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Detroit
by Ian Haight

January 1, 2018 Contributed By: Ian Haight

I.

On graduation day, President Bush
gave the university’s commencement
speech, but when I left the campus gates,
Dad whispered Steelcase closed another
plant. Only a skeleton crew runs
the day shift, touching up paint
on machines. Rich friends from Detroit
offered work. How little college
had prepared me. Deceiving smiles,
a compliment laid for a favor—
so unheard of in the flats
of my Calvinist farm town.

 

II.

Maze highways, splitting,
twisting into Joe Louis Arena,
or the Windsor underpass—
NBD execs with bongs
in their bottom desk drawers.

 

The mayor pays mothering lovers
for his out-of-wedlock kids.
Crossing his mansion’s street,
a neighborhood of boarded up
crack houses, or the other way,

 

three-level Victorians
with four-car garages.
White, college-educated,
I manage Jimmy’s, a black
nightclub not a mile

 

from the Renaissance Center,
a wannabe World Trade Center.
My employees consist of two
ex-con addicts, a tall, long-
haired single mother,

 

and a bartender, usually drunk,
who pockets the money for drinks.
They all smile, say I look
like Eastwood with my cigars,
the place weeks from Chapter 11.

 

III.

Near the unrented upper-
story rooms, brocades of gold
letters on purple fields stream
down five floors from a skylight
to strobe-lit dancing—refrigerator

 

vaults of frozen meat below.
The steel door’s inside locks seal
my office like a safe, the plush
leather chair on golf-green
carpeting—all of it crowned

 

by a black desk, almost as wide
as the walls. Unpaid invoices pile
next to an unused stack of fine-
ruled yellow-pad notebooks—
pictures of the boss’ Grosse Pointe

 

lakefront house under the desk’s
glass top. The air conditioner’s
secret password controls in faux
wooden paneling turn the cooling
pipes off at midnight. People dance

 

‘til 4. And when the door’s
pounded by club renters desperate
to cool the grinding heat,
or thieving workers are axing
the liquor room door since no one

 

has the keys, or the police want
to know who’s in charge when
renters refuse to leave, it’s easy
to lock the double bolts, dim
the lights, and pretend I am not there.

 

IV.

North of Shene Park, a burned-out,
Victorian-era mansion stands,
the gutted stucco building
overgrown with poplars.
Near the brush-enshrouded
pavilion, a tributary flows
to Lake Huron; the night’s
Windsor skyline frames the ruins
of the once-palace.

 

A day waitress took me there
after tequila shots. We laid
our clothes down, dove
headlong into the water, hoping
for a taste of that old place, to touch
deeper than the car-filled
Saturday night streets, or the fifty-
foot lines of shriveling drunks
sitting along sidewalks cracked
with weeds—the street gangs walking
downtown’s boarded-up shopping
district, mugging any who don’t know
better. She swam nude easily,
comfortable with her unadorned skin,
but the booze flew through my empty
stomach. When she climbed a bank,
her eyes searching the ruins,
I was choked with pain, gasping
for air.

 

V.

Start from the streets of Ann Arbor,
but by Detroit, the six-pack is run
out. Buy another, slamming it, then buy

 

singles at a corner liquor store blocks
later. At the wedding, sit on the roof-
top of the Detroit Athletic Club. Toke.

 

And drink ourselves red in the face,
so high we can’t feel the ground
when we walk, or our skin when we touch.

 

With a car full of women, we drive
to Jimmy’s, where, in the basement,
we leave white specks of dust

 

on a mirror—the only proof we have been
there, rubbing against one another.
We get our own booth, drink free booze,

 

eat free food, kissing and feeling
the women, free in their pink dresses,
  any way any time you want it. She wants

 

me to come in, but I say no for reasons
beyond self-respect, beyond
anything rational or comprehensible

 

in a state of unfeeling. For days
I question why it made more sense
to stay with my men friends, smoking

 

at a private beach on Lake Huron, flat
on our backs, watching what stars
the city of Detroit would show us.

 

VI.

Live in the new high rise
apartments by Lake Huron:
a two-story loft and indoor gym,
twenty-four hour security, windows
looking down on the city’s shore-
lines. I pay the deposit,
but my friend goes back
on his word. It is easier

 

for him to stay next to an almost
unlived in residence—a shooting guard
for the Detroit Pistons.
Hand-laid wooden flooring, walk-in
closets, and skylights running

 

the length of hallways are all
deceptive; the landlord keeps
a loaded shotgun in his office—
the nearest grocery store, a beer

 

mart. Risking an unguarded parking
lot of broken glass and dug
up asphalt makes sense to my friend.
When the drunks across the street
raise their bleary eyes
to the color of his car, he leans

 

close and whispers,
    My girlfriend will move
in. We can both sleep

 

  with her—at the same time, even.

 

VII.

Get an axe to knock the liquor door open over there you can get a five dollar blowjob steering column’s broken I don’t have a window because somebody tried to steal my car she lit my cigarette between her tits the lap dances cost ten bucks I haven’t seen my father since I was born she has a boy but her parents take care of him he’s bankrupting the business with his sons on purpose when the cards fall they’ll strip this place to nothing take some money out of the register no one’ll miss it I fucked her on the tables after the nightclub closed I can’t marry her I don’t even like bangin’ her I can’t park over there my car’ll get repossessed

 

VIII.

Another night of ice
for drinks
stacks of shot glasses. Doilies

 

beneath matchbox baskets—jerk chicken
and jambalaya rolled out for Jamaica night.
Roadies for the Trinidad Tripoli Steel Band

 

wheeled in drums and amplifiers. The band’s BMWs
in the back alley filled with haze from glowing pipes.
In stillness, the early evening bathrooms enclosed no

 

cigarette smoke; there was no broken glass
on the dance floor, no beer or liquor smears
to be wiped from tables. Waitresses sang

 

as they prepped at the bar. A busboy danced
in the aisles. There was nothing to take
a picture of. There was nothing worth comparing.

 

The night’s music ended. Too tired
for the tally sheets, I dimmed
the lights, set the alarm codes, and went home.

 

 

Return to table of contents for Issue 12 Winter 2018.

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