Beneath the Book Tower: An Alex McKnight Short Story by Steve Hamilton Page A
Authors: Steve Hamilton
Ads: Link
though, huh? He lives up there all year long? Even in the winter?”
“Ever since he retired.”
“Some people don’t have the sense to go south when they retire? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Some white people, you mean?”
“I didn’t say that.”
That’s the kind of line that would usually have got him going, but like I said, tonight was different. He just shook his head and we kept on rolling down Woodward.
There seemed to be more people than usual out on the streets that night. There was another bus strike going on. That might have had something to do with it. On top of it being way too hot and the air being heavy and wet even after midnight.
That was a bad summer. No other way to say it. I always hated hearing people complain about the place, especially if they were outsiders who didn’t really see anything past the raw numbers, but I knew what those numbers said. The unemployment rate. The murder rate. I knew where we stood on the national rankings that summer. Dead last behind every other city in the country.
This was our town. The Motor City. We all knew how far it had fallen from its glory days. Believe me, we knew it, every single one of us. Right down to the bone.
“There it is,” Franklin said. As if either of us needed one more reminder, we were passing the old Hudson’s department store there on Woodward Avenue, once the second largest in the country, behind only Macy’s in New York City.
“That’s where Santa Claus lived,” Franklin said, looking up at the darkened windows. Another odd thing for him to say, maybe, but I knew exactly what he was talking about. As a kid I’d go there with my father, and the woman operating the elevator would announce what you could buy on each floor. After Thanksgiving, the very top floor was reserved for Santa Claus. The real Santa Claus, not the fakes out ringing their bells on the street corners.
“And Batman,” Franklin said, “he lived up over there.” He pointed up toward the far corner of the windshield.
“Where are you talking about?”
“The Book Tower. That’s where Batman lived when I was eight years old.”
I didn’t have to look out the window to see it. Again, I knew exactly what he was talking about. A few blocks down from us, the Book Building and its infamous tower. My father had told me the story behind it on one of our trips downtown, and he had even brought a pair of binoculars so I could really see it. Way up there on the tower, some forty stories off the ground where you could hardly even see it, the crazy architect hired by the Book brothers had put a dozen sculptures of women and a green copper roof on top, and because the guy had forgotten to put in a second set of stairs he had to rig up an external fire escape as an afterthought. Like anybody would actually go out on that thing, that far up. The building was a national laughingstock, my father had told me, but it was kind of beautiful in its own ridiculous way.
So yeah, I had to admit it. Young eight-year-old Franklin had a good point. If Batman lived in Detroit, the Book Tower is exactly where he would have ended up. Sitting outside on one of those intricately carved ledges, watching the whole city below.
“Okay, so we’ve got Santa Claus and Batman covered,” I said. “Is there anybody else? Does Godzilla live around here somewhere?”
“Looks like he’s already been here. Stomped the shit out of this place and moved on.”
We were going west now, leaving downtown behind us, the whole city laid out with the streets that emanated from the center like spokes on a wheel. As we swung close to the river I could see the wide monolith of the train station up ahead. Michigan Central Station, another great old building my father took me to see. Twenty stories high, at one time the tallest train station in the world, with the three soaring archways in the front and the big main room with the columns to make it resemble an ancient Roman bathhouse. What a
“Ever since he retired.”
“Some people don’t have the sense to go south when they retire? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Some white people, you mean?”
“I didn’t say that.”
That’s the kind of line that would usually have got him going, but like I said, tonight was different. He just shook his head and we kept on rolling down Woodward.
There seemed to be more people than usual out on the streets that night. There was another bus strike going on. That might have had something to do with it. On top of it being way too hot and the air being heavy and wet even after midnight.
That was a bad summer. No other way to say it. I always hated hearing people complain about the place, especially if they were outsiders who didn’t really see anything past the raw numbers, but I knew what those numbers said. The unemployment rate. The murder rate. I knew where we stood on the national rankings that summer. Dead last behind every other city in the country.
This was our town. The Motor City. We all knew how far it had fallen from its glory days. Believe me, we knew it, every single one of us. Right down to the bone.
“There it is,” Franklin said. As if either of us needed one more reminder, we were passing the old Hudson’s department store there on Woodward Avenue, once the second largest in the country, behind only Macy’s in New York City.
“That’s where Santa Claus lived,” Franklin said, looking up at the darkened windows. Another odd thing for him to say, maybe, but I knew exactly what he was talking about. As a kid I’d go there with my father, and the woman operating the elevator would announce what you could buy on each floor. After Thanksgiving, the very top floor was reserved for Santa Claus. The real Santa Claus, not the fakes out ringing their bells on the street corners.
“And Batman,” Franklin said, “he lived up over there.” He pointed up toward the far corner of the windshield.
“Where are you talking about?”
“The Book Tower. That’s where Batman lived when I was eight years old.”
I didn’t have to look out the window to see it. Again, I knew exactly what he was talking about. A few blocks down from us, the Book Building and its infamous tower. My father had told me the story behind it on one of our trips downtown, and he had even brought a pair of binoculars so I could really see it. Way up there on the tower, some forty stories off the ground where you could hardly even see it, the crazy architect hired by the Book brothers had put a dozen sculptures of women and a green copper roof on top, and because the guy had forgotten to put in a second set of stairs he had to rig up an external fire escape as an afterthought. Like anybody would actually go out on that thing, that far up. The building was a national laughingstock, my father had told me, but it was kind of beautiful in its own ridiculous way.
So yeah, I had to admit it. Young eight-year-old Franklin had a good point. If Batman lived in Detroit, the Book Tower is exactly where he would have ended up. Sitting outside on one of those intricately carved ledges, watching the whole city below.
“Okay, so we’ve got Santa Claus and Batman covered,” I said. “Is there anybody else? Does Godzilla live around here somewhere?”
“Looks like he’s already been here. Stomped the shit out of this place and moved on.”
We were going west now, leaving downtown behind us, the whole city laid out with the streets that emanated from the center like spokes on a wheel. As we swung close to the river I could see the wide monolith of the train station up ahead. Michigan Central Station, another great old building my father took me to see. Twenty stories high, at one time the tallest train station in the world, with the three soaring archways in the front and the big main room with the columns to make it resemble an ancient Roman bathhouse. What a
Similar Books
