Lost in America: A Dead-End Journey (18 page)

When I asked if it was safe going inside these buildings, a kid who had said earlier that he was a graphic design student told me that he had actually been robbed once in this very building.

“Yeah, at gunpoint. By another graffiti artist! He pulled out a gun and stole all my paint. Didn’t take my wallet, money, or anything, all he wanted was my paint. I even had an expensive camera in my backpack, but he didn’t want it.”

What a pussy. Not the guy who got robbed, but the guy who did the robbing. This kid was totally harmless, weighed about a buck and a quarter, and his fellow artist robbed him for his fucking paint? It’s, like, get a fucking job at McDonald’s and go buy your own paint, you know?

He went on to tell me that I had to be careful of other graffiti artists. Some of them were total dicks who would either tell you to get the fuck away from them or try to rob you. He told me that I got lucky, that he and his friends weren’t like that. They just came into these buildings to do their thing.

While I was talking to him, I overheard the other guys in conversation. One of them was asking the other if he’d ever heard of the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat. I butted into their conversation by pulling out my iPhone and showing them my Basquiat screen saver. I was slightly embarrassed, since I didn’t want to come across as the old thirty-something with no friends who was trying to impress them. As I was telling them the little bit I know about Basquiat, basically shit you could pull up on Wikipedia, like a pretentious asshole in a white-walled art gallery, I realized that these abandoned buildings are like contemporary art museums you can enter free of charge, that every day is a free day just as long as you’re not worried about asbestos, or getting robbed at gunpoint by the artist who’s “showing” up on the third floor.

On the roof there was a huge water tower that stood a good couple hundred feet up in the air, as well as a couple large trees. The view of Detroit was spectacular. The sun was out, and you could see for miles in all directions. Two of the guys have found a wall to paint; setting their backpacks on the ground they went to work. I looked down and could see two photographers a level below us taking pictures of the walls. They looked like professionals, with fancy gear and equipment. Not only that, they looked to be around my age. I went down to talk with them.

I also had a camera on my neck, which made me feel confident in approaching them. Like,
Hey guys
,
I’m just like you! I’m taking pictures too! Isn’t this fun! Let’s hang!
I guess I was hoping to make friends.

The photographers were both from Los Angeles and flew out to Detroit here just to do this. They’d been going around all over the city all weekend, going into all the buildings and structures, taking photos. They did this as a hobby.

One of them told me this was the easiest place so far to get inside, and that the others they had to kind of sneak in. He looked around at everything and then said, “It’s like a bomb went off here.”

And that was pretty much it. They didn’t seem too interested in chatting or hanging out with me any longer—they were busy taking photos. I started getting neurotic, thinking that these were the cool kids and I was the nerdy dork with no friends; so I thanked them and excused myself.

I went back up onto the roof, where two of the four graffiti artists were hard at work spray-painting a wall. The other two were doing what I was doing—just kicking back, sitting against the edge of the roof watching the writers, enjoying the glory of the day. A couple minutes later the two photographers from L.A. came up and sat next to us. The one photographer opened up his camera bag and offered me half of his granola bar, which I accepted and thanked him for.

While watching one of the guys paint, I asked one of the L.A. photographers whether a lot of photographers came here to shoot urban decay. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “It’s Disneyland here. This is the number-one place in the U.S. to come for urban photography now.

“What’s more trendy is sticking a naked chick in the middle of this.”

“I’ve heard about that,” I said, “I read an article once about this girl in New York who does that, I think her name’s Miru Kim?”

“She’s a goddess. She’s awesome. No, she’s great, but what I’m talking about is people who are just copying each other, just people who want to get into fashion photography. Their thing is shooting tied-up girls in urban settings.”

I asked where they were planning to go next, and he told me they were thinking about going to an abandoned mining town in the San Bernardino area back in California.

“Have you been to the Michigan Grand Central Station yet?” he asked.

I told him that I’d tried to get into that building, but there was a police car parked in the post office parking lot next door watching the location like a hawk, so I wasn’t able to hop the fence to get in. He told me that he and his buddy got into that building the other day.

“You got in?!”

“Yeah, we got in. I guess we got lucky. We ran into some guys there and they were saying Canada railroad cops patrol it, and they’ll arrest you on the spot. But on the side of the building—you know how the road goes underground?—there’s a section right there that’s not boarded up, and you go underground basically, and you come out in the building. The guys there told us about a tunnel that could get us inside the book depository across the street, so we went underground to the book depository, too. There’s a conveyor belt from when they used to load supplies from the third floor and convey them down to trucks, so we actually climbed up the belt and that was the most interesting part. Inside there are hundreds of thousands of books that are just sitting there disintegrating.”

I
spent the rest of the day pedaling around East Detroit. I came across a street in the middle of the ’hood that had been converted into folk art with a strong Basquiat influence. A whole street converted to a work of art, a gallery. And white people were parking their cars, getting out and walking around to look at it.

I came across a black guy who was about to walk into a house on the street, and asked if he was the artist, which he was. I asked if it’d be cool to chat with him. He told me sure thing, just give him a couple minutes, and he went inside his house and turned on some classical music. I walked around, taking pictures, and ten minutes later he returned. I said hello and told him what I was up to, that I was a writer traveling across the country talking to people, and I told him that he had a very interesting thing going on here, and I’d like to talk to him about it.

He looked at me with a flat expression. “I don’t know who you are,” he said.

That’s funny, I want to say, neither do I. Not quite sure how to respond, I said hello and told him my name, and he said, “Well, I don’t know who that is.”

“Most don’t,” I said.

He told me if I wanted to talk to him, I first needed to make arrangements. “Call my office,” is what he said.

I just stared at him. Was he serious? He was standing right here. And not only that, he had me wait around for ten fucking minutes so he could tell me
that
?

He then asked me if I wanted that number.

I told him, “No, thanks,” and while I was walking away, my back turned, he said, “Have a great day.”

Chapter Fifteen

Ignoring All Legal Disclaimers

“Few buildings are vast enough to hold the sound of time. Men came and went, they passed and vanished, and all were moving through the moments of their lives to death.”

THOMAS WOLFE

O
utside the hotel Mrs. Harrington was surrounded by gardening equipment and a shopping cart full of plants. I asked her how it was going, and she told me that today they were going to plant a bunch of flowers in front of the hotel, make it more beautiful. I looked at the flowers, smiled, and since winter was coming I asked her about that, if the plants could survive, and she told me not to worry, everything they were putting in could survive winter. I like Mrs. Harrington—she gives me hope. Here is a lady who cares about her building, and Detroit, enough to plant flowers.

When I got in my car, I fired it up, pulled out of the garage, and drove to Grand Central Station.

On the weekends there was always a group of photographers, both professional and amateur, hanging around outside the Michigan Grand Central Station building taking pictures. I waited for that to pass, it now being Monday, since during the workweek a lot less of them show up. I drove a couple laps around the station in the ’64, checking it out to see if any police officers were in the area. A steel chain-link fence ran all around the building, with barbed wire all along the top of it, and every couple feet metal signs warned “No Trespassing,” “Private Property,” and “Violators Will Be Prosecuted.” One of these signs of course had the words “Fuck You” spray-painted onto it, and since I didn’t see any security out here today, I parked my vehicle a couple blocks away, locked the door, and started walking toward the tall, ominous building.

Following the instructions of the photographer I had met at the Packard auto plant, sure enough, in the structure located behind the station, underneath the train tracks, I found an opening to get inside. Once you set foot inside, it only takes a couple of steps before it’s pitch-black and near zero visibility all around you, except for the light coming way down on the other side, in the corner, a good forty or fifty yards away. I recommend bringing a flashlight if you choose to do this, because for many steps you have no idea at all what in the hell you’re stepping on. While walking, I nearly stepped in a hole that was God knows how deep and would have found out just how deep if it wasn’t for the sheet of plywood somebody had kindly placed on top of it.

I continued walking toward the light, and once I got there, I let my pupils get back to normal. Sure enough, I was “inside the wire,” the wire being the fence that went all around the building, with barbed wire strung all along the top of it. From there I walked up and, just like that, entered the station.

I
walked inside with no problem whatsoever, just as thousands and thousands of people once did. The station was built in 1913 and at the time was the tallest train station in the world. The tallest rail station in the world today is in Japan.

Inside and out the station is what’s called Beaux Arts architecture. I Googled and Wiki’d all this shit, so don’t think I’m an expert or know what the fuck I’m talking about, I don’t. Once I walked into the pedimented door on the side of the building, I entered this grand space, with huge columns that go straight up to the ceiling high above. The walls were heavily graffitied, and there were arched windows, like windows in an old church, most of which were shattered but still allowed light to come in. It was completely empty. Nobody was there—at least I didn’t think anybody else was inside the building—and I walked around for a bit with my camera, exploring while taking pictures. I felt relaxed, the only sounds being a car every now and then driving by, my footsteps, and the sound of my camera shutter bouncing off all the walls around me every time I took a snapshot. This building was designed by the same people who designed New York’s Grand Central Terminal. It was 500,000 square feet, and I wanted to explore every single foot of it while it was still alive, while it was still standing, breathing, with a faint pulse. While walking around, I started thinking, Why in the hell, or how in the hell, did they allow this building to get like this?

The first floor was massive. I started wondering what you could do with this space. After walking around for a while, exploring and taking pictures, I came across a stairway that took you all the way up to the top floor. Once there, I migrated over to a window, or what once was a glass window. I was pretty high up, eighteen stories. I looked straight down, a long way down, and I thought to myself, It’s that easy. All I gotta do is jump, and it’ll all be over. Just like that, the end. I looked up and stared out onto Detroit, all the streets and neighborhoods. You could see all of downtown Detroit from the top floor, with the ugly-ass GM Building sticking up. Then I noticed that on the top floor of this building, where I was now, somebody had painted
SAVE THE DEPOT
in all caps, using red and white paint, all along the exterior. I started thinking about my son, and I got sad thinking about how in April 2009, about the same time he was born, the Detroit City Council had voted to have the building demolished, “passing a resolution that calls for expedited demolition.”

T
he coolest thing about entering these old buildings is the picture they paint of how we used to think. While exploring, you can’t help but stand in awe, taking it all in and wondering why in the hell we don’t build, or think, like this anymore.

My son will never experience what it was like to be inside this building and if we keep on demolishing buildings like the one I was inside now, more than likely to make room for more condos and more surface-level parking spaces, since God knows we need more of those, he’ll probably never get to experience these windows into our past for himself. We once thought big and put thought, design, and art into what we did.

It’s disheartening to imagine my son one day exploring old abandoned buildings, and instead of being in awe like I was inside all these structures in Detroit, wondering, What in the hell were these people thinking? Instead of structures like the one I was in now, he could very well be going into a shopping mall, since all those are now closing down and being boarded up one by one across our country for various reasons. The buildings we build now are done pretty much the same way as our clothes, made the cheapest way possible. The flannel shirt I’m wearing now was made in 1961. I know this for a fact because it has the year printed on the inside tag. I purchased it in a thrift store for less than ten dollars; it’s crisp, and the colors are bright, and it looks pretty much exactly the same as it probably did when it was first made half a century ago. Do you think the clothes being made now are going to last that long? No way. They all fall apart after the first wash and lose their color, fading almost as soon as you take them off the rack. By the time my son’s my age, it’s unlikely he’s going to be able to go to a thrift store and come across an article of clothing made today. I can see him asking one day, “Dad, what’s vintage?”

I wonder if, like Tower Records, antique stores will be extinct one day.

A
few days later, as I was exiting the hotel lobby, a mob of people who lived in my building were all coming in, holding multiple bags filled with produce. Mrs. Harrington was holding the door for them. They seemed thrilled, so I asked what was going on. She told me that today was the East Side Market, and I should go down there, since there was also a beer festival going on. She suggested I go back inside and put on a heavier jacket, since it was a bit chilly out, and she felt that what I was wearing—Dickies, flannel, beanie—wasn’t adequate for the conditions. As she held the door open for some lady carrying four bags of produce, she asked her how the market was. “Great,” the lady said. “And they take food stamps!”

When I went to start my car so that I could drive to the market, of course it decided not to cooperate. I set off on foot.

N
ot far from the market was another series of abandoned buildings, so of course I had to check them out. Quickly I came across a couple individuals enjoying life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, casually smoking crack cocaine this glorious Sunday afternoon. Then I saw a white guy with a beard and a steel rod, sifting through everything on the ground. I walked over and asked what’s up, and he told me that he was just looking for metal, which he called “punk metal.” He collects pieces of punk metal in his side bag, which he then brings home, melts down with a torch, converts into fashion accessories.

I asked if he knew of more buildings like the one we were standing in front of. He rolled his eyes and said, “Go down to where you see Zimmerman’s pawn shop over on the left, and it’s the street behind that, the whole row of buildings—four or five in a row—is falling apart, and the whole neighborhood is crackheads and whores.”

“Really? How do I get there?”

“I’ll show you. Follow me.”

Enjoying the fact that I was hanging out with a craftsman, I happily listened as he narrated Detroit for me as we walked.

“This is the beginning of the end,” he said.

“How so?”

He tells me that Western civilization is declining. That the traditional values that have brought us to the pinnacle of world dominance are being given up. People no longer believe in God, that the people who believe in God are more steadfast fighters in what they believe in, since they think they’ll be rewarded after death. “That’s why we’re headed toward communism,” he tells me.

At this time in American history, the words
hope
and
change
were two buzzwords heard across the media and the country. While I was on the road, two words I heard everywhere I went were
socialism
and
communism
. Americans seemed to be afraid we’re all headed in that direction.

I wasn’t quite sure yet if this man was crazy or not, but I wanted to find out, so we walked on.

I quickly got the impression that he was a bit of a misanthrope as he went on about how they’re pulling machines out of their factories and shipping them over to China, and how they have a shrinking tax base, and how sarcastically wonderful it was that they’re now filming movies here in Detroit. And how our economy will now be based on importing garbage from Canada and burying it.

I noticed that most of the people on the street that we’d turned onto were black. He told me that we were headed for the black part of town, and released a subtle growl of disgust.

“Frankly, most people think I’m a racist—”

“How so?”

Casually he tells me that the Negro never achieved anything or has contributed anything toward civilization. That they’ve all given in to narcissistic self-indulgence.

I can’t imagine why people would think he’s racist. Okay, this guy was crazy. As I was thinking of the many counterpoints to his argument, he brought up hip-hop and asked me who in the hell was the genius who invented hip-hop. Good question. As I was about to try and find out via my Wiki app on my iPhone he went on to say, “You know, another way not to have a job, not to be responsible, just be a hoodlum with your pants hanging down to here so that you can hardly walk. . . .”

We all know how well regarded rock-and-roll was when it first showed up, a regular jobs program for white youth. I didn’t agree with any of what he was saying, but I had to respect the fact that he was talking so openly about it to me. I’m sure most people who think that way keep their corrosive thoughts to themselves, or stay among like-minded folks.

“You know anything about evolution?”

“No,” I tell him. “Not at all.”

“Okay, so I won’t even go there, then.”

We stopped at the street corner. He pointed out the devastation—the bakery, the cellular phone store, everything, all depressingly torn up and vacant. He warned me to be careful. Before we parted ways, he asked me if I was from America. Interesting question. When I told him that I was, that I was American and that I was from San Francisco, actually, I jokingly add that to many, I guessed, San Francisco would be considered another country. He growled back, “Ain’t that right,” and said some comment about how that city should be wiped off the face of the fucking earth. Kind of like Detroit, some might argue.

Of course, as soon as he walked away, a day-shift street hooker came up asking for a light. When I’d lit her cigarette, she asked me if I needed anything. I told her no, I was fine, thank you, and continued on my way.

A
fter walking around the neighborhood for a couple hours, I noticed a cab parked on a side street lined with diseased buildings. A couple seconds later this white guy came strutting out from the alley behind one building, making his way to the cab. He had on leather cowboy boots with shiny steel tips, black jeans, a brown leather coat, cool Ray-Bans, and his hair wasn’t really a mullet, but it kind of was—you could tell he took a blow-dryer to it. And the way he was strutting back to his cab, chest out, looking around, I could totally see this guy doing his hair in the morning, looking at himself in the mirror, complimenting himself on how awesome he and his hair looked together. This guy just screamed self-confidence, and I knew right when I saw him that I wanted to ride with him, so I went and asked if he was working. He said that he was. “Jump in,” he said.

So I did, and had to think for a second where I wanted to go, since I really didn’t need a cab. I couldn’t think of anything, because I had pretty much hit up all the neighborhoods and streets of inner-city Detroit, but just in case I hadn’t, I asked him where the bad part of town was so that he could take me to the heart of it, please. He paused for a second, thinking deeply about that while slowly looking around. When he realized the answer to that question, it was like he got zapped with a jolt of electricity. He blurted out, “It’s here!!!”

Well, that didn’t help me, as I was thinking about somewhere else he possibly could take me to. He surveyed me from his rearview mirror and asked, “Where in the hell are you from?” So I told him. Since I couldn’t think of anywhere to go, I just told him to take me back to my hotel. He turned the meter on and started driving.