Shot In Detroit

by Patricia Abbott

  “A wig would probably be the best way to go,” Myrtle said finally, spinning around in the desk chair when I told her about the task at hand. “Can’t do much with the pixie cut you favor. Need more volume. Selling furs is easier if they’re modeled by a glamour girl. What can we do with you?”

  It was hard to take a critique on hair styles seriously when it came from a woman like Myrtle, but I tried to smile brightly. Maybe there’d be more money in modeling. Lisa certainly seemed well-clad.

  Reaching over with a frown, Myrtle yanked open a drawer, pulled out a ratty-looking auburn wig, and tossed it to me. In the split second before I caught it, it seemed like a ferret was headed my way.

  “Of course, you’ll have to play with it, tease it, and plump it up. Give it a little flair. Why don’t you take it home with you? Practice.”

  I looked hard at the scabby wig in my hands. Acquiring flair would constitute a miracle wearing this mop. “You might throw it in Woolite. Let it soak for an hour or so. Woolite can do wonders.” Unconsciously, Myrtle’s right hand went to her own head, making me wonder if she applied it to her hair directly. “I’ve been known to pull a wig on in a pinch. I may have worn that one once or twice.”

  It took all of my wherewithal not to drop it because it bore the faint scent of Myrtle’s favorite perfume. Or perhaps it was the back office itself, pickled in Charlie after all of Myrtle’s years at Allure Furs. Mr. Polifax wisely kept her as far from the furs as possible.

  I showed up on Saturday, wig in place, makeup on, the highest heels Payless sold jammed on my feet.

  “Well, that’s more like it,” Mr. Polifax said, coming out of the back room. “I wouldn’t have believed you’d clean up this good. We might sell a coat today after all.” He circled me. “The added height is terrific. You must top six feet in those shoes.”

  He was flush with approval, and when the customer bought a $4,500 mink an hour later, Mr. Polifax was even happier. Happy didn’t cover it; he was ecstatic.

  Soon Lisa and I were sharing the modeling duties. “You know when to shut your trap, Violet,” Mr. Polifax said, in a rare attempt at a compliment. “Lisa likes to chat up the customers. Sometimes it works, but….”

  Several weeks later he asked me to come in on a Friday night. “This customer can only make it after eight,” he said, running a nervous hand through his nonexistent hair. “Could mean a big sale for us. I hate to turn it over to big-mouthed Lisa. This guy’s the silent type.” He shook his head. Lisa had definitely lost her luster after a few big sales on my watch.

  He squinted as he licked his thumb, flipping through his Rolodex. “Your mother works Friday nights, right?” He was looking at the card with my name on it. “Well, I can give you a ride home,” he said. “It’s practically on my way.”

  I’d no idea if this were true or not since he’d never confided his address. But so far he’d seemed harmless enough, so I agreed.

  Friday night, I tried on a lynx and a karakul lamb coat for a tiny man who never said a word. After the lynx, Mr. Polifax came hurrying into the back room and suggested I model the next coat—a Persian lamb—with nothing underneath it.

  “Look, Violet—just the coat, never mind the rest.” He looked me up and down as if I’d already stripped. “Leave your clothing back here. You know.”

  But I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure he’d actually said what I thought I’d heard. He’d swallowed half the words.

  “What would be the point of that?” I said, watching him in the mirror. It wasn’t like my skimpy dress was making the coat fall unevenly.

  Mr. Polifax turned a bright pink. “This client—well, he’s a little odd—but he’ll probably make a purchase or at least worth our while if he gets a peek.”

  I stood frozen.

  “Look, Lisa does it all the time. Well, not all the time, but on occasion. Some men—well, you know.” He was stuttering and turned a deeper red. “Look, there’ll be extra money in your paycheck next week. Be a good girl and show him the goods.”

  The goods?

  “What if he still doesn’t buy anything?” My hand was on his shoulder as he attempted to open the door. “I’ll still get the extra pay?” I wasn’t the fool he took me for. “I’ll get it even if he doesn’t buy a thing? Right?” I repeated more firmly. A good girl wouldn’t be considering this stunt, so I might as well put any thoughts of that aside.

  Mr. Polifax paused and then nodded.

  “And no touching, right? He has to keep his hands to himself!” I was hardly going to allow that nasty man to put his hands on me.

  Polifax shook his head. “No touching. I’ll be right there. But if you exhibit such a prissy, superior attitude along with the fur, he won’t make a purchase and our little arrangement will quickly end. Lisa’s been trying to get me to give her more hours.” He straightened his back, annoyed with my ability to get the upper hand with him for once, and pushed open the door.

  The little man was standing in the same spot when I walked out of the back room wearing a hugely expensive sable. He gave no indication that either it or I was anything special, remaining mostly mute and using his hands to indicate certain moves he wanted me to make. It looked like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. I followed his instructions—never fully disrobing, but certainly modeling more than the coat.

  The show went on for about fifteen minutes, and it wasn’t an entirely dissatisfying experience. I enjoyed watching in the full-length mirrors circling the room. The thought of photographing it flew into my head, though I had nothing more in those days than a point-and-shoot camera. Maybe I’d buy a better camera with my increased wages. It wasn’t me I wanted to photograph, but his face watching me. The way his features seem to slide off his face, turning to liquid. I was already planning what the photo would look like, how I would pose him.

  The small man seemed unchanged by my performance; I might never have disrobed at all from the placid look on his face. But Polifax was visibly panting, seemingly ill-equipped to show the customer to the door.

  When the door closed behind the customer, Mr. Polifax sank into the nearest chair and fanned himself. “You did good, Violet. You’re a born model.”

  My little ballet netted an extra twenty-five bucks in my next check.

  I finally understood how Allure Furs stayed in business despite its poor sales.

  The day, six months later, that a bear of a man put his hairy paws around my neck and a knee the size of a battering ram between my legs was my last one. I quit the job, having made more than enough money for a high school girl’s needs.

  It was only a month or two later when the trio of stores burned to the ground. The fire marshal couldn’t decide whether it was the faulty projector at the theater or the ovens at the donut shop that caused the blaze. Although the fire was at night, Mr. Polifax and a client were on the premises and perished in what was called an extremely rapid-moving blaze. Myrtle called to give me the news. No woman was in the shop. I wondered if Mr. Polifax modeled furs himself in a pinch. That would be the last time my body was under such a gaze. I’d find ways to support myself I could live with.

  Detroit News: Rapper Cajuan Grace, age 27, was shot and killed at approximately 3:30 a.m. last night outside of Daddy Majestyk’s, an upscale club and poolroom on 8 Mile Road in Detroit. Grace was recently nominated for a Grammy Award for his second CD, Nobody Gonna Tell Me Nothin’. At the time of his death, all four members of his group, R’RSTD, were standing within twenty feet of the rapper. The shooter was said to be a bodyguard of longtime rival rapper, Nikl Defenz, who was not on the premises at the time of the shooting. The fight started inside the club, moving outside when longtime Detroit businesswoman and club owner, Florence Arpelle, threatened to call the police. Grace was declared dead at Henry Ford Hospital at 4:05 a.m. Grace was remembered by fellow rappers as “funny, smart, and talented but a bit of a hothead.”

  (June 2011)

  “You aren’t gonna do Cajuan Grace,” Bill told me when I showed up
a few hours after the body was released. “No way, no how. So get that idea out of your head. Family’s made other arrangements.” Bill rubbed his face with a handkerchief and refolded it.

  I hadn’t said a word yet and the use of the word do stopped me in my tracks for a minute. I wondered if this was how Bill saw my work—as bordering on something sexual. Did he imagine I got off on taking these pictures? Or off in the usual way?

  “Grace was shot in the face. You wouldn’t want him hanging in that gallery with your pretty boys. Got a hole the size of a baseball over his eyes. Well,” he amended when he saw my incredulity, “the size of a golf ball anyway.”

  “I bet the hole will hardly be noticeable after your handiwork,” I said in a wheedling tone. “Couldn’t I take one or two shots? I wouldn’t show it publicly without the family’s consent.” I put my hands on my hips in what felt like a provocative pose. “Oh, come on, Bill. It’s the first celebrity you’ve had in here. Let me take a quick shot or two.”

  He shook his head. “I could lose my license. I asked them point-blank if you could photograph him—his mother and one of his sisters—and they said no. Flat-out refused.”

  “Did you tell them about the series of portraits? Tell them I’m a serious—”

  “Sure, sure. They know about it. Not impressed.”

  He walked over and put a consoling hand on my shoulder. “Look, Vi, not all black folks are cool about letting a white lady nobody ever heard of take pictures of their famous son. They don’t know what you’re up to. Probably thinking you’re going to exploit them somehow. I hear they’ve got a photographer-to-the-stars from New York coming in to do the job. Gonna have a bound book ready for the funeral. They have agents and managers and people up the wazoo taking care of business. They’ll sell the prints later and make a mint. This kid—well, he was big-time. He’s only here because one of ’em read a story about me in the News.”

  His tone altered between consoling and confrontational. He finished speaking and ran the back of his hand across his upper lip. Then he pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his face again. “I gotta lose some weight, baby. I’m sweating all the time now.”

  I was a bit surprised by Bill’s dismissive tone, having assumed that though Bill might be troubled by certain aspects of this venture, he had confidence in my talent and my motives. I certainly talked about my ambitions for this project enough.

  Now it seemed, once again, that my whiteness was part of his problem. Did being white make me seem more exploitative? Was it always to be about race?

  “The photographer’s shooting in an hour or so for the tribute book. He’s not going exhibit the work himself. His people—Cajuan Grace’s people, that is—are putting it together. Black people often put together a book like this—though usually not on this scale. Look, his mother and the sisters were real nice ladies. They’re not trying to screw up your plans, you know. You don’t enter into things. You’re irrelevant.”

  He said it softly but it still stung. Swell—irrelevant.

  “I get it! But what would be the harm in taking a few shots first? I promise I’ll never exhibit them without your say-so. Not ever. You may not understand it—I don’t exactly get it myself — but I feel like things would be incomplete without Cajuan.” Drawing a deep breath, I finished my thought. “It’s part of what happened. Part of what I saw.”

  He sighed. “You promise?”

  I drew a cross on my chest.

  “Okay, but just a few quick shots. Guy’s coming anytime.” He looked at me hard. “And if you break your promise, I’ll tear the other contracts up. I will. I swear it,” he said again, wiping his face for a third time. “Sue your ass myself if need be.”

  “You need to get your blood pressure checked,” I said on the way out of the room. “It’s perfectly comfortable in here and I’m starting to worry about you.”

  Cajuan was dressed in what I assumed were the clothes he performed in. Bill hadn’t needed to go to his special closets for this one. He wore what looked like a black and gold basketball jersey nearly long enough to touch his knees, and partially obscured by a gold leather jacket. His pants were baggy and elasticized at the ankle. Unlaced black high-tops, a scarf (gold and black checked) and a baseball cap from some team I couldn’t name finished the outfit. Oh, and numerous gold chains, woven bracelets, studs, and tattoos.

  There was little left of Cajuan’s head under that cap. And the hole was only partially obscured by his headwear when you got in close. He was a skinny little guy, pumped up by his wardrobe. Didn’t even have much of a beard. The dizzying colors and accoutrements made shooting a decent photograph difficult. But the more I messed with his outfit, the more pathetic it became. This was at last the death I’d envisioned shooting, and I was sick at having done it. Maybe I wouldn’t use this one. But probably, if I could pull it off, I would.

  “Twelve significant photographs in any one year is a good crop.”

  Ansel Adams

  Diogenes Cortes had been my friend since our days at the Center for Creative Studies in Detroit in the late eighties. We’d first met in a sculpture class, an art form we’d both mistakenly signed up for. It turned out to be therapeutic but little else.

  Di was already in his mid-twenties; I was seventeen. We both produced piece after piece meant to be representational but turning out abstract. Our work would go into the kiln looking like one thing and come out fired, looking like another. No one could figure it out. My group of sunning seals and his sleeping woman were practically interchangeable. It was Algebra II all over again, and we were the two kids snickering at the back of the classroom because we didn’t get it. We listened when the instructor quoted Michelangelo’s famous words—that when he took away what was extraneous to the piece of clay or stone, he was left with David.

  The end of the term came and neither of us found David nor anything remotely like him taking shape, and soon I turned to oils and finally to photography, and Di switched to a culinary program at Schoolcraft College. For the last twenty years, we’d met for dinner, a movie now and then, a drink at a local bar, or on the occasions I needed to buy drugs. Well, if you think of pot as a drug. We also spoke via telephone or email several times a week. He was the closest thing I had to a friend, the only one who knew most of my secrets; the only one whose secrets I knew. Unfortunately he also had Alberto. Alberto and I got along as well as two cats tossed into a burlap bag. Snarling and scratching most of the time.

  When I lived in New York, Di camped out on my floor for three months, thinking he might want to live there too. But he soon realized the skills placing him on the top rung of his profession in Detroit were commonplace in the infinite talent pool of New York.

  I thought otherwise, thought he was wasted in Detroit, but couldn’t convince him to stay the course. It was about then he met the love of his life at a jazz club in Ann Arbor and settled happily back into Michigan life. Alberto played keyboard and was prettier than me. Prettier than most girls.

  I gave New York another year to woo me, but it was too easy to turn any corner and find a gallery filled with photographs more compelling than mine. What exhilarated me at twenty-two, exhausted me three years later. I’d never be bigger than Detroit; I knew it.

  Di was gay, Filipino, and had been selling drugs without incident since his teens. He only sold the soft stuff, and only to his friends, and only to friends not too badly hooked. It was a small clientele. A desperate call to Chez Diogenes in the middle of the night brought an end to the buyer-seller relationship. He was cool; you had to be too.

  He was the head chef at a popular downtown Detroit restaurant, but he’d never given up his sideline. In Detroit, restaurants came and went, but a dependable drug dealer was gold. I was not a habitual user, but on occasion, I indulged. Di never let me down. If he wasn’t rock solid on the quality, he didn’t sell it. Everyone thinks this about their source, but in my case, it was true.

  We met at the Belle Isle Turkey Grill during the winter months
or on a rainy day when crowds were scarce. Di found other spots for other customers, so I was never too concerned about being watched. He steadfastly refused to bring drugs to my apartment or to have me come to his house or the restaurant.

  “Do you want cops watching your house? I sure don’t.”

  We hadn’t met for a drug purchase in months, and it’d nearly stopped raining by the time I arrived. He handed over a small bag of grass tucked into the brown Ace Hardware bag he always used. “I thought maybe you were done with this.”

  “So did I. Life’s been tough lately.” I opened my mouth to begin my spiel, but closed it. I didn’t want to lose the one friend I had with my endless rants.

  Diogenes relaxed and leaned against the deserted picnic table. It was raining but only a fine mist. Each of the perhaps five guys hanging out on the island today was wearing a Tigers cap, but Diogenes sported a yellow rain hat, which flapped in the breeze like the Morton Salt Girl’s. He was a thin guy with the best haircut you’ve ever seen. Over forty now, he looked ten years younger. The benefits of taking skin care seriously, he pointed out when I mentioned it, and a little judicious knife work. He also never drank more than one glass of wine, had never smoked, and never took drugs himself. His physical perfection was an occasional source of anxiety for me. I’d photographed him from time to time, but he never looked real in the shots. His almost stone-like perfection looked better in the flesh where the mobility of his face and the melodiousness of his voice softened it.

  “Love your hat,” I said now, stifling a grin. “Surprised you want to stand out. A cop could spot that banana yellow from Indian Village.”

  “Okay, so I borrowed it from a waitress. Couldn’t wear my chef’s hat out here, and it was raining hard when I left.” He looked around. “Baseball caps put a dent in my do.” He looked me over. “You know how I feel about my hair, sweetie. You don’t pay a hundred dollars for a haircut in Detroit and let it get rained on. Hey, so why were you in such a hurry for the gold today? Not like you to get all panicky. Made me a little anxious.”