EVERY BIG CITY has one: a part of town that’s become a magnet for society’s outcasts. Corktown is no exception. It doesn’t matter whether these people are down on their luck or physically or mentally challenged; society has turned its collective back on them. They are nothing more than cannon fodder for drug dealers and gangsters. But things have been slowly changing for some time. There are a number of renovation projects in the works, sponsored by both public and private sectors. They might even renovate Tiger Stadium.
Like seedy sections of every town, this city also has its significant ever-changing weather patterns. Unlike the warm Santa Ana winds of California, throughout the winter months, Corktown experiences what’s known as the Alberta Clipper—a strong, cold, miserable, on-again, off-again, son-of-a-bitch northern wind.
Unlike the weather, there are constants in life that simply will not or cannot change, as with crazy people, for instance—the so-called basket cases. At one time or another, most of us have witnessed a person shouting and waving his arms at imaginary friends or foes. Some appear potentially violent, inspiring an immediate primal fear within the casual observer, while others display passive behaviors; they just grin or simply stare off into space and mutter to themselves, completely aloof to the world around them. Then there are those who look and act completely normal, but in reality they are the embodiment of evil, and their behavior would be considered far from human. If you have ever wondered what realm of reality one of these unfortunate souls is experiencing, then keep reading. Step into the shoes of Eddy Sloan and go for a walk.
It’s early October, and Eddy is about to get his introduction to an early Clipper, thanks to a most unpredictable Mother Nature. Corktown has been home to Eddy for only a few months, so how was he supposed to know this place had such a wretched meteorological phenomenon? Here he comes, dressed in summer clothes and riding in the front seat of a graffiti-laden DDOT bus; his favorite place is always right up front, so he can see exactly where the bus is going. Luckily for Eddy, the bus stop is just a few blocks from his second-story studio apartment.
Eddy’s a bit down on his luck, as he lost his IT tech job two years ago. He left California nearly a year later and headed east with hopes of starting a new life. The problem is that he left without a firm plan. After aimlessly drifting around the country, he ended up in Detroit, flat broke and jobless. Since then he can’t even find a steady girlfriend, let alone a job. Now, Eddy’s not a bad-looking young man, although he could stand to drag a comb across his head on occasion. His clothes are also unkempt, giving new meaning to the term “out of style.” Despite what his peers would consider minor details, most women would consider the handsome Eddy a good catch. He’s no slouch at six foot two and one-hundred-and-eighty-pounds, with a body fat content of less than 10 percent.
Most people have experienced the ever-popular city bus ride, and they’re all the same: the yuppies, elderly, generation Xers, drunks, gangsters, punkers and an occasional ironworker. Oh, and the smells—don’t forget the aromatherapy included in the bus fare, like that from the heavyset woman sitting behind Eddy. She apparently showered in cheap perfume to mask her overwhelming body odor, thereby proving that two wrongs don’t make a right.
Mix in a little pot smoke with the resident drunkard’s Jack Daniels aftershave, topped off with a hint of diesel exhaust leaking through a heater vent, and there you have it: the scent of an urban bus ride.