by Riley Flynn
Men like Freddy went back for a second bite.
Alex fiddled with his socks as he watched Timmy talk. He smelled an armpit; his shirt wasn’t the freshest. Neither was he, for that matter. Once upon a time, these kinds of places had showers. Soap. Shampoo. Everything.
Nowadays, they had safety codes to cover all that. Couldn’t have running water at a business like this. Pipes carry all sorts of things. Who knows what’s in the water? That was what they said, anyway. Alex wondered whether it was just the company trying to save money. It sure made trips on the bus less tempting.
The pistol had been returned to Freddy’s holster. Alex watched Timmy–Ratz, as they called him here –stroll back across the changing rooms. Timmy had been quick to change, though had hardly changed at all. He’d switched out one set of tactical-looking pants for another, his skinny legs bolstered by the extra padding. The man had more pockets than he had possessions. Black trousers, a gray T-shirt, and a khaki waistcoat worn over the top, it must have taken Timmy ten minutes to find his keys. Probably not. The man probably had a specific place to store them; a plan for every pocket.
“He was not pleased with you,” Timmy announced.
“I did something wrong?” Alex knotted his shoelaces. “You told him this was my first time, right?”
“Sure. Everyone’s a bit on edge now, especially round here. You see the news? Crazy stuff. Anyway, I smoothed it all out. This wouldn’t have happened if you’d just bought more bullets. That thing with the mask though? Still love it.”
“You saw that?” said Alex, gathering his possessions together, ready to leave.
“You kidding me? We were all watching, couldn’t believe it. Taking your mask off in a paintball fight? Takes balls, man. Those things can have your eye out.”
Alex hadn’t considered this. The praise felt undeserved, almost enough to redden his cheeks.
“It kept misting up on me.”
“You gotta spit in it, man.” Timmy mimicked spitting into an imaginary mask. “Deals with that no problem.”
The pair closed their lockers. Following the labyrinth corridors out of the warehouse, Alex felt like an ant all over again. Losing an eye? That was never the plan. Getting punched in the face was never the plan, either. He’d just reacted. All that effort to appear as normal as possible. Fitting in.
“You won, Alex. First time and you won,” Timmy said, slapping Alex across the back. “Or you didn’t lose, at least. We’re drinking tonight.”
“Work tomorrow, you know that.”
Timmy pushed open the last door, bringing the two men out into the cool air of a Detroit autumn.
“Tomorrow can wait, my friend. Let’s live a little.”
3
The wind was brittle. It cut up and under the shirt sleeves, around the ears, and across the parking lot. There was an ice on the air, a sign that Michigan was already thinking of winter. This part of Detroit was hardly paradise; there were plenty of warehouses, factories, and other empty spaces out here, waiting to be snapped up by companies looking to make a quick buck. It was a long way to the city center. Together, Timmy and Alex walked across the asphalt. They were quiet but in a comfortable sort of way.
“Back to my place?” Timmy asked. “Want to follow me?”
Timmy’s place was in Grosse Pointe, almost on the shore. Alex lived in Forest Park. From their position in Riverside, that meant driving out twice as far and back again to get home. But what damage could a few miles do?
“Sure.” Alex shrugged. “Let me just get my car.”
He pressed the button on his keys, expecting a flash of amber lights from the darkened row of cars in the lot. Nothing happened. Timmy had already found his spot, an all-black SUV with worn-down tires. Walking along the row, Alex arrived at his Lincoln. It was beaten up. It was busted. But it was his. It was the same car he’d driven up from Virginia.
Inside were the same seats where he’d sat with Sammy and they’d driven around together for years. Stuffed up in the wheel arches, Alex assumed, there were still chunks of farmyard life: mud and corn husks and everything else that never seemed to shift. Once a car got driven onto the farm, it’d never be clean again.
With a longer, harder press at the key fob, the car finally woke up. The turn signals blinked, the interior light spluttered into life. Too many things were breaking these days. Opening the passenger door, Alex threw his bag into the spare seat. Riding solo tonight. Timmy pulled his car around, waving from the window. He was pointing at something uncomfortably close to Alex’s car.
Down on the wheel.
The clamp was painted yellow, striped with black. Like a wasp, a warning. It was the last thing Alex needed. He searched around the lot. There were no signs, no warnings against parking in this particular place. Could be a fine from somewhere else. He already had a stack of parking tickets as high as an elephant’s eye.
Forgetfulness and disinterest were a worrying combination, turning him into a rebel without a cause. No point in paying a city council which always seemed on the verge of collapse. Easier to just wait them out. But they must have finally caught up with him. He walked across to Timmy’s window.
“Rain check for me.”
“They get everyone, man,” Timmy agreed. “Got me just last week. You need a ride?”
“Nah, I’ll walk. It’s not far. I can eat on the way. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Walk? In this city? You’re braver than I thought, man.”
“Compared to your driving? I’ll take my chances.”
When Timmy finally took no for an answer, driving out into the night, Alex returned to the clamp. There was a number fixed down the side. Call for help, it said. Fishing out his phone, he dialed. An error message appeared on the screen. The phone went dark. The long, familiar reboot. These Chinese models were glitchy as hell. Alex knew he should have sprung for something local.
Without the phone, there was no way the car was moving tonight. Alex didn’t want to wander back into the warehouse. That was Timmy’s world. He might as well leave the car. No one was going to steal that hunk of junk. Even thieves had standards. What was the worst that could happen, he thought, they’ll clamp me again? Double negative. Two wrongs don’t make a right. Either way, he’d need to start walking soon. His stomach rumbled.
Retrieving his bag from the car, he locked the doors. The lights shut off. Dead for the night. He’d have to come back the next day. Timmy would already be using it as an excuse to play again. Checking his wallet, Alex considered cab fare. But there was no cash. Rookie mistake.
Out here, in Riverside, at this time of night? Cash was the only thing that would get him home quickly. With an empty wallet, he started walking.
The city had changed in the last five years, even Alex knew. When he’d arrived, fresh from the farm, the very thought of the city was enough to excite him. Then he’d grown used to the sights and the smell, grown used to how the people moved and how the sidewalks felt beneath his feet, and he’d settled in.
Once he’d become acquainted, he could see how the world changed.
Even here, China was the name on everyone’s lips. They’d knocked down half of Detroit and put up new factories on the same old spots. Spending American dollars and Chinese renminbi in equal measure, all on empty space. Alex was walking through them now. There’d been a boom, a time when people were flocking to the city to get a job alongside an army of foreign robots, building pretty much anything that could be sold to Americans.
Alex had done just that.
Now he worked in an office.
Times change.
The warehouses, the factories, and pretty much everything else in Riverside had been thrown up in a boom, had weathered almost instantly, and now lay–mostly–abandoned. As Alex walked farther and farther from his car, the style of the street started to change.
Because that was how cities grew, he’d come to learn; they moved about like the oceans. People throw around money, somewhere upstairs, and th
en there’s different signs above the doors, different names above the buzzers. Ships in the night. The previous people left, or were pushed, and a new wave of people washed ashore.
Then they’d go, chasing the tide in some other direction. What was left behind was the high-water mark, a pile of sticks and stones and wet detritus which told the world how high the sea had been and how far it had crawled back. Detroit – the whole world, really - felt caught in a rip tide, the money streaming out to sea.
Sink or swim.
The sounds were the same everywhere. As the city darkened, the shouts and sirens made themselves heard. All Alex needed was to get home safely. Sometimes, that meant moving toward the shouting.
Passing block after block, he could already hear trouble ahead. Yelling, running, and the sound of glass breaking. Another night in the city.
As he turned a corner, Alex saw the trail end of a crowd. They were walking ahead of him, marching through the streets. No direction in particular. Making their presence felt.
The protests and demonstrations had become common place. Walking across the city without seeing angry people was impossible. Alex marched on into the night, taking a backstreet through the block. If he could cut them off, he’d avoid the crowd altogether.
Halfway through, he knew he’d failed.
Shouts and screams. No one chanted anymore. Alex glimpsed the chaos through the alley ahead and walked on anyway.
As he stepped into the street, he was caught up in a current of bedlam.
Shoulders barging, jostling from place to place, people knocked him around.
Up above, flags and placards mixed with flaming torches. Old school anarchy.
There was no time to read the signs. A young man bounced Alex back, sending him stumbling.
“Hey, watch it!”
The man disappeared into the crowd before Alex could respond. He’d only stepped out from the alley a second ago and already he was lost. The people marched forward, pushing him along.
Deep inside, there was something about the protesters which appealed to Alex. The ability to care that much about anything, to feel that zeal and energy pumping through the veins. To know, entirely, that everything should change and to believe that stamping down the street would have an effect.
But Alex hadn’t felt that way since leaving the farm. Since leaving Sammy on that porch and abandoning the recruitment office plan while still in the car park. He’d mortgaged his ambitions and his optimism in exchange for a comfortable, easy existence.
Existence and nothing more. Maybe one day he’d go back. But he was almost tired of telling himself that. Cruise control for the mind, making those long journeys easier. Running down the days, one at a time.
Snapping back from his thoughts, Alex felt himself propelled along by the protesters, fighting. He pushed and shoved, dragging his bag into any empty space on the road. All the time, people were shouting.
“Hey!” A strong arm pushed back against Alex, throwing him to the ground. “Out of the way!”
The bag broke his fall, scratching and skidding along the asphalt. Even before he could stand up, people were walking around him, on top of him, over him.
A knee caught Alex in the neck, knocking him back to the ground. The bag disappeared into a tangle of legs. He cursed. Nothing but dirty laundry inside, but it was his dirty laundry.
Alex dived toward the place it had just been, knocking up against the denim knees, tripping up the protestors.
The noise was immense and incalculable. A hundred people, everyone making their presence felt, everyone chanting to their own tune. From the ground, Alex looked up at the signs.
Anti-government. Anti-China. Anti-trade. Anti-gangs. Anti-everything.
Everyone knew what they hated.
Alex looked around and saw his bag between two feet. He grabbed at it, snatching hold of a handle. As he dragged it toward himself, the feet came too.
“Stop that!” A voice called from above. Alex looked up. A man with a nose ring and no hair, shouting. “Get out of here!”
“I was just getting-”
The skinhead didn’t listen. He kicked Alex in the arm.
“I don’t care what you say, you were stealing that bag!”
“I wasn’t,” Alex tried scrambling to his feet, clutching at his possessions. “It’s my bag.”
“Like hell it is!”
As the crowd moved around them, all chanting and marching, the man with the nose ring stared at Alex. There was hardly any space between them. He swung an arm.
Ducking to the side, Alex pushed into a petite woman with a placard. She swung the wooden stick, nearly clattering him in the head. It missed.
Alex straightened up, holding his back.
“Sorry,” he said to the woman. “That man was-”
“Bag thief!” the skinhead was shouting. “Get the thief!”
Heads turned toward Alex. The light flickered from the flaming torches.
A wave of silence fell over the crowd. Starting from the front, it washed back, chasing away the noise.
“Get him!” the skinhead shouted again, pushing his way through to Alex. “Thief!”
“Cops!” someone yelled.
“Cops!” Other people took up the shout, spreading it around, hearing it echoed back.
As one, the crowd broke in every direction. Holding his bag tight to his chest, Alex ran.
Choosing a direction was easy. Anywhere the skinhead wasn’t. Spotting an alley, Alex ducked down.
Behind, the sound of breaking glass and cracking skulls reverberated against the bricks of the buildings. But it was quite in the alley. Alex walked, dusting off his shoulders. That wasn’t his fight. He’d seen too many protests and demonstrations to know they did nothing. Just people, lashing out in any direction they could.
Checking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t followed, Alex picked up the pace and left it all behind. The cruise control switched on, guiding him back to his apartment.
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