Detroit

(This is all, more-or-less, true)

“Cities aren’t built for my Cadillac,” I say, thinking of the chrome monster parked idly in my driveway; it’s a shame I don’t drive it more. In its day it must have been the meanest thing on the roads, but now, in its 28th year, it barely ever moves. Rust has formed over the metal, the engine whines and screams for mercy – and a child, barely 16, drives it! What a shame.

“They just built these places to fit as much people as possible.” My father breathes in the cold air as we walk from the parking lot to the street. It makes me kind of sad, to think that anywhere is built solely for capacity. It’s impersonal and unfriendly, bitter and cold.

Within my peripherals stirs a homeless man. He resembles a cross between Chubby Checker and Herbie Hancock, and when I look at him he smiles back with a wide, almost toothless grin. He pulls something out of his jacket, a saxophone, and begins to blare out “What a Wonderful World”. I go to put a dollar in his tip-jar, but my father grabs me back. “Keep moving.”

”But I always feel bad when I don’t help them out.”

“You’re not helping them,” my father says, placing his mouth to the end of a pack of cigarettes and ripping one out, “You only hurt them when you contribute to their ‘addiction’ fund.”

“I don’t care what they use the money for; it’s the thought that counts.”

We stop talking, obviously my father has had enough of the conversation and he turns his attention towards my mother, who’s on her cell phone. “Can you get off that thing once?”

“… Hold on one second Stephie,” she says into the phone, then glares at my dad, “This is important.”

“Can’t you just wait until we get into the restaurant, please?”

“Fine. I have to go honey…”

I’ve stopped paying attention to my parents squabbling, and begin staring around. The moment we walk into Greek Town it feels like I’ve reached a paradox where old Italy and new Vegas collided, forming an alley with a casino in a red-bricked building, where vines crawl up the sides and bend into circles; above, music sounds back, where a man sings indescribable, foreign words against two acoustic guitars.

Now, as I gape openly at the people wearing informal dresses, in tiny restaurants resembling old cafes, I get an odd feeling, as if the past is trying to leap out from these shops. It’s clawing at the insides of those “new-fangled” structures, and one day, it’ll break through, and everything will turn black and white, and people will talk with dialogue beneath them in captions. Just like the old days.

We reach the place, Hella’s, and go inside and sit down. The waiters are friendly, and scream “Opa!” as they set fire to cheese in a small dish. I am amused by ambiguity of the interior, as it clashes in style. The tables, flimsy and aged, contrast the brand-new, store-bought chairs, which sparkle, only in the way spray-on gold can. The walls are lined with paintings and art depicting mythological Gods and famous Greek’s, while the dimly-lit rooms shine with relaxed attitude, and light Jazz plays over the intercoms. “What’ll you have?” One particularly dressed-up waiter asks, pulling out a small pen and pressing it to a notebook.

“Oh, I’ll take the Lamb Chops, medium rare, extra spices,” my mother replies.

The waiter pauses, then shoots his glance from her, back to his note-pad. “Um, I mean, uh, to drink…”

“Whoops.” Red surfaces from her cheeks as she collects herself.

And the rest of dinner is basically like that: filled with more ambiguity, embarrassment, love, arguing, etc, etc, etc… I ate Octopus, and it was unsurprisingly bad, tasting somewhat like cold packing peanuts.

I grimace as we walk back to the parking lot. Above us I can hear the whirr of the monorail passing by. I remember when I used to ride it with my mother to work, back when we lived in Detroit. I remember how it shined and glittered, and when we rode through town the lights from buildings or restaurants would shimmer like stars. But now, as we drive away I can see that those lights are smudged over with smog and grease and carelessness. I feel it in the city, like it’s the smoke that rises from sewers on a cold day, billowing out and encircling everything. This Detroit isn’t the one I was born in; the Detroit I was born in wasn’t built for capacity. I sink deep into the leather seat, and as I fall asleep on the way home, I hear my dad bickering with my mother, who’s on the phone again.