8
Yes! You belong here! This is your home! That is the phrase I wished for my gut intuition to scream to me as I searched through Detroit for anything that gave me a sense of familiarity from early childhood, hoping a memory would cut through the haziness of my mind and connect me to this place.
I found myself roaming downtown alone by foot, searching for one old building in particular. All I remembered about it was that my family used to go there for Christmas shopping. The memories were sparce—more like a photo album than a movie reel.
But where was that store? I finally stopped a gentleman who happened to be standing on the sidewalk outside of a shopping plaza. He had snow-white hair, a nice hat and leaned on an old-fashioned cane.
“Excuse me,” I said to the old man. “Was there a store that used to be around here, where people would do their Christmas shopping? And on one of the upper floors, it used to have a little mini Christmas store for kids, too? This would be a while ago....”
The old man looked happier than I expected. “Oh, you must be talking about Hudson's!” He talked louder than I expected, but his smile was contageous, and even my weary face started to form a smile, as I nodded, feeling that the name “Hudson's” rang a bell.
He continued, “Hudson's Downtown. That was a fine store. Fine store. Big chandeliers. Biggest American Flag you ever seen, right over there on that corner.” He lifted his cane long enough to jab the end towards the direction of a forlorn-looking space, diagonally across the street. The tall building I remembered from childhood wasn't there. It was just... empty space and construction cones. “Used to do all our shoppin' there, every Christmas. And that store for kids that you was talkin' about? Well, that was the Little People's Store, up there on the 12th floor.” He looked up towards the sky, the sunlight illuminating his memory-filled, light-brown eyes. “Folks'd send their kids in and and the kids'd buy some gifts and have it all wrapped up nice for settin' under the tree at home.” He looked at me, grinning. “That Enchanted Forest was part of the whole thing, too, where the little ones'd go and pop a squat on Santa's lap and tell him what they'd want for Christmas. Did a lot of shoppin' at Hudson's during the Christmas time. Fine store.... Fine store.” He fell silent, aside from a brief smacking sound with his mouth as he peered over to that particular corner, still keeping that smile.
“What happened to the store?” I was almost afraid to ask, but I probably knew the answer, anyway. It was obvious it had been removed, if this is where it used to be.
The old man leaned on his cane a bit more, shifting his weight. “Well, they demolished the building in, oh... '97? No, no, I think it was '98. Yup, 1998. Same year we moved into the new house on the other side-a town.” He gave a firm nod. “Always miss Husdon's. Always miss it. Someone said they've got a parkin' garage underground there, now.”
I looked upward at the empty space, imagining where Hudson's must have been and trying to fit it within the two or three snapshots in my mind.
I tried to smile as I thanked the old man, but couldn't. Not a real smile, at least. My heart felt as empty as the void where the building used to be, with a growing sense of disillusionment.
I continued to roam the city, happening upon vaguely-familiar areas from my childhood, but everywhere I looked, it didn't feel like home, whether it was the amusement park, the old restaurant by the airport, the pretzel shop, the pizza shop, the Detroit Tigers baseball stadium, the Eastern Market across the freeway, or the small Lutheran church with the creepy basement where I took a kindergarden class. Even the street where I grew up now looked foreign to me (and why did that giant hill look so tiny, now?).
Whatever emotional support I was looking for, these places didn't have it.
Escape.... I need to escape.
Sometimes I would stop searching and just sit in a parking lot in my Toyota, staring at nothing long after the tears had dried.
My poor cat Jodi basically lived out of my car. I tried to always park in a spot with shade and roll down the windows enough so she could breathe fresh air, but not enough so she could crawl through and escape. I did what I could for her, though I couldn't avoid an intense feeling of guilt every time I looked at her. Guilt for not being able to provide a proper home for her. Guilt that she was confined to this car and not able to run around. Sometimes all it took was one look at her, before I would break down, crying, from the weight of the emotion.
When I took Jodi for walks in the parks on her pet harness and leash, I basically followed her around (how else does one walk a cat?).
One day on a path in the park, a tall, young man walked up, looking curious.
“Is that a raccoon?” he asked, smiling as he approached, pointing to Jodi on the leash.
Before I was able to answer, Jodi thrashed around, rolling on the ground and escaping out of the harness, dashing off into the forest away from the man in the blink of an eye. “JODI!” I yelled, reaching out to grab her all too late.
For whatever reason, she was terrified of this guy, even though he never made any outwardly aggressive moves. He hastily apologized and offered to help look for her, but since she seemed so scared of him, I said no.
As the young man turned to leave the area, I was confident I could find Jodi, but after some time of searching the forest and calling for her name, there was just no sign of her. Maybe she was simply watching me all that time, from a spot up high in a tree; or maybe she kept running until she was out of ear-shot. Whatever the case, I had no clue where she was, and she didn't come running at the sound of a can of food being opened, either.
I returned the next day, but again she did not come. More guilt weighed heavily on my shoulders, but I was too emotionally exhausted to look any further. I took this as a sign that she was simply sick of living in the car; she seemed to desire freedom as much as I did, but on that day she was willing to make the run, whereas I continued to stay in the shelter. Maybe she instinctively knew I couldn't provide proper care for her anymore. Maybe she even felt some bit of my overwhelming guilt whenever I looked at her. So I stopped searching for her, not even thinking about options such as contacting local shelters, putting up fliers, or continuing to search each day. I just couldn't think straight, and I robotically reasoned it away as “it wasn't meant to be,” letting it all go as I returned to the shelter without her.
———
A month went by, and another. The Michigan trees changed to Fall colors, but the daily routine droned on.
I learned to sleep with Miss Mavis snoring above me, as well as getting used to the occasional midnight fire alarm being pulled so some of the women could could have a cigarette.
The general manager at the deli discretely gave me a raise from 8 to 9 dollars per hour, to help me get more money to get out of the homeless shelter. He did this without me even asking and I nearly broke down crying when he told me about the raise. This gave me a bit more hope and reminded me that there is a goal to be working towards—getting my ass out of the homeless shelter and into my own apartment.
The raise provided motivation to start asking about more information about the Section 8 Housing. I found out that there is a boundary to this government program and it did not reach out into the rural area where the deli job was. This made me narrow my search to the city only. Additionally, I reasoned, I would therefore need to get a new job—something right here in Detroit, so that I could be closer to my Section 8 housing. Heh… MY Section 8 housing. It was mine and I was owed it... right? At least, that's what the others in the shelter seemed to think about it, so it was easy to adopt the same attitude. So I started spending my time off looking for apartments or rooms for rent that would be within the Section 8 area. I even visited one or two apartments, but somehow nothing came of it. At least I had somewhat of an excuse for declining one of the apartments—I thought it was haunted! There was a creepy vibe that I couldn't shake.
After that, I stopped the search for apartments. Motivation always seemed to wane because I already had a bed, already had a shower, already had a job, and already had food. Why keep looking? Additionally, I seemed to keep forgetting that I was capable of living in an apartment without Section 8 Housing Assistance. I thought I needed assistance, possibly for the rest of my life, as if “that's just how it is,” now. Round and round in the rut I went.
———
I tried to remain optimistic, but it was too easy to break down crying. Tears seemed just beneath the surface—I was barely held together. Other people seemed to notice this, too, because one day as I was walking on the sidewalk from downtown towards the shelter, I must've looked pretty bad when a group of three guys walked by and one of them said, “Wow, I ain't never seen such a pretty girl look so sad, before.”
I was surprised—maybe embarrassed, too—that my emotions were so easily read. I was probably on the verge of tears as I walked, because as soon as he said that, it took all the inner strength I had to not break down crying right then and there. I tightened my jaw and pierced my lips briefly before explaining with a shrug, “I have no home.”
“Aw, you can come live with me, baby,” the man said. “I got a home.”
Whether it was a joke or serious proposition, I can't say. For a split-second, I considered it, before shaking my head and continuing down the sidewalk, moving faster towards the shelter.
Once inside, I went down into the basement to sit at one of the tables to wait for dinner. The meal was still a couple hours away, but I was tired of walking circles around town.
Dee was down there and I took a seat next to her. The TV mounted on the wall was tuned to the B.E.T. station (Black Entertainment Television). On that day, the shows seemed to be a mix of rap songs about drugs with scantily-clad women and the beginning of a show about cops chasing black people. I wasn't particularly interested in it—in fact, I thought it was all trash—but I watched it for a few minutes anyway, feeling too dead inside to look away, and not knowing what else to do.
A young, chubby, black woman came over and greeted us as she sat down. I'd seen her before, but had never really said much other than a friendly hello. She often wore a black spaghetti-strap tank top and she had poofy Afro hair.
“Hey, Kiyana,” I said, greeting her. Dee waved to her. Other than Dee, Kiyana, and the two Misses in room 15, I didn't really know anyone else's names.
Kiyana watched me with wide eyes and a slight smile, speaking rapidly, “You like that TV?”
I glanced at it. Garbage afternoon commercials played around garbage afternoon shows.
I shrugged to her. “It's alright.” We all looked over to the TV, watching for a few moments in silence before I randomly asked both of them, “Do white people smell like wet dog when it rains?”
Kiyana didn't think too long before she confidently replied with a serious expression, “Yes.”
Dee laughed and said, “Sometimes!”
Kiyana leaned forward with just a hint of a smile as she inquired with quick words, “Why do you ask?”
I shrugged again. “I thought it was a line I remembered from one of the Scary Movie comedy sequels.” Kiyana blinked hard several times in rapid succession as I spoke and she nodded, accepting the answer. Dee just grinned, finding amusement in my question.
Kiyana watched me for a little bit and then leaned in closer, speaking to me with that same quick pace of words and blinking often. “See... These other people around here? They just watch TV and don't pay attention. They're gone. Gone. All gone. They watch TV all day; never do nothin' at all. But you and me?” She grinned. “We're like this.” She crossed her middle finger over her index finger. “See, you understand me. I know you. I see you. You're the paparazzi. You're on my side. That's why I'm telling you this. See, the paparazzi gotta keep an eye on things, and I know that you're watching me. That's good, that's good. 'Cause lemmie tell you something—I'm gonna break out of this place.” She leaned in even closer and I just listened, not really sure what to expect. Dee just listened, as well.
“You're the paparazzi,” Kiyana repeated, as she watched me with an intense gaze. “I trust you. You see what's going on here. You see this place. You see me and you know me.” She gestured two fingers pointing at her eyes and then my eyes, alternating between us a few times. “That's why I trust you. You see that wall?”
She pointed to the solid concrete wall, painted in off-white, a few yards to her left, and I looked at the blank wall. “Hogwarts Express comes right there every night.” She nodded to me, blinking several times again, with an expression that suggested she fully believed in this proprietary intel which she was confiding to me. She continued speaking fast: “I'm making plans. See, I'm gonna catch that train when it comes through here next month and I'm gonna get a ride on it. You can come with me, too, 'cause you're the paparazzi and you know what's going on in this place. I have a ticket and I'll get you a ticket, too.” She nodded, eagerly smiling.
I blinked, still not quite knowing what to say, other than: “...Thank you.”
My mind was spinning so much from recent events that I actually nodded to her, trying to take her seriously so that I could rationalize her “train” of thought (pun intended!), as if it was more like: Well, sure, maybe they're planning some construction to allow for a tram or something? Maybe not literally here in the basement, but rather a new local train station the city is adding outside, up on the street. But even if she does mean right here in the basement, well, she might be crazy, but was I any more sane than these other people in the shelter? Who was I to judge, really?
Kiyana nodded to me. “I gotta go,” she whispered and then quickly stood, turned and went up the stairs.
I looked at Dee, still not sure what to think about this conversation.
“She has schizophrenia,” Dee explained, somewhat sadly. After the rapid-fire speech of Kiyana, Dee’s words seemed infinitely slow, but just for a moment. “She's been here at the shelter a long time.”
Dee was talking about Kiyana, of course, but a part of me felt like she was also referring to myself, and my own disordered thinking since arriving at the shelter. It almost felt like there were two sides of me—one that wanted to escape and be myself, and one that wanted to morph myself to fit in with the others at the shelter and try to make this my life for now on. Two wolves fighting inside of us, as the Native Americans used to say, right? But the winner had the strongest reasoning as two thoughts entered my mind: One, There wasn't going to be a train and Two, Holy shit, these people are crazy. What the hell am I even doing here? I've got to get out of here. But how? How?!