A Short Detroit Story

 (NOTES FOUND IN AN OLD NOTEBOOK)

Jim was dozing standing up against a sign at a bus stop on a street corner early morning sun sneaking into a blue-gray sky, Jim wondering if the bus would ever arrive, buses were notoriously late in this city. Two hours late sometimes. An old Victorian house sat across the street from him, in shambles, looking like how he felt. Decay spread in all directions. Jim closed his eyes.

Two men chatted next to him.

"You need a shave," one told him in a mocking gentle African-toned voice.

The blade of a knife rested comfortably against Jim's throat.

"That's okay, I have my own razor," Jim mumbled comfortably in his dream.

"What?" the voice asked, moving the knife up and placing it against Jim's face. "I'm takin' his jacket," the man said to his companion. "You can have his cap." The leather jacket had cost Jim eighty dollars at a resale shop and was in almost-new condition.

"Don't fuck with me!" Jim shouted as he snapped awake and pulled away.

His own green-handled knife always carried in his jacket pocket was in his hand, snapped open. Everyone in the vicinity was suddenly very awake.

"Whoa!" said the man with the knife; he'd jumped back with an expression of surprise at Jim's angry voice as much as by the fact of his blade. The man instinctively jabbed in Jim's direction as Jim stabbed at the character's own torso, at the same time watching the friend standing back shouting encouragement-- "stab the motherfucker"-- while not further involving himself, in fact stepping back as Jim's antagonist moved slowly backward also watching Jim with careful eyes. Jim stabbed toward the man again and the man replied likewise, coming close, as Jim realized with detachment and analytical relief the man was his own size, his arms the same length. 

Jim's stance was not that of a boxer, with left foot forward, which would've been foolish in this kind of fight. His feet instead were aligned, two feet apart, and he moved in a mild crouch, so that his torso was set back, his arms forward, the green knife moving, held firmly, seeking a target. A fistfight without knives certainly would've been more interesting. Jim wondered if most knife fights were like this-- to get close enough to seriously stab someone you risked getting seriously punctured yourself. His foe's arms worked furiously as if throwing punches which seemed to come up short. Each time, Jim countered with a lunging thrust and the man jumped back a pace. 

Out of nowhere a large metal-shaking clanking green bus pulled up. Jim slipped his opened knife into his pocket and stepped onto the bus, his morning's ride. His two friends outside the bus danced and laughed at him, talking and gesticulating wildly as the bus door creaked closed, the heavy-set stoic black driver staring blankly ahead, the passengers purposefully absorbed in their own routines, just another day in this city. As Jim pushed through the crowd and found a seat near the back he noticed knife slashes across the front of his jacket-- his best possession-- also on the sleeves, the nice jacket ruined. He leaned his head back as the bus clattered along, closed his eyes and resumed his daydream.