CHAPTER III

DETROIT

When people hear the word “Detroit,” they think of cars and music. There is a lot of truth to this too. There is a good chance you will hear all the latest music and see the latest cars when you sit on the porch day after day. The next-door neighbor had a son named J.B., or June Bug. June Bug was about twenty two years old with the mind of a five-year-old, so we got along pretty well. He sat on the porch, listened to the latest music, and watched the latest cars pass by with me. His mother, Ms. Bernice, was one of the few neighbors who treated me kindly. I think it’s because of the way I interacted with June Bug. He had an old radio he listened to while sitting on the porch, and he knew all the latest songs. Believe it or not, June Bug could sing, and I mean “sang.”

I now know June Bug was autistic, but back then he was considered retarded, slow, damaged goods, and all the other negative labels assigned to children who were different. Despite his autism, June Bug became my first real friend. He accepted me for me and taught me how to play the game “that’s my car.” As cars drove down Gratiot Avenue, we would shout “That’s my car!” In order for it to “be your car,” you had to say the color, make, manufacturer, and identify the driver. Black Cadillac Eldorado, General Motors, white man driving. June Bug was always right, and I eventually learned the difference between Cadillacs, Buicks, Fords, the Electric “Deuce n Quarter” (Electra 225). My favorite was the Corvette Sting Ray!

One day while we were sitting on June Bug’s porch singing, laughing, playing “That’s my car” and listening to some Temptations (the greatest group ever) a group of about four or five boys and girls between the ages of ten to thirteen years old walked by us. One of them decided to yell: “Hey, look at this—a fucking retard and a foster child!” I immediately balled up my fist and prepared to fight. June Bug looked at me and just burst out laughing; I joined him for a couple of chuckles with my eyes still on the teenagers in the street.

“Damn, Tony, they laughing at you!” One of the guys in the street said.

A girl instigated, “You gone let them get away with that T.J.?” “T.J., Tony Jackson,” June Bug began suddenly, “Live down the street over by the store with his mama and step-daddy. His real daddy spent most of his life in jail andt when he got out he was more of a woman than his mama. His mama is on welfare and turns tricks. She’ll fuck a bulldog if you’ll hold its head! Her grandmama was a whore; her mama was a whore, and she’s a whore, God please bless her little daughter, or she’ll be whore too. His step-daddy beats the shit out of Tony and his mama and is molesting his little sister. Po’ child done learned how to suck a dick before she learned how to read! Tony came from a bad seed. I hope he don’t end up like his faggot daddy.”

At the end of June Bug’s biographical tirade on T.J., the other kids burst out laughing, pointing, and egging Tony on.

“Damn, Tony!”

“The retard is playing the dozens hard on you, man!”

“He got you, man!”

It dawned on me that not only could June Bug remember all the words to the songs he heard, but he could also remember all the words of what people said around him. T.J. rushed up the porch to attack June Bug, but he had to get past me first, and I wasn’t going to allow it. T.J. rushed up the stairs with his fists clinched in the air. His first blow was not to my nose or mouth, but to the side of my head. I could hear bells ringing and my eyes got blurry. I became dizzy and uncoordinated. The second punch landed right in my stomach, and I immediately folded over and fell down on the ground. Suddenly, I heard a voice screaming in a staggered breath. Help! Help! “Get—him— off—me! Somebody get this crazy motherfucker off of me!” I managed to shake myself and peek up from my daze on the ground long enough to see that June Bug had come off the porch and began throwing lefts and rights on T.J. with pinpoint precision. I tried once again to stand up, but the ringing in my head made me fall back to the ground in a sitting position.

The girls just stood by laughing, while the boys took off running fearing they would be next. June Bug grabbed T.J. around his throat from behind and began to choke him. Over the girls’ laughter and T.J.’s screaming, Ms. Bernice’s high-pitched, steady voice rose above it all, pleading for June Bug to let T.J. go.

“J.B., J.B., please, J.B., let him go!” She yelled. The girls, seeing more adults gathering behind Ms. Bernice in the street, ran in the direction of the other boys. Behind Ms. Bernice were about eight other people—June Bug’s uncles, aunts and cousins, were all pleading with June Bug to stop choking T.J. Finally, one of his uncles wrenched June Bug’s grip on T.J.’s throat, and T.J. fell to the ground, gasping for air and massaging his throat. Once he regained control of his breath, he ran down the street in fear; immediately, all faces turned to June Bug, who stood with a crazed look on his face and one arm held by his uncle. Ms. Bernice raised her finger and stepped toward June Bug, but before she could begin scolding him, one of his aunts put her hand on Ms. Bernice’s shoulder.

“Now, Bernice, don’t you go being mad at that boy (with a thick country accent), I seen the whole thang,” she said quickly. “I was talking on the phone and looking out the window when those chilluns came by and began to call June Bug and his friend a bunch of names. You know June Bug told the main one picking on him about himself and his family. When he tried to attack June Bug, that lil nigger over there tried to stick up for him, but the bully punched the shit out of him, knocking him to the ground. That’s when June Bug put his foot in his ass.”

Ms. Bernice paused for a hot second to consider the story then grabbed June Bug and pushed him towards the house. “Go on in the house June Bug,” she said to him. June Bug began to go upon his porch, but suddenly turned around and came back towards where I was sitting in the street. June Bug, “Boy don’t you hear your Mama talking to you!” June Bug’s uncle yelled and stepped in his path. June Bug lightly pushed past him and reached down to help me up off the ground. I was still a little dizzy, and the bells were getting quieter. June Bug simply looked at me and said, “friend.” We both burst out laughing.

June Bug’s uncle said, “These two niggas been sitting on the porch so long together they both done gone crazy!” June Bug and I looked quickly at Ms. Bernice, and she cracked a shy smirk at her brother’s comment. Before I went back up my porch, I looked over to June Bug’s aunt and smiled at her. I’d noticed that in her haste to tell what happened she said “June Bug and his friend.” It was official now; we were recognized in the world as friends.

Despite the ass kicking by T.J., I learned two life lessons that day. One: “Be real careful on what I say about people around June Bug; and two: Punch quick and hard to the side of the head first and follow up with a vicious gut shot. However, one thing about the whole situation confused me; I had been sitting on the porch all summer long and never saw anyone but Ms. Bernice go in the front door. How in the hell did all of June Bug’s aunts, uncles, and cousins get into his house without me ever seeing them?

June Bug and I continued to sit on the porch all summer long with no more trouble from punk ass TJ. We sat there from sun-up to sun-down and listened to music, played Tunk, sang, danced, told jokes, watched the neighbors, walked to the corner store, messed with the prostitutes, and played the numbers. The numbers, or “the policy” as the older black folks called it back in the day, were every Black man’s dream. For each penny you played, you could win five dollars. So, a nickel bet would bring you twenty-five dollars.

June Bug’s favorite numbers were 1-2-3 because of The Jackson 5 song, “ABC.” My favorite numbers were 4-1-6 because that was Mrs. Henry’s birthday; she never played the numbers, but Mr. Henry did. Very seldom did he hit. The one time he did, we all benefited from his good fortune. He gave us foster kids two dollars to go and buy us something. I enjoyed the two dollars, but I knew as soon as he got drunk and went to sleep, I was going to get my real share. I had to learn at a young age how and where to hide my money. Whenever you hit the numbers, it seemed that everybody in the neighborhood knew, so that meant all the thugs, robbers, stickup men, hustlers, prostitutes, and even the preachers knew you had some extra money. De-pending on your number man, for a nice tip, he wouldn’t broadcast your good fortune until you had spent it all. When Mr. Henry hit, he usually got beat for most of his money. The pool hall, gambling, drinking and the prostitutes usually helped Mr. Henry redistribute his new found wealth.

The other female neighbors often questioned Mrs. Henry as to why she let him spend all his number winnings without getting her cut? As always, Mrs. Henry would just smile serenely and in her usual calm and logical voice say, “I don’t need no ill got’ gains for me to survive, the grace of God will provide for me.”

“Umm!, Umm!,Umm!” The women would usually put their hands at their hips and shake their heads. “Girl, you and that Grace of God!” They knew better than to try and argue with the Grace of God.

Now, when June Bug or I hit, it was Faygo, fruit punch pops, BetterMade potato chips, Moon Pies, White Castle (murder burgers), and prostitutes (for June Bug), until our money ran out. June Bug sure liked prostitutes for some reason. I knew they sold pussy, but I didn’t really know what pussy was; I knew only women had it, and men always wanted it and were willing to pay to get it. I always made sure June Bug bought me something before he started talking to those prostitutes. He never had any money left after going with one of them.

One day, on the stroll (Mack Avenue), where the prostitutes displayed their portfolios. All of a sudden one of the prostitutes yelled in a soft and soothing voice, “Hey, June Bug!” June Bug stopped in his tracks and just stared at her as if she knew something about him that no one else knew. I had never seen him so shook up before. The prostitute strutted over to him and softly slid her hand across his face. June Bug lowered his head and focused his gaze on the ground; she continued to rub his head and face, sometimes lifting his chin slightly only for him to quickly lower it back down. This was a weird prostitute—her hair was long and wavy, and I could tell she didn’t wear a wig. There wasn’t a lot of war paint on her face, and she didn’t have any bags under her eyes or scars across her cheek; she possessed no smell of liquor, weed, or smoke but instead fresh, sweet flowery perfume. This one wasn’t hard like all the other bitches on the Boulevard.

There was an air of superiority about her, and I caught the whores looking at her with a mixture of envy and reverence. I could hardly take my eyes off her myself. I had never seen a prostitute as pretty as she was! The prostitute now held June Bug’s hand, and he was straight motionless with a lopsided smile gazing at her.

She turned to me and gave a larger smile making the two dimples appear on her smooth cheeks. “Now, you must be that foster child I’ve been hearing about.” She said. “Thank you for looking out for my June Bug.” The pretty prostitute reached into her blouse, pulled out a ten dollar bill and handed it to me. Before I realized what happened, she bent over and kissed me on my cheek, and my first instinct was to slap the shit out of her, but it passed quickly. I heard the older guys say don’t ever let a prostitute kiss you because you don’t know whose dick she just finished sucking, but they were wrong about that. It was the most sincere, tender kiss I had ever received, and I just couldn’t imagine any dick being in this woman’s mouth. As she hugged me, I took a deep breath and inhaled the sweet honey smell of her skin.

“Now, if you or June Bug ever need anything, just let any of these ladies know; they know how to get in touch with me. Us foster children have to stick together.” She winked and her words struck me like a backhand from Mr. Henry. Us foster children! Wow! She was once a foster child too! On the way home my mind began to race. Who is she? How does she know June Bug? Was she his mother, sister, cousin, Who? Who? Who?

“June Bug, who’s that lady?”

He remained silent and continued to walk at a slightly faster pace than normal.

“Hey, how do you know her? June Bug, come on man, say something.” I said.

June Bug stopped and looked at me with a look I’ve never seen in him before. I could see tears forming in his eyes. I realized that something was bothering my friend. I tapped his shoulder gently.

“Hey, man, don’t worry about it. I’m sorry if I got into your business, man.” We continued up the corner, and immediately saw Ms. Bernice on the porch with a phone up to her ear. She caught our gaze with a frenzied look of concern, like a radar tracking a missile. She lowered the phone to the side of her waist and yelled, “June Bug, what’s wrong?” When she got no answer, she ran down the steps of the porch and met us halfway down the street.

She reached out for June Bug, but he pushed past her, knocking her out stretched arms away from him. Ms. Bernice could see the tears in his eyes and the hurt in his heart. I had never seen June Bug this upset before.

Ms. Bernice turned to me. “What in the world is going on? What’s happened to June Bug?” She screamed. I had never heard or seen her angry before not even when she scorned June Bug for choking T.J.

“I—I don’t know,” I stuttered, “We were just talking to some prostitute up on the stroll, and he just clammed up. She was a pretty prostitute not like the others—”

“That Jezebel!” Ms. Bernice yelled and paced a couple steps back and forth away from me in rage. “That damn harlot. I told her to stay away from my June Bug! I should have killed her when I had the chance!”

For a couple of seconds, she clinched and unclenched her fists repeatedly and ran her hands through her hair while pacing back and forth. I felt there was definitely something going on that I had no clue about. Well, whatever it was it was none of my business.

“What did she say to June Bug?” She suddenly demanded.

I clammed up and blinked at her.

Ms. Bernice took hold of my arm and shook. “Tell me, dammit, tell me!”

“Well—s-she c-came up to us, and j-just rubbed June Bug’s face—” Ms. Bernice’s grip on me tightened. “I told her what she said and that she kissed me and gave me ten dollars and told me to look out for June Bug.”

She released her grip and popped an open palm in front of me. “Where is the money?” She said in a threatening voice.

Like a fool, I mindlessly reached in my pocket and pulled out the ten dollar bill the pretty prostitute had given to me. Ms. Bernice snatched the money out of my hand and began to rip it in half.

“This is the Devil’s money! Harlot’s Honey!” She screamed crazily. Ms. Bernice continued to tear the money into small pieces before my eyes.

“You stay away from that harlot,” she said in a shaky, measured voice. “She’ll turn you into a little pimp. I don’t want you or June Bug around her no mo, you hear me?”

I heard myself saying, “Yes, ma’am,” but all the while my mind was wondering how in the hell am I supposed to tape that money back together! Ten dollars is ten dollars when you’re six years old, and you don’t care where it came from.