Low Road (19 page)

In the days that followed his first book's release, Donnie spent considerable time and energy brushing up on his vocabulary and polishing his image. It had never taken charm school to get him this far, but now he wanted to prepare for the attention that would accompany his newfound success. With what effort he could muster, he even managed to reduce his heroin use. He didn't pick up the “spike,” as he named it, to stick in his arm, without the awareness that now he might have more to lose by indulging his habit. Just because he wrote
Dopefiend,
he didn't have to continue being one. He even took the bold step of becoming his own publicist. One afternoon, Donnie got himself together and made his way over to 479 Ledyard, the building that housed the
Michigan Chronicle,
right on the edge of downtown. The company had recently moved from Eliot, the same street where he'd attended Catholic school. A black-operated, weekly newspaper, it was headed by Longworth Quinn and had a proud history in the city. The
Chronicle
was a contemporary of two other influential organs that reported news and perspectives concerning people of color: the
Chicago Defender
and the
Pittsburgh Courier.

Black journalism was undergoing a transformation, and not everyone thought it was for the better. Where, during the civil rights movement, such publications had played an active role in promoting change through keeping the community informed of victories and setbacks related to the struggle, by this time, many of the papers were becoming complacent. Without the ability to report on marches and demonstrations at the level of those that took place in the previous decade, the editors and staff writers tended to make black achievement and progress more of their focus. The result was a more narrow class orientation that highlighted business and professional men and women, leaving the masses, whose housing, economic, and educational opportunities had increased only marginally—if at all—excluded from coverage. Such fearless public statements as an early headline advising “When the Mob Comes and You Must Die, Take at Least One with You” attracted a dedicated and steady readership to the
Defender.
Its founder, Robert Sengstacke Abbott, had adopted his father's creed that “a good newspaper was one of the best instruments of service and one of the strongest weapons ever to be used in defense of a race which was deprived of its citizenship rights.”

Similarly, the
Pittsburgh Courier
had developed a reputation for being in the vanguard of the black community. Like the
Defender,
it attracted a national audience, largely due to the broad scope of its reporting on current affairs. The paper was founded in 1910 by a small group of Pittsburgh's black residents at a time when the city's white-run publications ignored colored folks or relegated their coverage of these citizens primarily to crime and other lurid topics. The
Courier
utilized well-regarded writers, including Joel A. Rogers, whose “Your History” column discussed black achievements that commonly went unrecognized by the dominant social structure. The paper advocated for fair treatment of Negro servicemen during World War II, and by 1946, it produced fourteen local and national editions and had offices in twelve different cities.

Until the late 1950s, black newspapers thrived in virtually every major city. Then, as if activated by the yank of a chain, recognition of news value and potential readership connected with the civil rights movement flashed through the minds of the white media like a light bulb. Mainstream coverage led to a period of decline in the Negro press. With greater human, technological, and financial resources, the white papers and broadcast outlets could report a greater number of stories. A handful of the mainstream publications got hip to the advantage of having Negro staffers, who could get access to the neighborhoods and barbershops where white journalists would find resistance—or worse. But by 1955, only thirty-one black reporters were employed by the white media. Not until the '70s, when Donnie could have benefited from the exposure they might have provided, did the papers and TV stations actively recruit black talent. As Holloway House discovered not long before, however, in certain corners it was tough even to buy the attention they needed to promote their books. And while his face was still a handsome one, framed by his short, brown Afro and substantial mustache, or occasional goatee, Donnie was limited in his capacity for presentation. He was a decent communicator and his God-given charm never went away. Besides that, he was obviously no square. Donnie was more up on what was happening in the real world than probably anyone he knew. Yet, unlike Beck, he had never been to college or become particularly erudite on any philosophical subjects. His pitcher's arm had never suffered after all those years, and he had learned to play a good chess game, but Donnie wouldn't receive the interview requests and speaking invitations that his idol received. If he was going to get the media following that would help sell books, he'd better go after it himself.

Donnie walked into the
Chronicle
lobby unannounced and stopped at the front desk. He asked for Marie Teasley, a reporter whose byline he had followed enough to recognize her name. She kept track of the Detroit social scene, of which he could see himself becoming a part. A receptionist telephoned upstairs to the reporter as she worked in the newsroom.

“A young man is here to see you,” the clerk said. “His name is Donald Goines.”

The weather was warm that day, and it wasn't uncommon for visitors to stop in unannounced. In spite of its changing focus, the
Chronicle
was still regarded as a community institution. It was located one street over from Masonic Temple auditorium, around the corner from Cass Tech High and in the immediate vicinity of office buildings, so there was a fair amount of foot traffic and vehicle flow from the nearby Lodge Freeway. It was fairly convenient for anyone in the neighborhood, or working downtown, to stop in and pick up a newspaper or place a business ad. Marie watched Donnie as he walked the stairs to the second floor. She had heard his name before but didn't specifically place it. She thought she'd read about one or two of his crimes, though Donnie really hadn't raised the kind of hell that would legitimately earn him the title of newsmaker, hard as he may have tried. Nonetheless, Marie associated the uncommon Goines name with dicey dealings. It was certainly not one she heard in any of her professional circles.

“Are you Marie Teasley?” Donnie asked as they shook hands.

“Yes.”

“I'm Donald.”

She noticed that Donnie carried with him a couple of his books, but she had no inkling about why he was there at her office. Although she and columnist June Brown frequently had readers who popped in and asked to meet them, Donnie's introduction had a purpose behind it. Marie wrote a popular column called the “Jet Set.” It highlighted the interests and achievements of people on the move. Anyone from a student at nearby Wayne State University to a party host might receive mention in the “Jet Set,” depending on that particular week's news. The column was included in a ten-page lifestyle section that featured fashion, food, and entertainment, among other related topics. Donnie told her that he read the “Jet Set” and enjoyed it a great deal. Pleasantly surprised to hear him say he had become an author, Marie decided she would conduct an impromptu interview. They talked as Donnie sat by her desk.

The reporter was a little taken aback, however, when she saw the titles Donnie handed her.

“Oh, Lord,” she thought to herself.

“Don't be alarmed,” Donnie said, reading her thoughts. “I'm writing my life.”

It was an unsolicited confession, and to a stranger. His new outlook allowed him a freedom he probably hadn't experienced in years. Marie flipped through the pages, immediately struck by Donnie's intimate knowledge of the subject matter they discussed. She asked how he wrote with such familiarity. Again, Donnie explained with complete honesty that it had all been a part of who he was since his boyhood in the North End of Detroit.

“But I'm coming through it,” he proudly added.

Marie was impressed by the way Donnie handled himself. She would include him in her column. He never even had to make the formal pitch. Not much later, Marie was told about an assignment. Doris, a cousin on the Goines side of the family in New York, was so proud of Donnie's achievement that she wanted to put something together for him. She made her way to Michigan and threw Donnie a book-signing party. Relatives and friends gathered at a downtown hotel room where they lavished the man of the hour with praise. Donnie enjoyed all the attention. There were probably more congratulations offered there than he had received in all of his thirty-five years. Marie Teasley was among the well-wishers in attendance. She wrote an item for the paper and got a photograph of Donnie published along with it. Now thousands of people would know the name and face of Donald Goines. During that time, he actually managed the strength to lighten that monkey on his back and reduce his heroin consumption. For a moment, all too brief, it looked as if everything was coming together.

*   *   *

James Brown became known as the “hardest-working man in show business,” but for dry cleaning, he couldn't come anywhere near touching Joe Goines. The family patriarch was still operating North-side at an amazing eighty-five years old when his son's first book was published. He had always been a little guy; however, those who learned about his bankroll during the years described him differently. Neighborhood folks often used the nickname “Big Joe.” It had a glorious connotation, not unlike the “Big Chief” title he used in his occasional unwinding rituals, but it also revealed the esteem with which he was held. Men such as Joe and Shorty Hunt, who operated Hunt's Market, were essentially the backbone of the community. Their dedication to providing service was the sort that had helped keep black neighborhoods together. In truth, Joe had never hated the color; he just hated the hassles associated with blackness. And with the help of his wife, he had successfully raised and sheltered three children from a good many. Marie, Donnie, and Joan knew nothing of the terrifying, sanctioned racism that was everywhere when their parents grew up in the South, and they would never have to work for the white man as long as the family business remained. Still, they chose different routes.

For her part, Myrtle never failed to support her boy's vision of a successful literary career. She had no way of imagining that in the earliest stages of his becoming a popular author, Donnie would deeply wound her. In 1972, the entire world might as well have known what he thought of his mother with the introduction of two words:
whore son.
Despite her knowledge that the combined words formed the title of his second book for Holloway House, the detailed chronicle of events in the life of a Detroit prostitute's only child cut Myrtle to the core.
Whoreson: The Story of a Ghetto Pimp
sprang forth from Donnie's mind, not his upbringing. It was the product of both personal recollection and imagination. He really hadn't intended to publicly embarrass loved ones. Had not meant to make any particular commentary about his rearing at all, at least not on any conscious level. Donnie was simply doing what had gotten him a foot in the publisher's door—writing what he knew. Myrtle, however, wasn't anywhere close to thinking that way. This particular book, her boy had chosen to write in the first person. He had become the voice of Whoreson Jones, the story's bizarrely named central character. In Whoreson's words, Donnie told of how Jessie, a young, attractive woman who sells sex for a living, gave birth with the help of Big Mama, the boss of a tight prostitute stable in Black Bottom. Jessie has conceived the child with a Caucasian trick, who Whoreson will never know, leaving him with a beigelike hue that elicits the same hurtful nicknames Donnie was called as a boy. The plot is set in the same city, near some of the same neighborhoods and surroundings where the Goines family had been settled for going on forty years. But if these fact and fiction parallels weren't enough, there was the specific description of Whoreson's arrival into the world. No fanfare. No theatrics. Nothing even as compelling as the cutting of an umbilical cord. It was the season and the year of Whoreson's birth that begged to be read as autobiographical. Myrtle found it almost impossible not to wonder if she was actually the composite for this Jessie, about whom her son had written:

From what I have been told, it is easy to imagine the cold, bleak day when I was born into this world. It was December 10, 1940, and the snow had been falling continuously in Detroit all that day. The cars moved slowly up and down Hastings Street, turning the white flakes into slippery slush. Whenever a car stopped in the middle of the street, a prostitute would get out of it, or a whore would dart from one of the darkened doorways and get into the car. Jessie, a tall black woman, with high, narrow cheekbones, stepped from a trick's car, holding her stomach. Her dark, piercing eyes were flashing with anger. She began cursing the driver, using the vilest language imaginable about his parents and the nature of his birth.

Donnie had placed Whoreson's birth date only five days and four years apart from his. True, Jessie bore no physical resemblance to his mother, but the book's other references were sufficient to hurt Myrtle's heart. Had she given Donnie any reason to see her as a whore? Was she somehow responsible for his poor choices? Donnie and his sisters labored to convince her that the thoughts and observations in the book belonged completely to a fictional character, though they never believed she fully accepted the explanation. After all, the facts remained: Donnie had run away from her to Korea and returned a different person. A man-child in a not-so-promising land. Was there something more his mother could have done to show him a better means of making his way through this world? It would be several books later before he acknowledged Myrtle in the same public way; this time there would be no confusion about his message. He thanked her on a dedication page, writing “… to my mother, Myrtle Goines, who had confidence in my writing ability.”