“Most don’t,” I said.
He told me if I wanted to talk to him, I first needed to make arrangements. “Call my office,” is what he said.
I just stared at him. Was he serious? He was standing right here. And not only that, he had me wait around for ten fucking minutes so he could tell me that?
He then asked me if I wanted that number.
I told him, “No, thanks,” and while I was walking away, my back turned, he said, “Have a great day.”
Chapter Fifteen
Ignoring All Legal Disclaimers
“Few buildings are vast enough to hold the sound of time. Men came and went, they passed and vanished, and all were moving through the moments of their lives to death.”
THOMAS WOLFE
Outside the hotel Mrs. Harrington was surrounded by gardening equipment and a shopping cart full of plants. I asked her how it was going, and she told me that today they were going to plant a bunch of flowers in front of the hotel, make it more beautiful. I looked at the flowers, smiled, and since winter was coming I asked her about that, if the plants could survive, and she told me not to worry, everything they were putting in could survive winter. I like Mrs. Harrington—she gives me hope. Here is a lady who cares about her building, and Detroit, enough to plant flowers.
When I got in my car, I fired it up, pulled out of the garage, and drove to Grand Central Station.
On the weekends there was always a group of photographers, both professional and amateur, hanging around outside the Michigan Grand Central Station building taking pictures. I waited for that to pass, it now being Monday, since during the workweek a lot less of them show up. I drove a couple laps around the station in the ’64, checking it out to see if any police officers were in the area. A steel chain-link fence ran all around the building, with barbed wire all along the top of it, and every couple feet metal signs warned “No Trespassing,” “Private Property,” and “Violators Will Be Prosecuted.” One of these signs of course had the words “Fuck You” spray-painted onto it, and since I didn’t see any security out here today, I parked my vehicle a couple blocks away, locked the door, and started walking toward the tall, ominous building.
Following the instructions of the photographer I had met at the Packard auto plant, sure enough, in the structure located behind the station, underneath the train tracks, I found an opening to get inside. Once you set foot inside, it only takes a couple of steps before it’s pitch-black and near zero visibility all around you, except for the light coming way down on the other side, in the corner, a good forty or fifty yards away. I recommend bringing a flashlight if you choose to do this, because for many steps you have no idea at all what in the hell you’re stepping on. While walking, I nearly stepped in a hole that was God knows how deep and would have found out just how deep if it wasn’t for the sheet of plywood somebody had kindly placed on top of it.
I continued walking toward the light, and once I got there, I let my pupils get back to normal. Sure enough, I was “inside the wire,” the wire being the fence that went all around the building, with barbed wire strung all along the top of it. From there I walked up and, just like that, entered the station.
I walked inside with no problem whatsoever, just as thousands and thousands of people once did. The station was built in 1913 and at the time was the tallest train station in the world. The tallest rail station in the world today is in Japan.
Inside and out the station is what’s called Beaux Arts architecture. I Googled and Wiki’d all this shit, so don’t think I’m an expert or know what the fuck I’m talking about, I don’t. Once I walked into the pedimented door on the side of the building, I entered this grand space, with huge columns that go straight up to the ceiling high above. The walls were heavily graffitied, and there were arched windows, like windows in an old church, most of which were shattered but still allowed light to come in. It was completely empty. Nobody was there—at least I didn’t think anybody else was inside the building—and I walked around for a bit with my camera, exploring while taking pictures. I felt relaxed, the only sounds being a car every now and then driving by, my footsteps, and the sound of my camera shutter bouncing off all the walls around me every time I took a snapshot. This building was designed by the same people who designed New York’s Grand Central Terminal. It was 500,000 square feet, and I wanted to explore every single foot of it while it was still alive, while it was still standing, breathing, with a faint pulse. While walking around, I started thinking, Why in the hell, or how in the hell, did they allow this building to get like this?
The first floor was massive. I started wondering what you could do with this space. After walking around for a while, exploring and taking pictures, I came across a stairway that took you all the way up to the top floor. Once there, I migrated over to a window, or what once was a glass window. I was pretty high up, eighteen stories. I looked straight down, a long way down, and I thought to myself, It’s that easy. All I gotta do is jump, and it’ll all be over. Just like that, the end. I looked up and stared out onto Detroit, all the streets and neighborhoods. You could see all of downtown Detroit from the top floor, with the ugly-ass GM Building sticking up. Then I noticed that on the top floor of this building, where I was now, somebody had painted SAVE THE DEPOT in all caps, using red and white paint, all along the exterior. I started thinking about my son, and I got sad thinking about how in April 2009, about the same time he was born, the Detroit City Council had voted to have the building demolished, “passing a resolution that calls for expedited demolition.”
The coolest thing about entering these old buildings is the picture they paint of how we used to think. While exploring, you can’t help but stand in awe, taking it all in and wondering why in the hell we don’t build, or think, like this anymore.
My son will never experience what it was like to be inside this building and if we keep on demolishing buildings like the one I was inside now, more than likely to make room for more condos and more surface-level parking spaces, since God knows we need more of those, he’ll probably never get to experience these windows into our past for himself. We once thought big and put thought, design, and art into what we did.
It’s disheartening to imagine my son one day exploring old abandoned buildings, and instead of being in awe like I was inside all these structures in Detroit, wondering, What in the hell were these people thinking? Instead of structures like the one I was in now, he could very well be going into a shopping mall, since all those are now closing down and being boarded up one by one across our country for various reasons. The buildings we build now are done pretty much the same way as our clothes, made the cheapest way possible. The flannel shirt I’m wearing now was made in 1961. I know this for a fact because it has the year printed on the inside tag. I purchased it in a thrift store for less than ten dollars; it’s crisp, and the colors are bright, and it looks pretty much exactly the same as it probably did when it was first made half a century ago. Do you think the clothes being made now are going to last that long? No way. They all fall apart after the first wash and lose their color, fading almost as soon as you take them off the rack. By the time my son’s my age, it’s unlikely he’s going to be able to go to a thrift store and come across an article of clothing made today. I can see him asking one day, “Dad, what’s vintage?”
I wonder if, like Tower Records, antique stores will be extinct one day.
A few days later, as I was exiting the hotel lobby, a mob of people who lived in my building were all coming in, holding multiple bags filled with produce. Mrs. Harrington was holding the door for them. They seemed thrilled, so I asked what was going on. She told me that today was the East Side Market, and I should go down there, since there was also a beer festival going on. She suggested I go back inside and put on a heavier jacket, since it was a bit chilly out, and she felt that what I was wearing—Dickies, flannel, beanie—wasn’t adequate for the conditions. As she held
the door open for some lady carrying four bags of produce, she asked her how the market was. “Great,” the lady said. “And they take food stamps!”
When I went to start my car so that I could drive to the market, of course it decided not to cooperate. I set off on foot.
Not far from the market was another series of abandoned buildings, so of course I had to check them out. Quickly I came across a couple individuals enjoying life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, casually smoking crack cocaine this glorious Sunday afternoon. Then I saw a white guy with a beard and a steel rod, sifting through everything on the ground. I walked over and asked what’s up, and he told me that he was just looking for metal, which he called “punk metal.” He collects pieces of punk metal in his side bag, which he then brings home, melts down with a torch, converts into fashion accessories.
I asked if he knew of more buildings like the one we were standing in front of. He rolled his eyes and said, “Go down to where you see Zimmerman’s pawn shop over on the left, and it’s the street behind that, the whole row of buildings—four or five in a row—is falling apart, and the whole neighborhood is crackheads and whores.”
“Really? How do I get there?”
“I’ll show you. Follow me.”
Enjoying the fact that I was hanging out with a craftsman, I happily listened as he narrated Detroit for me as we walked.
“This is the beginning of the end,” he said.
“How so?”
He tells me that Western civilization is declining. That the traditional values that have brought us to the pinnacle of world dominance are being given up. People no longer believe in God, that the people who believe in God are more steadfast fighters in what they believe in, since they think they’ll be rewarded after death. “That’s why we’re headed toward communism,” he tells me.
At this time in American history, the words hope and change were two buzzwords heard across the media and the country. While I was on the road, two words I heard everywhere I went were socialism and communism. Americans seemed to be afraid we’re all headed in that direction.
I wasn’t quite sure yet if this man was crazy or not, but I wanted to find out, so we walked on.
I quickly got the impression that he was a bit of a misanthrope as he went on about how they’re pulling machines out of their factories and shipping them over to China, and how they have a shrinking tax base, and how sarcastically wonderful it was that they’re now filming movies here in Detroit. And how our economy will now be based on importing garbage from Canada and burying it.
I noticed that most of the people on the street that we’d turned onto were black. He told me that we were headed for the black part of town, and released a subtle growl of disgust.
“Frankly, most people think I’m a racist—”
“How so?”
Casually he tells me that the Negro never achieved anything or has contributed anything toward civilization. That they’ve all given in to narcissistic self-indulgence.
I can’t imagine why people would think he’s racist. Okay, this guy was crazy. As I was thinking of the many counterpoints to his argument, he brought up hip-hop and asked me who in the hell was the genius who invented hip-hop. Good question. As I was about to try and find out via my Wiki app on my iPhone he went on to say, “You know, another way not to have a job, not to be responsible, just be a hoodlum with your pants hanging down to here so that you can hardly walk. . . .”
We all know how well regarded rock-and-roll was when it first showed up, a regular jobs program for white youth. I didn’t agree with any of what he was saying, but I had to respect the fact that he was talking so openly about it to me. I’m sure most people who think that way keep their corrosive thoughts to themselves, or stay among like-minded folks.
“You know anything about evolution?”
“No,” I tell him. “Not at all.”
“Okay, so I won’t even go there, then.”
We stopped at the street corner. He pointed out the devastation—the bakery, the cellular phone store, everything, all depressingly torn up and vacant. He warned me to be careful. Before we parted ways, he asked me if I was from America. Interesting question. When I told him that I was, that I was American and that I was from San Francisco, actually, I jokingly add that to many, I guessed, San Francisco would be considered another country. He growled back, “Ain’t that right,” and said some comment about how that city should be wiped off the face of the fucking earth. Kind of like Detroit, some might argue.
Of course, as soon as he walked away, a day-shift street hooker came up asking for a light. When I’d lit her cigarette, she asked me if I needed anything. I told her no, I was fine, thank you, and continued on my way.
After walking around the neighborhood for a couple hours, I noticed a cab parked on a side street lined with diseased buildings. A couple seconds later this white guy came strutting out from the alley behind one building, making his way to the cab. He had on leather cowboy boots with shiny steel tips, black jeans, a brown leather coat, cool Ray-Bans, and his hair wasn’t really a mullet, but it kind of was—you could tell he took a blow-dryer to it. And the way he was strutting back to his cab, chest out, looking around, I could totally see this guy doing his hair in the morning, looking at himself in the mirror, complimenting himself on how awesome he and his hair looked together. This guy just screamed self-confidence, and I knew right when I saw him that I wanted to ride with him, so I went and asked if he was working. He said that he was. “Jump in,” he said.
So I did, and had to think for a second where I wanted to go, since I really didn’t need a cab. I couldn’t think of anything, because I had pretty much hit up all the neighborhoods and streets of inner-city Detroit, but just in case I hadn’t, I asked him where the bad part of town was so that he could take me to the heart of it, please. He paused for a second, thinking deeply about that while slowly looking around. When he realized the answer to that question, it was like he got zapped with a jolt of electricity. He blurted out, “It’s here!!!”
Well, that didn’t help me, as I was thinking about somewhere else he possibly could take me to. He surveyed me from his rearview mirror and asked, “Where in the hell are you from?” So I told him. Since I couldn’t think of anywhere to go, I just told him to take me back to my hotel. He turned the meter on and started driving.
“San Francisco, huh? Oh, I see, you’re Chinese.”
I corrected him by telling him I’m Korean. He told me that he guessed close, and asked, “Isn’t Korea close to China?”
This was an interesting question. At least he didn’t ask me what part of Korea I was from, north or south? I fucking hate that question and the types of people who ask me that. Relieved that wasn’t the case, I told him, Yeah, Korea is close to China.
“Are they friends with each other?”
Who’s not friends with China? I didn’t know the answer to this one, so I told him, “About as good as friends with them as we are, probably.”
He nodded. This guy had a really thick accent, sounded a bit Guido, and if I didn’t know any better I’d say it was a Chicago accent. He told me, “I’m from Poletown.”
Pole, I’m assuming, is Polish. Instead of asking whether Poland is good friends with Russia, since I really don’t care, I asked him what he was doing, parked over by those abandoned buildings. He told me that he had to take a piss. That was all.
Wondering if he drove all the way to east Detroit to take a piss on it, I asked.
“No!” he exclaimed, and said that there was more to it than that. He was an artist and he had to go and borrow some money over at the pawn shop, see some things so he could buy some art supplies. His favorite thing to paint was people—there’s nothing more interesting to paint, you know, the human figure, he said.
The guy had it made in my book. I could see myself driving a cab here in Detroit, make some
money, dress however the fuck I want to dress, focus on my art when I’m not driving around Detroit, piss in old buildings, hang out in pawn shops. Jesus Christ, I should have fucking moved here years ago. I’m such a fool. Wondering what it was like being a cab driver here in Detroit, since I now wanted to be one, I asked him about it.
He told me that he actually worked another job as well, didn’t say what exactly that other job was or provide any details other than to say that he more or less got laid off from that job—“that’s a long story”—but thanks to his cab he stayed out of debt and the necessities and essentials were taken care of somewhat efficiently. As far as any big money left over after essentials and expenses were paid, there wasn’t much of that. “You know, rent, food, clothes, electricity, that’s all taken care of. As far as putting money in the bank? No.”
He was quiet for a minute. Driving a cab was not for everybody, he told me, and he actually got shot at once, and hoped that didn’t ever happen again; he tried to stay out of bad neighborhoods at night. “Stay out of the ghetto neighborhoods when it gets dark and you’re fine.” The cab company he drove for, he told me, was one of the biggest in the country; they had cabs in every state in America. If that was the case, why didn’t he leave and go drive a cab somewhere else? When I asked if he’d ever thought about leaving Detroit he sighed and told me that he was forty years old. When he was twenty he wandered all over the world, but now felt he couldn’t do that anymore. When he was twenty he went to San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego, Las Vegas, Arizona, Indiana, Missouri, New York, Virginia Beach, Ohio, Canada and “… uh, Idaho.” He’d been all over, but when you get to be forty years old, he told me, your wandering days were more or less over. “I’ve already seen what I did, you know?”
“Yeah,” I told him.
When we got closer to my hotel, I asked him if he liked it here in Detroit.
Lost in America: A Dead-End Journey Page 18
