in this here city.
I do so and order a Bell's Amber as I'd been told to do by my real friend and Michigan native, Young Maggie. After I settled in with the menu, the waitress then turned to me and asked what shot I wanted. I tried to tell her it was still day time and that I hadn't ordered a shot. She countered with claims of tradition and such. I had a shot of Jack Daniels, of course. That and only two pints of that Bell's and I was feeling tipsy. The night before I had three Jack n' cokes and four bottles of Budweiser, but felt nothing. So for a while, I'll be kicking it Bell's Amber style. Chalk one up for the beer drinkers with rich tastebuds because they've found a new fan.
Eventually night fell and I had to head back up Michigan Avenue to get home. Pulling down that desolate stretch of road, I remembered all the boogieman stories I'd been told about how I shouldn't get lost downtown because someone would certainly pull me from my car and eat my arms if given half the chance. I was shaking and sweating and scared and crying and begging the dear sweet Lord above to get me home with both arms in tact when I remembered the only thing that ever gives me comfort: talking on the phone.
So I called Mom to see how the family was doing. She said she made it through the Loretta Lynn concert in decent shape and that Jeff was mad I didn't say goodbye. In all fairness, he's right. Did I need money? No. Could I send her some? Not yet. Is the car holding up and all that jazz before she decided we'd talked long enough so I then -- and mind you still far from my destination but close to evil incarnate -- called a handful of other people until I was inspired to again call the infamous Roger Riddle.
He and I talked for a half hour or so until I was back on the front porch of Casa de Klingelhofer. But the phone died just as he was elaborating on plans to start a new tradition in Macon where I become a legendary figure by having parties thrown in my honor. If there are any people still living in Macon who want a reason to get drunk, I highly recommend throwing a party in my honor complete with giant glossy pictures of me and candles and speeches about how great I am. It is my most sincere hope that by the time I return to Middle Georgia area everyone will know who I am because they've toasted glad tidings in my name.
On that self-delusionary note, I leave you with but one additional thought before calling it a night: Perhaps the greatest bassline in the history of all music is the one in Al Green's "Here I Am".
Good night, my friends, good night.
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