“Ya know what I would do if I ran this thing,” Denny Paulsen said too loud, too close to one of the marshals who did, in fact, help run this thing, “I’d divert every gawddamn car built after 1985 down a side street and make this entire avenue classic cars.”
Luis sipped his beer, wondered why they still came to the Motor Ramble. It was a blast the first year, but he and Denny were still failing out of college back then.
It was a novelty, long since worn off.
Luis watched as Denny glared at the woman in the 2019 Cadillac, blocking Denny’s view of a cherry red Chevelle with some questionable aftermarket work.
The marshal cleared his throat.“We do our best to suggest to the public that non-classic cars find alternate routes, but rerouting them all is logistically impossible.”
Denny said “Yeah, well, what I would do is-”
“Holy shit,” Luis said, “that’s Mike.”
Behind the Chevelle, driving a 2022 Bronco, pristine, brand new, was Mike Verona.
“ Crackhead Mike! “ Denny said, laughing “Did that dumbshit steal a car and drive right into the center of an advertised traffic jam?”
The marshal scowled at Denny.
“It’s not a traffic jam, it’s a slow-moving celebration of-”
“Crackheads in brand new cars?” Denny said and was the only person nearby to laugh.
“Ali begged me to hire him,” Luis said quietly. “She really leaned on me. I just couldn’t. He has some skills, but…”
“But what? Denny asked, “besides that he’s on the pipe.”
“I can’t have him up on a sign scaffold with me, but even beyond that, I didn’t want him killing himself with a paycheck I gave him.”
“You got a soft spot for that dude.”
“Everybody had a soft spot for that dude when he was all-state in football. Then he was a badass drummer for Gutburn, then Striptide. Can’t just abandon a homey when he’s fuckin’ up.”
Denny guzzled, then grabbed another beer from the cooler while his cheeks were still squirrel nutted from the previous one.
He swallowed, belched an on purpose, loud, obnoxious, look-at-me belch and said, “Striptide sucked. And ya can’t save a homey from himself, either.”
***
Luis pulled the sign painting van down the winding turn to go south on 75. The Monday sun was attacking from the east, and all he could see was orange and shadows.
Almost hit a guy’s cardboard sign as he almost blew the stop sign everybody blew between Les McCann Park and the on ramp.
He braked. The sign either belonged to Vietnam Kelly or to Luis’s sister’s ex-boyfriend, “Crackhead” Mike Verona.
“Fuck me sideways Weezy,” Mike said, “ya almost hit me.”
Luis slammed on his hazards, put the van in park. He owned the company. The Faygo repro on the law office in Corktown was gonna wait.
Mike was too exuberant, too energetic, to be anything but high.
“Where’s the Bronco?” Luis was legit curious if Mike had actually somehow procured a vehicle.
Mike laughed, wobbled a little bit.
“That was a test drive, bro. They was havin’ a promotion at McDonald Ford. Thought it would be funny.”
“I didn’t know you even had a valid license.”
Mike stepped back, kicked the curb with his heel.
“Ali helped me get mine back.”
Mike stared at Luis. Luis was sure there wasn’t anger on his face, but a seriousness he didn’t expect.
“She thought you were gonna hire me, Weezy.” Mike’s head snapped downward like a puppeteer had dropped a control bar, then popped back up, classic crackhead style, an alert animal emerging from a burrow.
“Borrow me ten bucks, Weez, I’ll get ya back Friday.”
Luis swung his legs around the driver’s seat, scooted around the center console and exited the passenger side door.
Mike set his cardboard sign down. Luis didn’t read it all, but he could tell it didn’t say God Bless.
Mike Verona was a lot of things, Luis thought, but at least he wasn’t a hypocrite.
“Get in, Mike. Let me take you to rehab. I’ll pay. Not a loan.On me. 30 days, 60, whatever. Complete a program. Joe got clean. Fuck turtles, Mike, if Joe can be clean, you can.”
Luis stood there, almost, right on the cusp of offering up Maybe you and Ali can be in love again.
He choked it back in a panic that he almost made such a promise he could neither guarantee nor fulfill himself.
Luis thought something was weird. Mike wasn’t shaking his head no. He was just staring. He was thinking.
“C’mon Mike. I…I love you bro. Fuck this cardboard sign shit, fuck these corners, fuck those rocks. Let’s go.”
“Gimmie til Thursday, brother. I got somethin’ happenin’ Wednesday. I’ll call you on Thursday and–”
“Now, Mike, not Wednesday, or Thursday. Now. I’ll pay for all of it. If there’s a commissary there, I’ll fill your commissary like you’re a king. C’mon. “
Luis reached out his arm, hoping Mike would take it and he could help him into the van.
“You’ll have a job waiting for ya.”
Luis thought of something, then hesitated. Mike stared.
“I’ll help you finance a Bronco, Mike. If you get clean, you can work for me, work off a Bronco. You’ll save me going through piles of resumes of dipshit hipster kids who dropped out of CCS. But ya gotta lose the pipe.”
Mike licked his lips.
“Thursday. I’ll call you Thursday.”
Mike bent, picked up his cardboard sign, and walked to the back of Luis’s sign van like Luis wasn’t even standing there.
“Spare a dollar?” Mike called at a woman in a minivan. “Down on my luck.”
The woman pulled around Luis’s van and took off onto the on-ramp.
Luis got in his van and did the same.
***
Friday afternoon Denny Paulsen got a text reminding him of his dentist appointment on Monday. He was about to delete it when Luis texted.
“My back porch. I have beer. Bring Jagermeister.”
Denny knew two things. On Friday night, Luis Mendoza would rather be drinking at The Old Miami than anywhere else, and he hated Jagermeister.
Luis was sitting on some funky, neon upholstered modern rocking chair.
When Denny stepped on to the porch Luis scooped two extra tall, thin shot glasses with Tigers logos on them off a small wire mesh table.
“Buy it chilled?”
“Not a rookie, “ Denny said.
He cracked the cold bottle and poured the black green liquid into the shot glasses Luis held.
Something was wrong with Luis.
His movements were stiff. He was breathing through pursed lips like he was drinking from an invisible straw.
And he hated Jagermeister.
Luis raised the shot glass.
“To Mike Verona. His old nickname is gone. Let’s call him Mike, forever, ok?
Luis looked to the sky. “Cheers, my brother, Rest in Power.”
Luis did his shot and whipped the shot glass at the screen of the porch. It bounced off and shattered on the cement.
Denny did his shot, started to ask “how,” then decided it was a stupid question.
The rocking chair rocked when Luis sat in it
Luis started to laugh.
“Fucking marbles, Denny. Fucking marbles.”
Denny and Luis had grown up together, knew a ton of slang. Denny couldn’t place marbles.
He pulled a beer from the cooler between him and Luis.
“Ali ok?”
Luis shook his head.
“She’s wrecked.”
“She wasn’t with him, was-”
Luis shook his head no, vigorously and reached for the Jagermeister.
Denny hadn’t been close to Mike but somehow remembered Mike wore a Jagermeister shirt in a Gutburn video.
“‘Member the Bronco?” Luis said.
Denny nodded, sipped his beer.
“McDonald Ford had a promotion,” Luis said. “Test drive a Bronco, get a 50 buck gift certificate to The Boneyard.”
“Why would a crackhead want ribs?” Denny said, immediately saying “sorry bro” when Luis turned, hissed at him and balled up his left fist.
Luis took a strong tug of the Jagermeister and put it on the table, not offering any to Denny.
He grabbed a beer and closed his eyes.
“You also got one guess into how many marbles were in the big glass…I dunno…vase or whatever… in the middle of the showroom.”
Denny couldn’t reach for the Jagermeister without being obvious about it.
He sipped his beer and closed his eyes. Thought about how many times he had driven past Mike.
“Crazy fucker came closest, Den,” Luis said “He won 5 grand Wednesday night. Fucking marbles. They found him this morning.”
“Man, that sucks,” Denny said. “You know what I’d do if I won 5 grand? I’d–”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Luis said and set his beer on the table.
***
Tell me anything.
Ask me anything.
Photo Courtesy of Getty Images
Here I thought we were going to have a nice little story about people grumbling about their old cars they wish they had never sold while also bitching about congestion around Woodward Ave.
Man, that hurts.
Many years ago, when I had an office across from the mission, Ed walked in.
I knew him from somewhere - nice fellow; he sat down and rolled up his sleeves when I asked if he was hungry.
Never understood why users want to show their tracks.
I fed him an extra burger I had purchased an hour before and put in the refrigerator because "What was I thinking???"
Obviously, God knew Ed was coming.
We talked for a while and I asked what he saw in his future.
He said it was dark and he needed help.
We drove to a place I knew that would help. Private. Free. Six guys, max.
The owner was sitting on the stoop when we got there.
I introduced Ed and headed back to the car.
"I can't" was what I heard as Ed blew by.
Needless to say, it was not a happy day and I looked for his obit daily.
Six months later Ed walked into my office!
Ed, you're alive!
Well, I got a few blocks and said, Ed, you're gonna be dead if you don't turn around, so I did.
Last I heard, he was working as a cook.
At least mine had a happier ending.
Great story, Jimmy. It was a gut-wrencher.
Life is not always butterflies and unicorns.