Black Girl Lost came in January 1974. The novel, which depicted a life of neglect that virtually forces a pretty teenager to seek survival by doing crime, revealed a level of compassion for the adolescent that he hadn’t shown in any of his five previous books. Despite her scheming and lawlessness, she easily became the most sympathetic character Donnie had been able to craft. In the meantime, bill collectors showed Donnie and Shirley little sympathy. It was more than a notion to maintain their family’s apartment unit in the house on Cortland. At one point, things got so tight that Shirley made the decision to help bring in some additional cash. She went back out on the streets. It wouldn’t have been Donnie’s first choice to have his woman spreading her legs for money the same way his whores had done, but he accepted it. Prostitution became a temporary solution to their problems. At least Shirley was still coming home to her man.
* * *
With the arrival of the New Year came a new sense of encouragement in the city of Detroit. Coleman Alexander Young—the political firebrand who had once made the House Committee reps attempting to label him a Communist practically curse God for creating black men—took office as the first black mayor on January 1. The white residents who remained in the city were largely disapproving. With his foul tongue and often brash manner, Young would fit everything but the traditional image of a mayor. Black Detroit, nonetheless, saw him as a liberator who would give them a sense of ownership in the city. Far beyond the municipal boundaries, there were economic ramifications that had a ripple effect. Detroit held down about 20 percent of the nation’s automotive employment, but the oil crisis that would take place that year negatively affected the manufacturing of vehicles. There were about 1.6 million industry jobs in the metro area, many held by young, black men and women. Among them were workers who had gone to the plants directly from high school. Assembly lines represented stability for many a household and many a family member, who stayed clothed and fed. But the nationwide economic recession threatened general welfare. Seemingly oblivious, Donnie continued to crank out books at a staggering pace. He was a virtual assembly line of paperbacks. Crime Partners, Death List, and Eldorado Red were released just weeks apart. Eldorado Red told the story of a big-time numbers operator. Red employs his own staff of money handlers, bet takers and enforcers, who sustain themselves almost entirely through his illegal gambling resources. When the boss is betrayed by his own son, he demands a form of restitution that ends in murder. Unlike the protagonists in most of Donnie’s stories, however, Red is not given any comeuppance in the end. Problems are corrected to his satisfaction, and he suffers no consequence for his complicity in the retaliation.
In his own life, Donnie felt less secure about recriminatory measures. It was becoming tough to narrate fiction without exposing actual crimes and criminals he had encountered through the years. There were hustlers who still operated on the same streets as when they’d first stepped outside the law. His books could be regarded as a form of snitching if Donnie didn’t check himself sufficiently. Again, he scrawled his thoughts about a book that, upon further reflection, he may or may not have chosen to complete. Again, as he had done at the start of his career, he sought help from a sister. The undated writing read: “Hard to stay away from truth! Could get hurt. Know to[o] much. Be careful in the life. If they read this, can tell who story is about—middle of story. Called Marie for advi[c]e. Change storyline—no brothers, one person—change city and drug used. May not finish this one.” With the proliferation of pushers and dope houses, many of which he had visited, it was possible that he had begun using some of his own connections as models of study. He could feel the danger creeping into his life. It was a perception that would increase as the year gradually expired.
On May 11, 1974, Donnie called Joanie into the house. He approached his younger sister with an assignment that he felt was too important to handle by himself. Joanie was expecting that Donnie wanted to start a new book. Instead, on that day when he pulled her aside, he asked her for help in writing his last will and testament. It was an assignment she would never forget. She was daunted by the notion of having the only other male figure who was biologically closest to her taken away.
“What’s wrong, Donnie?” she asked, taking him seriously. “Are you sick?”
“Tomorrow is not promised to anyone, Poopty. You never know when your time is up.”
Despite the long-time presence of his demon, his vice in the form of a needle, Donnie had always appeared to be in relatively good physical health. He never showed any outward sign of addiction, at least nothing that was detectable by the average observer. Of course, excluding his cautionary demonstrations to Joan and young Charles. Now, though, Joan thought her brother was deteriorating before her eyes. With his habit, at times, creeping up to hundreds of dollars a day, he lost weight. Long gone were the out-of-sight suits, shoes, and other fine threads he had worn as if they were uniforms when he had made his living illegally. Donnie was a different man. He had operated on the fringe, and the center was unfamiliar territory. Walking on the edge gave him a peculiar sense of grounding that more structured settings never could. A psychologist might have been able to explain it, where none of the people who’d known him most of his life were up to the task. Donnie had always preferred to create his own agenda. With whatever he gained in the secure legitimacy he found as a writer, the profession still lacked that freedom to work exactly when, where, and in what manner he pleased. He wrote to survive, and combined with his daily struggles and responsibilities, survival had become pretty overwhelming. Having hit the charts with lighter material, Marvin Gaye sang of the condition that described Donnie’s emotional state, probably better than a well-qualified shrink ever could have with his 1971 recording “Inner City Blues.”
Hang-ups
Letdowns
Bad breaks
Setbacks …
Yeah, make me wanna holler, the way they do my life
This ain’t livin’…
No, no, baby, this ain’t livin’
For Donnie, this wasn’t living. He knew he was mainly responsible for the depressing state in which he found himself. It was not by coincidence that one of his final creations, a character named Johnny Washington, faced the challenge of finding a way to support his survival and that of his family. In resemblance to Gaye’s song, Donnie would title the last book Inner City Hoodlum, and would use, as always, his personal experiences to map out the character’s path. It was ironic and hurtful that he controlled the lives of one-dimensional men and women but felt so helpless to control his own. The written will would be Donnie’s most important piece of nonfiction. Joanie settled down at the typewriter to begin the unpleasant job. As they collaborated on the document, she and Donnie began to talk. And they laughed. The levity arose as if from out of nowhere. Perhaps it was meant as a blessing of time together between siblings, because, in the end, the pledges on paper would be all Donnie could leave behind. Across the top of the first page, Joanie typed “MY WILL & Testament.” It began with the words, “To Whom it may concern.”
If I should die, I would like for this to be my will, since I haven’t had one made. Each novel of mine will be left to someone I consider close to me, and since I am of sound [mind], I pray that this letter is followed just as I dictate it here. First—Dopefiend. The royalty money off of Dopefiend should be put in an account for Donna Sailor, my daughter, until she reaches the age of eighteen, then she can use it for college or whatever else she might choose. Second—Whoreson.… This novel goes to my son Alfonso Chambers, or Alfonso Goines, whichever. He should receive the [royalty] money off of this book whenever he turns eighteen, and continue to receive it until the book leaves the market. Third—Black Gangster.… The money from this book should be put up in a fund for Christopher Howard, my son, until he is eighteen, then he can use the money any way he chooses. [Fourth]—Street Player[s].… Donnie, or Donald, Howard, my son. The rights of this novel should be put in a fund until he reaches the age of eighte
en; then it becomes his. Fifth—White Man’s Justice, Black [M]an’s [G]rief. This novel, or money from it, goes to Tony Howard, into a fund until he becomes eighteen.
In the will, Donnie also revealed his connection to another child, the last he would so publicly name. His lecherous ways with women had left him frequently open to the chance of paternity, and the family began to privately wonder about even some of those he claimed. But knowing Donnie, it may have been hard even for him to keep track of the ladies with whom he’d been involved, so if the mothers became distant, there was no way for Joe and Myrtle to be sure they weren’t missing out on a grandchild. Or for Marie and Joan to know how they might contact a niece or a nephew. At the least, Donnie could be given credit for trying to be responsible. In death—in the form of regular financial payments from Holloway House—perhaps he could be a more stable and dependable provider than he had been in life.
Nine—Eldorado Red—Tabatha Peterson, or Sanders, my daughter by Sandra Peterson, I want her to receive the royalty money from Eldorado Red. The money should be put in a fund until she reaches eighteen, then she may use it as she sees fit.
Through whatever the circumstances, Donnie’s parents and sisters would hear almost nothing from the girl or her mother in the years to come. And possibly the last thing on Donnie’s burdened mind was chasing down the pair. He did well to hold together as much of the household he and Shirley maintained. Besides, he had never been one for overextending himself where family and children were concerned. He wasn’t keen on big holiday gatherings and the like. He was not the relative who was generally expected to show up at Christmas dinner with an armful of gifts. Donnie’s generosity had been frequently overshadowed by various other preoccupations. He willed the royalties from Black Girl Lost to Shirley, while Crime Partners and Death List were assigned to Myrtle. Donnie also included Marie’s daughter, Jean, and Joan’s boys, Michael and Patrick. Among the last named to beneficiary status in the will was an old companion. He hadn’t pimped, begged for baked goods, and shared apartments with Donnie the way Walter had, yet he had been one of those who Donnie found reliable when needed:
Eleven—Never [D]ie [A]lone.… Because of his friendship over the years, I leave the royalties from this novel, Never Die Alone, to Albert Clark, known as Crummie. My personal friend.
A few close observers had actually questioned the level and nature of Clark’s devotion to Donnie. The author had given him perhaps the highest manner of tribute by placing his name on the covers of four books, Crime Partners, Death List, Cry Revenge, and Kenyatta’s Escape. He completed novels so rapidly that Holloway House became concerned about the possibility of his books flooding the market. Teenagers and adults were increasingly drawn to his work, which—on one of its deepest levels—reflected much about the times in which they were living and the manner in which everyday, poor, struggling people functioned. Donnie had developed a following that would continue to grow, but his publishers wanted to do their best to keep his products from competing with one another. Bentley Morriss made a suggestion.
“Donald, God love you,” he said. “We want to publish the books, but if you put out too many books of an author within a given period of time it has a sham about it. Would you consider putting a book out under a pseudonym?”
Donnie thought about it. Crummy’s name should be as good as any. Holloway House first published the titles as if they were written by Al C. Clark. Then they began to put out the attribution of Al C. Clark “as told to Donald Goines.” That the books would sell was the greatest concern of all parties involved. It didn’t matter in the slightest that Crummy would never write a book for Holloway House as long as he lived. For his sons, Donnie added a stipulation to the will that would ensure his family name continued after he was gone. On its final page, he specified:
If, by chance, I complete any other novels before my death, I wish the royalties from them to go to my oldest son, Alfonso Chambers. If, by chance, anything should happen to anyone that I have left novels [to], the [rights] of these books are not to be passed on by them. The rights to my novels should come back to Marie, Myrtle, Alfonso Goines family. Before any of my children shall receive any money from [my] novels, their last name should be legally changed so that they will be Goines. If they do not [choose] to [accept] this name, then the money should remain in a fund to be shared among the other Goines. Each and every one of my sons shall have his name changed to Goines before receiving his share of [benefits]. The only way that they don’t have their names changed will be because they couldn’t have it done legally. That will be the only excuse, that for some reason the courts wouldn’t allow them to change their names. As far as the girls are concerned, it’s not really necessary, but for Alfonso, Tony, Donnie, Chris, these boys should try and have their names changed to Goines.
With its last word typed, Joan was the first to sign the writer’s final requests as a witness. At the time, she had no way to recognize how important her help in completing the task had been. Her brother’s literary legacy would ultimately become a source of both pride and pain within the family. Perhaps revealing the sensitivity he felt toward his siblings, Donnie wrote Swamp Man. It was the only novel that he would set outside of the urban environments with which he was so familiar. Instead, the story develops against the backdrop of a small, rural Mississippi community. In one chapter, Donnie described the moment when Swamp Man’s main character recognizes that his sister has been drugged:
The Henrietta he knew wouldn’t have let him see her in her bra, let alone stark naked. The more he thought of it, the angrier he became. The sight of Henrietta dancing naked, stripped of her pride and womanhood, fed fuel to his anger … Now he realized why they had been able to take advantage of her.
Donnie hadn’t always approved of his sisters’ choices. Whatever protective instincts Donnie may have developed were probably well formed, if not well directed. He had contributed his share of negative influence to the lives of any number of women, and more than likely he had come across some who called themselves someone’s sisters. He knew what a man with game was capable of running because he had run it. In the Henrietta character, he represented the vulnerability he perceived as a common attribute of women in general. In more than a dozen novels, he had depicted only one female as a protagonist, in Black Girl Lost, and as the title implied, she was one of dubious strength and distinction from the others. George Jackson, Swamp Man’s lead, is driven to take bloody vengeance on the men who gang-rape Henrietta, in a violent, perverse, and gripping yet difficult-to-read tableau that stretches over several pages.
“By God, Zeke, look at them tits on her, will you?” Jamie stated, taking one of them in his hand and squeezing it until she cried out. “I ain’t seen none like that in some time, I’ll tell yo’, boy. Them critters stand right on up there!”
“Damn them tits,” Zeke cried out, spit running out of the corners of his mouth and dropping down on the half-naked woman. He reached around him and ran his hand down the front of her pants, playing in the tightly curled hairs he found there.
Finally, she could feel herself being dragged down to the ground. Rough hands tore her pants off her body until she lay naked under the branches of the tall willow tree. Birds flew overhead calling out to each other, but Henrietta heard nothing as she felt fingers being rammed up inside her body. She called out, screamed for mercy, begged and promised, but to no avail. The men didn’t hear. Her panic meant nothing to them. They were beyond stopping. Their only desire now was lust.
Similarly, a few books later, Donnie showed his awareness of the bond between father and daughter as he set Daddy Cool’s primary character, Larry Jackson, on the warpath after the man he holds responsible for turning his daughter out onto the street. With what paternal sensibilities Donnie possessed, he portrayed Larry as the prototypical image of the concerned and protective father:
Many times, Daddy Cool had sat in his poolroom and listened to this same young man talk about his exploits with the young girl
s of the neighborhood. Now the young man was spending his time with Janet. He had warned the girl about the boy, but she hadn’t paid any attention to him, thinking he was being old-fashioned. She loved the attention she received when she and the self-proclaimed pimp rode through the neighborhood with the top down.
Whether Donnie did it consciously or without thought, he gave several different characters in his books identical names. For example, Larry’s right hand was called Earl, just like the hustler in Street Players. There was more than one Willie Brown. More than one Janet, Red, Buddy, and Mike. Even more than one man called “Preacher.” Another characteristic of Donnie’s prose was the awkward placement of physical descriptions. As if it were the one instruction his editors had driven into his mind, he routinely assigned attributes like “tall, light-complexioned” or “short, muscular” to the images he put on paper. But he frequently added the phrases to sentences that were irrelevant to outward appearance. His work was often edited with a fairly heavy hand; however, the editing itself was not of a particularly high quality, as misspellings and errors in grammar and punctuation made the final prints. Readers, nonetheless, generally responded with eager acceptance. The raw and simplistic language Donnie used complemented the subject matter of his novels, adding a perceived authenticity to the fiction. He briefly wrote to himself: “When I’m mellow, stories come and go—so many, like I’m seeing a movie.” There were folks who regarded themselves as Donald Goines fans. Who went out to pick up the next book as quickly as they could finish one. Holloway House would receive letters from readers expressing their admiration, and there came a point when Donnie was even regarded as a neighborhood celebrity of sorts. What he lacked in wealth, he was gradually gaining in status.
Low Road Page 18
