Low Road (18 page)

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Joanie negotiated ten cents per page as her “big-time” rate of pay to put Donnie's manuscripts together. Her work was cut out for her. Her brother's spelling and sentence structure were quite the horror. Still, Donnie remained hopeful. Each day after coming home from her nursing job, Joanie would take her place at the typewriter. By now she was splitting her duties between employment and her sons, Michael and Patrick. Truly befitting a seed of Joe Goines, she had been working since she turned seventeen, but motherhood assumed a priority position in her routine. She would remain a single parent until she married David Coney, a man she met during a visit out of town not much later. It might have bothered Joanie to admit it, but she and Donnie were more alike in some ways than she chose to recognize. They both did things a little differently than what was most commonly accepted as the norm. In private moments when she was younger, Donnie had confessed that he was still sensitive about his complexion. Joanie was merely a couple of shades darker, a buttery tan rather than Donnie's pallid vanilla, but he wished he could be her color, he told her. Joan had listened, but what could she do? Besides wonder what other types of thoughts circulated through her brother's mind. Now, as they connected through his writing, she gained a certain sense. Her brother was troubled, but not hopeless. As long as he wanted better for himself, there was at least that small reason to be encouraged.

While the Holloway House editorial staff was still mulling over revisions and suggestions that they felt would get
Whoreson
in shape for publication, Joanie helped Donnie prepare
Dopefiend.
Its title described much of Donnie's life story of the previous twenty years. In his pusher character, Porky, Donnie revealed just how deeply he resented his heroin addiction. He occasionally referred to it as “wong.” It sounded like a word he picked up overseas, but nobody seemed to know why he associated it with the drug. Wong was a fairly common Chinese surname, though, of course, Donnie hadn't been to China. In any event, he resented the fact that wong had beaten his ass for such a long time. So it was no coincidence that he made its emissary as repulsive as possible. Porky was not only blubbery and disgusting, but he evolved into a completely amoral demon amid ghetto trappings. As Donnie depicted scenes inside the pusher's apartment, he effortlessly drew from a body of knowledge. He had witnessed what transpired inside a dope house and had the ability to make it appear as a hellish, filthy place where pools of blood sucked out of junkies collected like puddles on the floor:

Jean pulled the needle out slowly. A look of rapture filled her face. She looked up and noticed Porky holding himself and watching her. Her eyes filled with scorn. She opened her legs wide and scratched herself. “Why don't you come over here, Porky, and let me rub some of this pussy up against your fat, black face.” She spoke in a slow, tantalizing voice, all the while rubbing the sides of her cunt. The sight was beyond vulgarity. It was grotesque, even sickening, because as she sat there with her legs wide, a stream of blood mixed with pus ran slowly down her thigh.

The graphic descriptions he gave his characters would make them unforgettable if they ever found an audience. Donnie and Joanie had become quite the team in their labor to get the package together. It was the first time either of them even thought about devoting such time and energy to this sort of task. The first time in Lord knew how long that Donnie had really begun to dream again, at least in terms of envisioning himself with any lasting prosperity. Ideas about robbery were a path that led him to prison. Making the whiskey that he wanted to sell for profit did the same. Pimping had been stressful work and ultimately contributed to the criminal record that influenced Judge McCree to send him back to prison. But in writing about the things he saw, heard, and did, there would be no laws broken. And the appeal didn't stop there. There was no clock to punch and no hard labor involved. Besides, it was a good gig for an ex-con to take, without the routine of sitting on the hopeful side of desk after desk in job interviews. Only about 65 percent of black men in the city were employed at the time; odds couldn't have been in a career criminal's favor. Everything was pretty much a hustle anyway, legal or otherwise, including the jobs of a lot of legislators who looked disdainfully on Donnie's kind. Writing would be a job that involved more benefits than drawbacks. Donnie packaged up his second manuscript and sent it off in the mail, hoping for the best.

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As he awaited a response, for some reason, Donnie became discouraged. His two manuscripts were held in limbo for weeks. Maybe things wouldn't be nearly as easy as he thought. He went on a binge that lasted several days. The heroin that had both pacified and tormented him became more than a way to take the edge off. Donnie shot up like a man who had lost all hope. The track marks on his arms would never feel as neglected as his last remaining hopes. Then, finally, Donnie came out of his depression and regained focus. He sent
Dopefiend
off to numerous other major publishers. Nobody else seemed interested in the story Donnie had to tell. His sort of material was still widely regarded as without merit. He came up with the alternative plan of approaching a vanity press, which he knew would accommodate him as long as he paid their required fee. As discouraged as he felt, it had become important for Donnie to see his name in print. Then, as he prepared to make the move, he got word from 8060 Melrose. Bentley Morriss wrote to Donnie: He was interested in the manuscript.

Holloway House had put out a lot of black-interest books by this time, but these weren't the majority of their products. The company had become less celebrity oriented, publishing titles on subjects that ranged from gambling to popular history. Yet, with the help of works like
Dopefiend,
they would move in a more linear direction. About 90 percent of Holloway House's products would be black literature, stories that would sustain the company for many years to come. Donnie's manuscript intrigued the editors. They were struck by the vividness of his descriptions and the raw nature of the plot. Inside one of his manuscript packages, Donnie had placed a letter requesting the opportunity to meet his literary hero, if it could be arranged. His query was part professional and part fan mail. For whatever cause, the meeting with Beck he had sought would not take place, but Donnie could handle that. He was genuinely thrilled for the first time in what might have felt like an eternity. He was preparing to begin a brand-new career and, God willing, a prosperous one. Morriss set things in motion for the company to begin working with its newest recruit.

There was no way that Donnie's jubilation could be contained. He began formal collaboration with the staff on the
Dopefiend
manuscript, as they suggested character development, elaboration and expansion on his text. In a tone suggesting the same cordiality offered to more seasoned authors, an editor wrote Donnie in a letter dated December 29, 1970: “I hope your Christmas season was a very happy one for you. I've just reread
Dopefiend,
having gotten it back with comments from our publishers; I am even more impressed by the book. It's a heavy piece of writing. As with
Whoreson,
we would like to suggest a few minor revisions that we believe would improve the novel.” They recommended that he add things like clarity, location, and “concrete details” to the story. In March 1971, he received a copy of his second professional writer's contract. The documents listed his residence at 17186 Maine, which was the address of a small, brick two-story, the most recent home Joe and Myrtle occupied. The agreement called for Donnie to deliver to Holloway House a revised, “completed” manuscript of between 50,000 and 75,000 words, a total that was likely more than he had ever written. It would be due in just shy of two weeks. For turning the job around, Donnie would receive a $750 advance.
Dopefiend
was scheduled for publication December 27. He would be paid in increments of $250, the first check upon his signing of the agreement.

Donnie might as well have been sitting on top of a cloud. There was no question now about the fact that it was all really happening. It wasn't a whole lot of money, but for each book sold, he would receive percentages. Then there were television rights, motion picture rights, syndication rights. Even a chance to see his writing translated into the languages of other countries. It was more than he could have imagined when he first decided to bring his characters to life on paper. The way he signed his name to the contract could be taken as an indication of the pride he felt in his accomplishment. Above the line marked “Author,” near the spot where Bentley Morriss had made his identity known as Holloway House Publishing Co.'s representative, appeared the letters that spelled “
Mr.
Donald Goines.”

West Coast

Goines seems to be looking at the poverty, urban decay and ruined lives, not as an amused god looking down on his creation, but rather as a street-level witness to the powerful effects of racism and poverty.

—Robert Skinner, author and librarian

 

Donnie's retirement from the streets came at just the right time. Hustlers of various types were about to catch hell with the advent of a new anticrime program. As Mayor Roman Gribbs settled into office, he was faced with—and forced to address—the reality of white flight from Detroit to outlying areas. Obviously familiar with the suffering that accompanied bigotry when it was directed at ethnic minority groups, the Polish Catholic politician had changed his surname from Grzyb when he was just a young man. He began his path to city leadership in law enforcement. Gribbs became a Wayne County sheriff and then an assistant county prosecutor. As his mayoral tenure began, just three years after the 1967 eruption, the city was in the midst of an exodus by businesses and homeowners that was creating an economic drain on the community. Cop that he was, Gribbs strategized according to the needs of presumably upstanding, if anxious, citizens who remained in Detroit neighborhoods, in spite of their uneasiness. The mayor launched an all-out assault against criminals, including a controversial and dangerous undercover program called STRESS (Stop the Robberies, Enjoy Safe Streets). Overseen by Chief of Police John Nichols, like the Big Four patrols that preceded it, the operation had a lopsided impact on city residents, not necessarily on criminals. Officers dressed in civilian clothes and made themselves conspicuous targets in high-crime areas. Their goal was to draw out the offenders and make arrests that would help reduce the level of fear in the community. But, for persons of color, STRESS proved to be stressful like a motherfucker. Arrests might involve officers violently subduing purse snatchers or petty thieves, which earned them a reputation as overly aggressive. The unit was creating more problems than it eliminated. Outraged civil rights leaders received numerous complaints from citizens who'd been roughed up or intimidated by STRESS officers. The radical black defense lawyer Ken Cockrel became a vocal opponent of the program. Perhaps one of the few things the lanky, broad-grinning firebrand loved more than taking on prosecutors was taking on cops. After STRESS officers killed several black youths, a public rally was held on September 23, 1971, to call for suspension of the unit. The squad hadn't even been established for a year. Yet, downtown Kennedy Square was filled with demonstrators who demanded an answer: If STRESS was put there to protect them, who would protect them from STRESS? Later on, more reports of shootings and related impropriety came to public knowledge. Then word got out that black youths actually died while in the custody of officers from the unit. STRESS, in one sector of the community, had become a source of
distress.

The already strained relationship between the people and the police was being stretched to its capacity. Just as it had been in '67, the force remained predominantly Caucasian. And just as it had been in '67, those who felt most vulnerable to their authority were the men and women of color. Apparently disinclined toward worrying about the latter group, Gribbs chose to focus on the crime rate. It would be another three years before STRESS was completely eliminated with the arrival of Coleman Young as Detroit's first black mayor. A former auto worker and state senator, Young would later appoint the city's first black police chief, William Hart. With his strong union background, fiery personality, and determined style of leadership, he brought a new feeling of pride to the community. Young desegregated the police force and hired 700 new officers, but like Gribbs, he continued to struggle with the increasing rate of crime. Nevertheless, the masses found him appealing because of his tendency to shoot from the hip and tell the truth about the white man, as it pertained to the obstacles of dominance that made surviving a tough prospect for non-Caucasians. “When I see racism, I talk about it,” Young was quoted as saying. “I've been doing that all my life and I hope I can stop talking about it. You know when that will happen? When I don't see any more racism.” But with his forthright talk and aggressive approach to leadership, the mayor continued drawing scrutiny from federal officials, not unlike those who had tried to brand him a Communist two decades earlier. Any legal or ethical misstep in Young's administration might lead to the end of his political career or, if it got worse, his ability to remain a free man. Donnie, meanwhile, was embracing his freedom. STRESS would never have a reason, let alone a chance, to touch him if things continued in the direction they had begun. Once
Dopefiend
was published, his honeymoon commenced. “The Story of a Black Junkie,” as it was subtitled, beat
Whoreson,
printed the following year, to the shelves. The ex-hustler was among the literati. Whether they liked it or not. Donnie had always envisioned himself achieving greatness, legitimate or otherwise, but he had no clue how much he would ultimately impact the world of urban publishing.