On the occasion of your funeral, I find myself reminiscing about our fling together.
We never saw each other seriously. It was more of a one-night stand. I, myself, was more of an Atlas and Grapevine kind of guy, but I still cherish our time together.
It all happened one boiling summer night in ’98. I was nineteen. At 3 AM I went out to cool off by sitting with some other kids I didn’t know on the ventilation grate outside Bower Theatre. That was the last summer the city felt so alive at such an hour, not only because the scorch tormeted all of us without air-conditioning, but also because men and women carried their signs back and forth all night long down on Bristol Road and up on Dort Highway. In the summer of ’98, Flint was a city that never slept.
My stomach was making all sorts of loud noises, so I asked two of the kids where they thought I should go to get a bite to eat. They didn’t think I should settle for fast-food fries; didn’t I have any self-respect? They encouraged my colonial aspirations, and sent me off to meet you at chivalrous Knight on Corunna. I’d seen you before, but I’d never really noticed you looking out at cars as if from a high window, looking out at hungry nite owls all across the West Side. You had that tender smile, those narrowed eyes, that welcomed, that forgave. I recognized your conviction that humans are fallible because humans are hungry, so you would forgive us and feed us. After all, there is plenty of pain in this world, and all of our life is just one long goodbye.
I playback the elation I felt when I saw you that night. I recall your perfect sense of balance, one leg before the other, a tentative confidence, no fear of falling, but only of stumbling. In your poise, you held a tray with a tasty coney island carved out of beef heart and ground up Koegels, rough and dry and red like granite, onions so fresh and wet they sparkled like diamonds, mustard of pure sunshine, the bun firm but damp with steam, so delicious, a real Flint Original. Famous like the sun that rained down on San Juan at the bottom of the bay. Famous like the desert sand dusting Poodle Springs condos. Famous like the pinprick spark lights of Coney Island that leapt out at tired Macedonians across the relentless gray waves of the North Atlantic. “Welcome to the U.S.”
When they disembarked, your Uncle Bob and your Aunt Kewpee bought train tickets to Flint, and there they stirred up a dry sauce that made mouths water from Seattle to Miami and hearts flutter from Boston to San Diego. Your ancestors had seen Lady Liberty, but when you were born, you became the Lady in the Lake State. Your parents had presided over the rise and you saw the decline. You watched that diminishment with compassion and understanding. You fed us for thirty years. Thank you for feeding us.
Now they have taken you away and another one of the greats has fallen. Most of your brothers and sisters died long ago, but some few continue to look out toward green lights with grace under pressure, waiting for years that will answer questions from this “callus on the palm.” The Atlas, the Starlite, the Capitol, the City Diner, the Olympic, the Golden Gate, Angelo’s, Tom Z’s, Tom’s, and Star Brothers. We pray and order and tip so that they will escape your tragic fate.
What is your consolation?
I offer this: As you settle into the big sleep, remember that you fed us and we are grateful.
We are grateful and we will remember.
