My Three Short Stories
St. Clair highball
My father was a part-time TV serviceman who would make service house calls in the evenings and on weekends. I often went with my father, and helped by lugging his tool box and tubes from the car to the customer’s home. I was fascinated by the different neighborhoods, the people who spoke different languages, the strange street names, and the different architecture. I was amazed that my father could navigate his way back home through the myriad neighborhoods of Detroit. One hot Saturday afternoon, after we completed a service call in the Southwest part of town, we stopped at an old-fashioned beer and wine bar on Michigan near Livernois. We sat at the bar and my dad ordered a Stroh’s. The bartender looked at me – I was about 10 years old – and said, “How ‘bout a St. Clair highball for you?” My dad nodded and I was served water on the rocks in a highball glass. On the way home I asked my dad why the drink was called a “St. Clair highball,” and he told me it’s because the water comes from Lake St. Clair! Even today, I refer to a glass of water as a “St. Clair highball.”
The Coolest Subway
A sudden winter storm rolled in from the west with such ferocity that airports from Chicago to Buffalo were totally shut down. Many passengers who had intended to just catch a connecting flight through Metro Airport unexpectedly had a couple of days to spend in the city. I was riding the standing room only Detroit People Mover when I heard the man standing next to me excitedly say to his wife, “Honey, look at these buildings! This is the coolest subway I’ve ever seen. You aren’t underground. You can see things!” And then he exclaimed, “And look over there! There’s Wrigley Field.” I then pointed out to the obvious visitor that the ballpark he saw was Comerica Park, the home of the Detroit Tigers, and that he was in Detroit! He gave me an astonished look, then laughed and told me that they were supposed to fly to Chicago after connecting in Detroit, but that their flight had been cancelled. He assured me that they were having an unanticipated great time in Detroit.
“I’m very sorry.”
I was a young Detroit Police Department officer, assigned to the 16th Precinct on Grand River. One Sunday morning about 7AM I was dispatched to a single family home. “Dead person” was the only information I was given. It was fairly common to get these calls on Sunday mornings. An elderly relative wouldn’t show up at church and concerned family members would go the home, only to find that the person had passed. That’s what I was anticipating this call would be about.
I walked up to the door and was let in by a very solemn couple accompanied by a minister. I respectfully asked the couple where the deceased person was, and they directed me to a closed bedroom. I entered the bedroom, but at first didn’t see anyone. I turned the light on and saw what looked like a pillow in the middle of the bed. The “pillow” was the six-month old infant son of the couple that had let me in. I had heard about “SIDS,” or Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, but had never actually encountered a case. I conducted my investigation. “I’m very sorry” were the only words I could think to say as I left.
No comments:
Post a Comment