The Michigan Man

Things I know about Detroit:

A. "RoboCop" is set there.

B. It has a lot of crime.

C. Ted Nugent is from there.

None of these things make me too excited about visiting the place, they are simply trivia. My pre-visit knowledge of enjoyable surprise cities like Portland and Minneapolis had also been limited to trivia, and even though Detroit has a reputation as America's most rapidly declining city, there is bound to be some good here as well as anywhere. Even if this place proves to be the frightening maze of abandoned auto factories I've heard about in rumors, that is at least a different experience, and anything different is good in its way.

I'm on Michigan Ave now, with art deco skyscrapers on all sides. Some strange angles here - part of the downtown, the sliver closest to the river, is built on a standard grid pattern, but there's a huge chunk to the west that doesn't follow any method at all - just a melange of diagonal one-ways sealed in between hulking, dilapidated neo-goth office towers. The sun is setting and the mood is gloomy. Frightened homeless shuffle about the street, less numerous than the caravans which never move from downtown Los Angeles, but sadder and lonelier. The slum is broken only by a set of five space-age towers on the waterfront - the demonic offices of General Motors. I am sure that its corporate inhabitants are overjoyed to see my tiny Toyota circling by, as if laughing at their misfortune.

I must have photos of this city - it would be out of character to leave without at least some record of it. I pull into a giant, nearly empty pay-parking structure, and zoom by hundreds of empty parking spots, as I rapidly ascend. As a child, I could never understand why my mother and father would refuse to park on the highest level whenever possible. There are always places to park and the views are unbeatable. I find my dream spot, right next to an out-of-place rooftop tennis court, overlooking the dark, blocky and splotched buildings below.

After swapping my lazy-day sandals for my city-appropriate boots, I raise my head and catch a surprise in my rear-view window. It is a police car, looking much the same as the ones back home but with a larger, more imposing insignia.

I shut the car door and walk towards the stairs, eyes fixed on the city below. It is nothing like Chicago, but not in a bad way - it has the persona of a rabid dying beast rather than that of an expensive computer, with buildings older and more dilapidated. In the distance I see an isolated 15th floor skywalk, and snap a picture:



Immediately, I hear the unmistakable sound of a policecar pulling behind me, followed by an investigatory voice.

"Excuse me," he recites, firm, authoratative, unfriendly.

"Oh! Hello," I respond, friendly, reassuring, and entirely unsuspicious.

"Do you mind if I ask what you're doing up here?" Not a question, rather a command.

"Oh, huh, just taking some photos of the city. Only in town for a night, you know, and it looked like there might be some good shots from up here." I can't see much of him although his window is open, but I can tell that he has dark sunglasses, and an unplacably familiar jawline marked with a stern frown.

"Is that your vehicle?"

"Naturally."

"Would you mind stepping back over to it?"

Again, this is given as an order. Of course I would mind, I have no need to backtrack and would prefer to get on with my visit, but this doesn't bother the man. He knows and I know that only a fool would disobey when confronted by authority. I walk back to my car, while he drifts alongside me, watching me like some bird of prey with delusions of justice. He parks his car directly behind mine, trapping me. Is this for the sake of risk prevention, or simply a means of putting me in a submissive position? He steps out and struts up, trying hard to look down at me menacingly despite the three inches I have on him.

"So, this car's from California? Is that where you're from?"

"Yeah, San Diego area. You ever been?"

"California's a long way away..." he says in a nearly accusing tone, ignoring the attempts at small talk. Clearly, he has become a cop due to his amazing deductive skills, which he can use for solving complicated equations like the proximity of California and Michigan to one another.

"Yeah, I've been travelling across the country for about a month now... wanted to see some other parts of the country, other cities, you know..."

Dark shades still fixed on me. "You mind showing me your license and registration?"

"Don't mind at all" I say. Again, I certainly do mind, and he must know it, but we decide to let this go unspoken for the time being. I give him what he asks for and he walks back to his car, his little mobile headquarters. I amuse myself counting windows on the skyscrapers. He walks back with a sour look in his shades and a strangely familiar blank expression on his lips.

"Okay, let's talk" I say. "Do you want me to move my car? If you don't want me to be here, I'll move, no problem."

"Nah..." says he, "I'm more concerned about those photos. Any reason you chose that particular building?"

"I liked the look of the skywalk... we don't have them back where I'm from and I'm kind of obsessed with architecture... I wanted to go into that back when I was a kid..."

"Why would you want to take photos of some buildings?"

"Um, because I think they look interesting? Can't really explain it... I just was driving along and liked the look of the skyline. I've always been into that kind of stuff and I figured I'd stop in and get a few shots. I figured this lot here would have a good view and figured that since it's a public lot there shouldn't be any problem..." He can no doubt see through me with those futurist shades of his, and see that my frustration is raising... but despite my rambling it doesn't show in my voice. I keep that calm, and cool, and safe. He clearly wants me to act suspicious, so his suspicion can be justified - and I will be damned if I oblige him.

"If you wanted to get shots of the city you should have just boughten a postcard. There are lots of postcards with photos of the skyline on them. You can't even see the whole thing from up here. Should have just gotten a postcard."

I wonder if this is what they tell tourists at the White House, or the Empire State, or any of America's other photographable (and targetable) places. The logic of this is baffling to me and makes me wonder if this officer has ever had a vacation, or at least heard of one.

"Look, do you want me to get out of here?" I ask again, wearily. "If you don't want me up here all you had to do was ask me to leave."

He is clearly tired of the thing too but his pride overpowers his exhaustion. "First I'll also need some proof of insurance."

I pull it out, despite knowing that he has no reason to ask for it, and warn him "it still lists my old Buick on there, but I've talked with the company and this one is covered too."

He looks over it for a few minutes.

Then a minute more.

He coughs and then takes another minute looking it over.

"No, see, this is for a 1995 LeSabre."

"I know, I traded that car away right before I bought this one. That was just a month ago, they haven't sent me any new documents yet. But if you call the insurance company..."

"No, no, this won't do," he says, frowning seriously, "You should know that I could have you brought in for not having proof of insurance."

"Um, is that a state law?" I ask. The whole thing has just gone from ridiculous to nonsensical. "I'm sure you could write a ticket, but it wouldn't be valid because I do have insurance. And I'm pretty certain you can't hold someone just for that..."

"I believe it's a National Law."

"Maybe if you're in an accident or something, but not for just looking suspicious," I say. I catch myself showing him up and decide to tone it down - I don't want a riled up cop on my hands. "But besides, that *is* the proof of insurance, and you can call the insurance company if you don't believe me."

He is silent and still, having come to an impasse. He has nothing on me, and he knows it. I haven't fallen for any of his scare tactics, haven't lost my cool or insulted him. He is stuck. Finally his OS reboots and he speaks up.

"I suppose you're okay to go."

"Not yet... would you mind giving me my license and registration back?"

He goes back to his car sheepishly. I wonder if he genuinely forgot that it was left there or if it was simply some pathetic plan to steal my identification, in retaliation for besting him.

He comes back and hands them to me coldly. "Oh, and I'm afraid I'm going to need to take that roll of film..." Another last-ditch effort.

"I can't do that," I tell him, "It's a digital camera. There's no film to give."

"Well you'll have to erase the photos you took, then."

"Sure thing," I lie.

As he starts the car to free me from his trap, I stop him with one more question. "Will I still have to pay the parking fee? It's not like I really got a chance to do much parking..."

He turns and for the first time lets out something resembling a smile. "Sorry," he grins, "there's nothing I can do about that."

So the bastard got me, even if only in the smallest way. I have to pay a fiver to get out of this godforsaken structure. I circle around downtown a few more times, but am too busy cursing the idiot to really enjoy the mystery of it. With lawmakers like that, it's no wonder this city has such a high crime rate. If I lived here, I'd rob a bank just to spite him.

It is 1:30 in the morning and I am halfway between Devil Detroit and the London, Ontario when I start to really wonder about exactly what made that officer looked so familiar... It wasn't his stature, or even his mannerisms, so much as it was the All-American square shape of his jaw, and the complete absence of eyes behind those cold shades. It was his obsession with looking at everything from a logical extreme, even when the logic was closer to lunacy. It's black and white idiocy, but not all policemen are prone to such oversimplification, the ones I've met before have all been somewhat human. This guy was just a set of rules given a body. Where had I seen that before? The way he walked? The chin? The shades?

Oh, that's it, of course.

That motherfucker was ROBOCOP!