Shot In Detroit

by Patricia Abbott

  “Folks haven’t seen Rodney in a few years. He came over to attend college or law school and stayed. I’m sending him home after the funeral, but in a closed coffin. So a photograph right now seems appropriate—so his family can see him a last time. It’s not an unusual request, you know. People occasionally want a record. Or they need to show it to someone who can’t make it to the funeral. A lot of black people like pictures at the services: a little program, a history of a life. The guy who usually takes photos for me is out of town or he’d give me a hand. But I have a camera you can use. Didn’t think to ask you to bring one.”

  He went over to a cabinet and removed an inexpensive 35 millimeter job—a point-and-shoot from the nineties probably. I guess I looked at it as though it was an eight-track tape from 1975, turning it over in my hands, and Bill noticed my dismay.

  “Anyway, this one’s fine. Good enough, right?”

  I shrugged, shaking my head.

  Bill ignored my displeasure. “I’d do it myself but I don’t have the eye and time’s running out. Don’t want to send his parents a lousy picture, do we? They’ll never see him at the service so it needs to be a better photo than what I can do.” Bill stood in front of me, the proverbial hat in hand.

  “You should’ve told me to bring a camera. A photograph using this piece of garbage is going to be pretty hideous. It’ll look like you shoved him into the photo machine at Walmart.”

  For the first time, I looked at the body like a professional. “The lighting’s harsh—and those white, high-gloss walls. Ugh.” I shaded my eyes. “It won’t be much better than you could do yourself. The camera’s more important than the photographer for a picture like this. The lighting, ugh. Couldn’t we move him into another room? A room with flat paint and natural lighting? Why are the walls painted in high-gloss?”

  “Why do you think?” he said. “Just take the picture, Violet. It’s a record. No one’s expecting a studio shot.” He made a few minor adjustments to Rodney’s shorts and stepped back. “With these silky shorts he’s wearing, I don’t want it to look like he has an erection.” He sighed and leaned in again to examine him. “Hope he sent home a few recent pictures. Terrible to realize your son’s changed over the years and you missed all of it.”

  He frowned, and I realized how much he cared about the details. I’d seen how it was with him during the funeral I attended but forgotten. I wanted the best photo I could take of Bill’s rugby player. Try to match his professionalism—but what a rotten camera to do it with.

  “People his age don’t send their parents pictures unless they’re in the army and think they might die.”

  I didn’t know where my insight had come from, but it was probably true. Children at college, or older and without kids, never sent a snapshot home, but let them go to an army base overseas and a flood of photos found their way back. Or maybe that was changing too with cell phone cameras. But I doubted it. Friends yes, parents no.

  “Boy, I hate to take a lousy…”

  I interrupted myself; it was only going to be a parroting of what I’d already said. Bill would take the photograph himself rather than wait around if I continued to dally. Had to make myself do it and stop fussing.

  “Never heard of a black English guy.”

  “His family’s probably from one of those islands the Brits snatched. Didn’t mess around much with Africans. Guess they preferred the lilt to the bass.”

  I was circling the table, looking for the best angle. “Do you have a stool or stepladder for me to stand on? I need a little height. Table’s kind of high. I’d practically have to climb up on it to get a decent shot.”

  “If the tables were any lower, I’d have back trouble.”

  He walked over to a counter and pulled a wheeled stool out from beneath it. “Will this do?”

  But it didn’t. It kept moving and when Bill tried to hold it still, parts of him got in the way. Finally I settled on standing on an overturned wastepaper basket. Cheap camera or not, bad angle or not, poor lighting or not, I was going to take this picture, could already imagine pulling it out of the bath.

  Together we stretched Rodney out on the table again, this time a dark sheet underneath, propping him slightly, trying to get him to look peaceful for his parents. Trying to make up for the fact he’d died tragically and with no warning. I shot away, taking pictures from various angles until the film was gone. I would’ve taken far fewer photos with one of my own cameras. But this toy might not produce a single good shot. I hadn’t felt this panicky about a photograph in years.

  When I finished, I stepped down and said, “I can’t imagine these photos will help his family. My Deardorff would’ve been so much better, Bill. I’ll bring it next time. It’s perfect for formal shots.”

  I set Bill’s camera down with disdain, already thinking that there’d be more photographs.

  Bill shook his head. “You’re taking this way too seriously, Violet. It’s not like it’s a wedding picture.” He put the wastepaper basket away. “My regular guy just takes a few shots. No sense fussing over it. They’re not going to frame it and put it on the mantel. They’ll look at it once and file it away—or toss it without looking at it at all if it’s too painful.”

  So now the job was finished, it’d lost its urgency for Bill. He’d summoned me here late at night to perform a function he’d now devalued.

  “Hey, I can tell you take your job seriously by how he looks on that table, Bill. You took a lot of time with him. This guy—Rodney—who’s going back to Manchester in a closed box, looks like a prince. Don’t you think I want to do my best work for the family too?”

  Maybe it wasn’t merely art. Not this photograph.

  “He’s the best-looking dead man I ever saw. Too bad his parents won’t get a chance to appreciate it.” I paused again for emphasis. “Except they will, Bill, because I took his picture. They’ll see how fine he looked.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, okay. You can get down off the effing soapbox.”

  He pretended to whisk the imaginary piece of furniture away as he’d done with the wastepaper basket. I picked the camera up and removed the film, putting it into my purse.

  “Hey, I can get them developed right down the street. Don’t bother yourself.”

  “Like I’m gonna let a teenager with greasy hands and a funky bath fool around with my work.” I handed him his camera. “Even when I took pictures back in college, I developed them myself. Before I knew what I was doing, I was better than a teenager earning beer money.” I laughed a little, thinking about it. “I’d like to be at CVS to watch a sixteen-year-old pull these babies out of the tank.”

  Later, in the darkroom, I was amazed at how much I liked the photographs as the images rose up in the soup. The camera, inadequate though it’d been, invested the body with a patina of dignity. The photos were beautiful, eerie—though grotesque.

  “Di?” I said, hearing his voice on the other end of the line for once. “You’ll never guess what’s staring up at me.”

  “Not X-rated, I hope.”

  He sounded like he’d been asleep. Well, of course he was. It was after one o’clock. He woke up a little after I told him.

  “I’m really just using the mirror to summon something I don’t even know until I see it.”

  Cindy Sherman

  A few days later, I headed for Belle Isle again, telling myself I needed to check things out for an upcoming wedding I’d been hired to shoot. Some of the events I photographed took place in the Detroit Yacht Club. Though its membership had dwindled as its members moved west or north, many native Detroiters returned to the building and the island for various functions.

  The slips were empty today, of course, the boats in storage for another month or two. There was always traffic circling the island though; sometimes it appeared aimless, but why shouldn’t it? People weren’t there to work. The few open venues had their visitors—although it was mostly senior citizens going to the Belle Isle Casino to play cards or do crafts. Earl
ier or later came the joggers and sports enthusiasts. Later still the patrons with less admirable pursuits arrived. Was I in that number? Not today.

  Although I was familiar with the DYC building, I always liked to check out the lighting before an event, finding out if any obstacles might have popped up. Furniture got moved around, and surprises on the day of the event were never a good idea. Bare windows one year often gave way to heavy drapes the next, and you never knew when you’d find last year’s rose-colored room painted green. The color of paint could have a regrettable impact on bridesmaids’ dresses and flowers. If I knew the venue well, as I did the Yacht Club, I tried to steer the brides toward colors that would look good in the wedding photographs. Some women resented me for putting in my two cents; others were grateful. Some summer weddings took place under a white tent. It was almost impossible to get stunning pictures under the canvas, but tents seemed both picturesque and safe to the future bride.

  The DYC continued to look like the enormous Mediterranean villa its twenties-era architect was going for. A little shabby now, it still hinted at its opulent past. In 1924, membership had reached three thousand. I wondered what the number was now. There weren’t too many cars in the lot, but it was a Friday afternoon in March. At any rate, it looked a hell of a lot better than the Boat Club, which sat moldering down the road. No one could figure out which buildings to save or which to implode; this was true for the whole city.

  “Only fools are willing to pay for what makes a building distinct on the outside nowadays. Their attention’s on technological considerations and cash-generating amenities,” Bill had said recently. He was a member of several Detroit development associations considering such matters. “Make the bar inviting, but forget about marble steps or fancy parapets.”

  I spent time at the Yacht Club as a kid—when my mother waitressed for a firm catering DYC affairs. Bunny couldn’t always find a sitter, and I knew how to behave. The staff let me follow them around, showing me how to place napkins on the table, set glassware on the bar. I’d sketch the guests after that: women wearing ball gowns, furs, and brilliant jewels; men in tuxedoes with their shoes shined to a patina, musicians setting up, their glinting instruments blinding me; silver platters filled with food I couldn’t name. It was intoxicating.

  Once at a New Year’s Eve party, when I was spying from a niche, a man in a beautifully tailored tuxedo asked, “Whose little girl are you?”

  I paused a minute, thinking of Bunny sweating heavily in her polyester uniform, and then pointed at the most beautiful woman in the room, a woman sweeping across the flagstone terrace in a sapphire gown, her dark hair lustrous, held back with matching jeweled barrettes.

  The man laughed heartily, a hand resting on his cummerbund, and said, “You’re Lena Rossi’s kid, huh?” I nodded, growing hesitant from his tone. “Then you must be my daughter. Funny but I don’t remember your name.”

  Still chuckling, he moved away. I watched as he openly told his wife about it, both looking over at me bemused, wondering who I was, surely knowing from my clothing I wasn’t the child of a club member.

  “Where’ve you been?” Bunny asked me minutes later in the kitchen, grabbing my arm. “What’ve you been up to? You got a funny look on your face.”

  Today, I parked in the half-deserted lot and bounded up the steps to the ballroom, nodding to the porter, Stan Horsham.

  “Got the Scribner nuptials, huh?” he asked. I nodded, and smiling approvingly, he stepped aside. The staff at the DYC was eager for events, ready to do what it took to keep their jobs a little longer, and also invested in the Club’s success as a Detroit institution, one still hanging on. Employees were minimal during the week, but Stan was always around to lend a hand. He reminded me of the bartender in The Shining in his ancient uniform, his hair slicked back, a ready smile.

  After scouting the ballroom, the bar, and several seating areas, I made a few notes and took off. On impulse, I decided to drive around the island once before heading home. The idea that I could find something memorable to shoot had been intensified by my recent work for Bill. I wasn’t looking for corpses. At least I don’t think I was. Detroit does that to you though—makes decay seem glamorous. You began to see denuded landscapes, windowless buildings, potholed streets as potential art.

  It wasn’t early morning, a time when Belle Isle looked rough and slightly out of control, but you never knew. Maybe I wouldn’t be thwarted by bored cops this trip.

  The circuit around the island was more than two miles with sensational views of the Detroit River and its tributary, Lake St. Clair. Of course, much of Belle Isle was in a state of absolute disarray. The contrast of natural beauty and the detritus of man was poignant.

  On impulse, I stopped the car near a wooded area surprisingly free of debris, and began walking toward the river, cell phone in hand to be safe. Probably ninety-eight percent of Detroit’s suburban population never set foot on Belle Isle, a big part of the reason it was languishing. It wasn’t widely popular with most Detroiters either. It reminded them of what was lost. Maybe irretrievably.

  I’d slipped a new battery and memory card into the digital camera I kept on hand, in case something out of the ordinary caught my eye. Even at midday, it was possible. I didn’t mind using a digital for preliminary work.

  Violent crimes on Belle Isle were actually few, especially this time of year, but it was the summer hangout of Detroit’s teenage population and a place to sell drugs. Today it was nearly deserted, although trash and overgrown shrubbery was on the increase as I moved further from the road. Maybe it was the wind stirring the underbrush into something wild.

  I stopped suddenly. A large, grayish bulky object lay not fifty yards in front of me. It appeared to be human. I looked around. No one in sight. Cautiously, I approached the…the body, for that’s what it was, I was sure. My pulse raced. Shit. A body deserved more than a digital camera, though I certainly couldn’t have set up a larger camera out here, no tripods in sight. Why was I thinking about art when what I should have been thinking about was calling the cops?

  It couldn’t be a body. Probably a homeless guy sleeping it off. A passerby or park guard would’ve spotted a body by now, wouldn’t they? But who’d sleep out in the open? Wouldn’t they find a more out-of-the-way spot? But the thought of photographing a body without Bill’s touches—something raw and new—was thrilling, so I kept walking in its direction. Excitement and dread in equal portions rose in my throat.

  No, it wasn’t a body—it was nothing more than a large gray bag, probably filled with sand. Someone must’ve dragged it away from the river, perhaps to sit on the rise and look out over the water. There were no benches in this area, only a solitary picnic table eaten away by too many winters.

  “It’s a geobag,” said a voice from behind me. “The gray thing you’re wondering about. A geobag.”

  I turned around and found a young man standing with his hands on his hips. It was unclear whether he was homeless or merely dressed extremely casually. He wore a grandfatherly-looking blue jacket, a torn T-shirt from a nineties Rolling Stones concert, paint-stained khakis, and a pair of army boots, scuffed and without laces. I couldn’t decide whether to be frightened or not. But his use of the term “geobag” was marginally reassuring.

  “Parks Department uses geobags to prevent erosion,” he continued. “There’s dozens more down by the water.” He seemed pleased to be able to offer this information.

  “I guessed I’d about figured that out.”

  He ducked his head, embarrassed. “’Course you have. I dragged it up here to sit on. Bet you thought it was a body for a few secs though.” He chuckled. “You wouldn’t be the first. Week or two ago, a cop ran over here with his hand on his holster.” He paused, adding, “About once or twice a week, it gets moved back to the shore—though the thing weighs a friggin’ ton. Can’t figure out why anyone would pay so much attention to a dumb bag with all the shit needs to be done here.”

  We both looked around.
It was an untidy scene.

  “They only pick the trash up on Arbor Day. Come in from the suburbs to help out, wearing rubber gloves, goggles, and protective clothes. Like there’s ebola on the loose. Long time between Arbor Days though. They want to be getting after the phragmites before they crowd everything out.”

  What the hell were phragmites? It sounded like a rodent to me, but I let it go, saying, “And then brag all year about how they care about their city, how they do their part to maintain it.”

  “That’s them, all right.”

  We exchanged wary smiles. “Do you sit here to look at the water?” I asked, mostly to be polite. It sounded like I was talking to a child, but he was probably bipolar. His fly was half-open, his jaw kinda slack.

  “Sure, I watch the water—lots of cool boats go by. Industrial, pleasure craft. But mostly, I make sculptures from stuff I find on the island.” He rubbed his hands up and down the sides of his jacket. “I sit there to ponder what my next piece of work might be.”

  “Have any pieces on hand?” I looked around as if a portable gallery might appear.

  He shook his head. “I usually sit here to think. Oh, and to look for cool debris. Great spot for shit. Kind of inletty over there. I construct my pieces in a different spot. Closer to the water. Less trees.” He gestured with his head and I was afraid he’d suggest we go over to see them. “I’ve been assigned a spot actually.”

  Assigned? I was curious. “Assigned? By whom?”

  “City. Got tired of tearing ’em down, of me arguing with them. Gave me my own little gallery.”

  “Sell any?” What a kick in the head if this guy was more successful than I was.

  “How would I do that?” He looked as if it were me who was a bit nutty. “They’re part of the landscape—or they are until they wash away or fall apart. Or till someone knocks ’em down. Not all art is for sale.”