On Lawndale Street in Detroit

Here’s a Detroit Fairy Tale that didn’t make the book. A freebie for anyone who liked my book!

Photo credit By Christopher Michel - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=137876103

Shay’s living on Lawndale street in Detroit, close to that snaky street with the illegal dumping and triple-lot wrecked houses on one side and the wild forest of decay and weed trees on the other. She lives with Oswaldo the wife beater (she’s his wife) and the mustached landlord who has named his dog Pocho.

“Pocho?” she’d asked when they’d first moved in. Isn’t that a Mexican who can’t speak Spanish? Like that book?

Asshole the landlord laughed. “I didn’t know that. Even better. I named him Pocho, like rotten fruit.” 

Shay glanced over at Oswaldo with a look of “Can you believe this guy?”

Oswaldo muttered at her, really fast, in Spanish. “Who the fuck cares about the dog’s name? Are you stupid?”

He shoved Shay and the last basket of clothes towards the steps to the upstairs flat and “Home Sweet Home.” The men exchanged a look then, a telepathic bro-message. “Women” with disgust, from Oswaldo. And “You better keep her in check” from Asshole who lived downstairs. They did a masculine, chin thrusty wag at each other. Yep. Message given and received.

Shay’s never talked much about the time living on Lawndale. They only had one car, and of course Oswaldo took it to his work. The only job interview Shay could get was up on Oakman and Livernois, two bus rides and a 15 minute walk away. It didn’t help that nobody came to visit her anymore. But Mom visited once. 

Shay was anxious for her Mom to find their place, and kept glancing out the front window, every few seconds or so, pushing the curtain aside in the tiny bedroom. Finally she saw the minivan squeezing into a parking spot after about five attempts. Shay ran down the stairs in the back. Pocho growled at her without much effort from his chained up post.

“Mom!” Shay rushed around to the front.

“Jesus Christ, Shay, why don’t you have a driveway?”  Even Mom’s tight perm looked curled up and angry.

“Um. It’s the neighborhood, you know? Was built before people had a lot of cars?” Mom glanced up and down the block of small, wood-siding, mostly kept up houses. Her eyes telescoped over to the neighbor’s porch with the giant Romanian flag waving, then over to the adjacent lawn sprinkled with a life-sized Guadalupe statue and a platoon of lesser saints decorated with wreaths of plastic flowers. She pursed her lips.

Pocho tried to lunge at them as they passed by his muddy square, but it looked like something was wrong with his leg, so his snarling attack dog mode was a bit muted. Maybe Asshole was beating him again. Oswaldo had Shay to torment, but Asshole just had the dog to vent his moods on.

Mom settled at the formica table and eyed the cup of tea and cookies.

“It’s Earl Gray, Mom. Your favorite?” Shay said.

“No, are these ‘Cookies’ or are they Crackers? What are they?” She picked up a cookie and squinted at it.

“Oh! Right! Maria’s! I get them from the corner store! They’re from Mexico. Not too sweet, but still crunchy enough? They remind me of animal crackers. Remember how I used to love animal crackers Mom?” Shay babbled away.

 “I don’t know how you can live like this, Shay. You have a college degree.”

“Mom, I’ve been looking for a job, but we only have one car for now ... I have to catch the bus to the job interviews… It’s hard to get the timing right.”

“I suppose then, you won’t be coming home for Thanksgiving.” That was the last thing her Mom said to her, just then.  Who wouldn’t give their own kid a ride home on Thanksgiving?

It’s polite to walk people to their cars, but Shay only watched Mom stomp past Pocho and his whimpery snarls. She didn’t even see her mom wrangle the minivan out of the parking space.

Shay supposed she’d wash the dishes before Oswaldo came home with an attitude. It’s dusk. Asshole landlord beats the dog, maybe one time too many because now Pocho is no longer barking at every leaf that rattles across the muddy yard. She can’t see what’s going on, she’s in the shitty upstairs kitchen with the sink that leaks every time she washes the dishes. Shay eats the rest of the sleeve of Maria cookies in a blind rage, then carries the dishes to the bathtub. She can see Asshole and Pocho out the back window now.

Shay understands why Pocho has been so quiet. Asshole is in the backyard digging a hole for Pocho. She can’t be too sad, because Pocho was not the nicest of dogs. The scene would be perfect if he was burying his dog in the rain, but it’s not raining. It’s just one of those relentless grey Michigan days that last for six months starting in November, and the ground isn't frozen yet. Oswaldo would not care if the dog was dead. He’d probably have a drink with the landlord, and the house had better be perfect, even if it was a tiny shithole.

Shay looks down at the last pot, scrubs the burned places off with a bit of steel wool (She gets distracted a lot, burns things. Oswaldo the wife beater does not like this) A glint of something catches her eye.

It’s a beam of the streetlight lamp breaking through the gloom and shining on Pocho’s collar as he raises from the dead, like Jesus, and Asshole has fallen into the grave, head first, legs kicking. Pocho runs to the bottom of the fire escape, wagging his tail. She’s already got her shoes on. Shay’s surprised at the wagging, but she’d always hoped for some solidarity from Pocho. She runs down the stairs, not even shutting the door behind her.

“Let’s go!” His voice is deep and gravelly, like that doctor who’s on the TV all the time. She decides to trust it. They run to the corner and turn right to the snaky street with the teetering homes and the grown  up trees. It’s already transformed. The snaky street is a river, the banged up homes restored (but not by the New Detroiters) and the wild weed tree forest is now a pine cathedral. Shay steps through the veil with a whoosh. She doesn’t even bring her formica table, her most prized possession from her past. She leaves everything behind and lives in the forest now. Her and Pocho, who she has renamed Anthony. (he had been turned into a dog that gets beaten---a trick of his political enemies.)  They settle into one of the resurrected homes, a Sears Craftsman bungalow with flowered couches, crank-open windows and a milk chute. He lays his furry chin on the bruises up and down her arm and asks “do you want to talk about it?” She shakes her head, not yet. They listen to Bob Dylan albums from the 1960s on vinyl, and Anthony teaches her how to cook healthy, no cheese spinach lasagna and crunchy cookies in the style of a Maria cracker.