I stopped at Willow after work, no surprise, still thinking about the husk of the city. I had looked for a limo to do a tour of some of the ruins, a delicate matter, since those that dwell too deeply on what is so sad are said to indulge in a fetish called “ruin porn,” and there is life in the old town yet.
Not like it was, goes without saying. I walked in and saw Old Jim anchoring the bar, another non-surprise, and after he told me to go fuck myself, he said he had checked the site for the latest bloviating and was vaguely interested, since he had spent his time in MoTown, back in the day.
I asked him when, and he said: “1979. I lived about a block from 8 Mile. Two bedroom apartment. No furniture.”
“You slept on the floor?” I said, not surprised.
Jim nodded, beetling his formidable brow. “I had a gig for a year as Lee Iococca’s speech writer. We were trying to sell the bail-out to the government.” He paused and took a sip of Bud from the long-necked bottle in front of him. “The bail-out before this one, back when Lee had to convince the Congress to guarantee the loans to save the company.”
“He was a great guy,” I said. “Fucking iconic. He joined Ford’s with Dad’s class, right after the war. He was in Engineering, but made his bones in finance and marketing. He was a pistol.”
Jim nodded. “He got crosswise with Henry Ford the Second over the mini-van idea.”
“Yeah,” I said, sipping some of the happy hour white. “The Deuce was a piece of work. He couldn’t get the car business right anymore than he could the Lions. They made a couple billion the year he fired Lee. That was the year after I joined the Navy and bailed the hell out of Michigan for good. Then Ford’s went into the wilderness in the recession of 1980 recession. What did they use to say? “FORD” stands for Fix or Repair Daily.”
“Lee brought the K-Car and the mini-van over from Dearborn, and revolutionized the industry. We managed to sell the loan guarantee, he delivered the product and they paid the government back seven years early.”
“I was gone when that all happened.” I grimaced. “I always preferred the station wagon to the mini-van, but anyone with kids wound up with one sooner or later.”
Jim contemplated his beer. “There was no furniture in the place I rented and never got around to going to Art Van’s to buy any. I didn’t think I would be staying, or at least I didn’t know about it. I was making $70 grand for the year.”
“That was a lot of money in those days,” I said. “The biggest raise I ever got from the Navy was when I made Lieutenant for pay. It was enough to make me not bail out, but I didn’t make seventy grand until I was a Lieutenant Commander, and that included the living allowance.”
“I wasn’t going to fit out a whole apartment, but I had my self-respect,” said Jim. “I stopped at a toy-store and bought some doll-house furniture. I had a gal over to the apartment one night and asked her if she wanted to see my Queen Ann’s bed. She said she wouldn’t mind, and we went into the bedroom and I showed it to her. I had the little thing over by the wall.”
“She must have thought you were crazy.”
Jim nodded, smiling at the recollection. “Then I asked her if she wanted to see the Swedish Modern, and I took her in the other bedroom and there was the little bed and a tiny set of drawers.”
“I take it that did not get her in the mood to get on the floor with you.”
“No, she just wanted to get the hell out and she bailed.”
“She must have thought you were crazy,” I said, imagining the young woman’s growing discomfort and flight into the night.
“Probably. I went out after that. Went to Maverick’s on Woodward and had some more drinks.”
“Mav’s was a drive-in when we used to go there in high school in the muscle cars. Nothing like a Charger 440 RT Hemi with the little tray table hanging off the window. I remember the standard order: “Billie, Fries and a Coke.” The waitresses would bring the food out to the cars and there was nothing finer than looking at the other kids in their cars and chowing down.”
“It was a bar when I knew the place in 1979,” said Jim, “and I liked that better.”
“Were else did you hang out? The Lindell AC downtown?”
Jim nodded. “Oh yeah. Great place after a hockey game at the old Olympia rink, or a Lion’s game at old Tiger Stadium. Lee always had great tickets for everything, one of the perks of being a Detroit CEO. I was interested in the Octopi flying out of the stands and onto the ice from the seats up by the roof at Olympia. Great tradition. There was a place in Bricktown that was furnished with car parts. But there was a place in the New Center I really liked, in the Fisher Building across from GM Headquarters. It was on the first floor, but sunken down. I don’t remember the name but I saw the best leadership by a bartender ever there one night.”
Dorothy the straw-haired single lady was finishing her plain salad next to us when an astonishing thing came out of the kitchen on the arm of Armando the waiter. It was a lobster tail piled on something interesting and wearing what appeared to be a little yellow garnish like a hat. The presentation was magnificent, just like you would expect from Tracy O’Grady’s kitchen.
“So, what did this bartender do?” I asked, after documenting the presentation on my cell phone camera.
“It was pretty cool. There were about five hundred people crowded in the place, and a belligerent drunk was hassling everyone. The bartender was old school, white apron and white shirt and one of those muscular little tight black bowties. He brought the drunk a fresh drink and waggled a finger like he wanted to say something.”
“And?”
“When he did, the barkeep grabbed the asshole’s long tie, jerked him forward, took an icepick and plunged it down- thwack!- through the tie and an inch into the mahogany bar. Then, with the drunk pinioned in place, he rocked back and slugged him hard enough in the face to knock him out.”
“That is why I wear bow ties,” I said firmly. “It is a matter of personal safety.”
Jim nodded. “Then the bartender looked up at the crowd and said “Anyone got a problem with this?” and the crowd went wild and applauded.”
“That is my Detroit,” I said. “High sticking and hard elbows.”
“Good music, too,” said Jim. “Did I tell you that is where I met my wife? She was a chanteuse.”
“Really?” I said. “Mary is an attractive lady, but I had no idea she was in show business.”
“Yeah, I met her when she was playing at Ramparts on Woodward.”
“Was that the titty bar next to Chaldea town?”
“No, that was the place next door. Mary was a respectable artist.”
I nodded. I can’t for the life of me remember the name of the gentleman’s club by the State Fair grounds right next door to Ramparts. They had great hamburgers, if I recall properly. But of course, that is not all there is to recall about the end of days in Detroit. I finished my wine and decided to go home and play some old MoTown on the iPod and look at the stars.
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com