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Blind Pig

What happened that night in the early morning hours in the red light district of Detroit on Brush Avenue at the Blind Pig, I don’t remember.  I was out with Richard, but I don’t remember his name. It could have been Dick or Randy, we’ll call him Richard.  He said he worked at the Ford Rouge auto plant, I can’t be sure he was telling me the truth.  I can tell you he was drunk with two bloodshot eyes.

There were two pairs of bloodshot eyes at the pool table, gambling high stakes, in an after hours basement apartment.  Would winning the game of eight ball mean the money would be exchanged?  Would there be a fight?  If you can breathe testosterone I was breathing it that night.  Rough men drinking, sweating, playing hard.  I don’t know how I was controlling my emotions.  I was working hard to be cool, trying to put the police report out of my mind, the report I imagined of the dead college kid found on the street early the next morning, the two paragraph story in the back pages of the Detroit Free Press.

Richard lived in my rooming house or I could have met him playing pool in a bar.  Richard was a good pool player and unlike most players he seemed to get better the more he drank, or he believed he did.  Staggering with bloodshot eyes that night, I don’t know if he won the money.

It was after hours Saturday or Friday night, three or four in the morning.  I’m almost positive it was on Brush street.  Brush at night was sexual, lawless, and dead people regularly showed up there and were routinely reported in the back pages of the newspaper.  Big cars with darkened windows slowly rolled down the street looking for action.

I can’t remember if there were any women in the Blind Pig.  If there were they would have been tough women, dark skin with rouge covering a few pock marks, smooth strong bodies, in tight clothes with sturdy shoes and more than a hint of sweet scent.

The door had a eye hole and Richard knew the code.  I was sized immediately by the man at the door.  It was a basement apartment with a pool table in the living room.  There were chairs around the walls of the room, the only lighting in the room was on the center of the pool table and on the four bloodshot eyes. 

Dialogue?  I don’t remember.  In the kitchen there was a refrigerator full of beer.  I can imagine a man with a hand full of bills collecting for the beer but I don’t remember this.  I felt like the most sober person in the room.  Thinking all the while I didn’t want to be in that short two paragraph story in the newspaper from the police report the next day.  Or was it later that I thought this?