Level 2 Stories

Jimmy Cass and the Aliens

"The dust in Detroit doesn't just sit there; it hunts. Mom can spend all morning wiping the grime off our windows, but the gravel parking lot next door just sends more right back through the cracks. In these old houses, the dirt always wins.

We’ve been a "poor neighborhood" for as long as I can remember—a mix of half-Black families coming for factory work and half-"hillbillies" from the South. I was the latter. At least, that’s what they tell me. I’ve never actually been to the South, and there aren’t any hills in Detroit, so the label never made much sense to me. Grandpa calls me "Jimmy Joe," but I hate it. It makes me sound like an ignorant character from a comic strip.

The doorbell rings. It’s another local boy asking for my sister, Lizzy. The boys around here go crazy over her because she "filled out" faster than the other girls her age. Personally, I don't see the attraction. Why would anyone want to run around with melons on their chest? They’d just get in the way when you're trying to scoop up a grounder. But here they are again, making up any excuse just to talk to her. 

It’s Derrick. Again. That guy never gives up. We used to play ball together, pretending we were gangsters hiding behind abandoned cars and shooting at the bad guys. Then, slowly, he started asking about Lizzy. It got so bad that I finally told him if he was so interested, he should just go talk to her himself. So he did, and that was the end of our friendship.

Now, I shoot at the bad guys by myself. Our ball games have become a one-man game of "Strikeout" against a chalk-drawn zone on a brick wall. I don't care. He’s the dummy missing all the fun.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him sitting on our cracked cement steps, waiting like an idiot. I know he’s listening, so I start narrating in my best Ernie Harwell voice, the legendary Tigers announcer.

"Mickey Lolich steps to the mound," I say to the empty lot. "He’s putting up MVP numbers with fifteen wins and an ERA of 1.5. He’ll have to be careful, though, because he’s up against the power-hitting Frank Robinson of the Orioles."

I keep the play-by-play going until Lizzy finally comes out and they start walking toward Tomboy’s Market around the corner. I know he’s taking her there to look like a big spender, buying her Fritos and Faygo Rock N’ Rye. What a waste. It’s like an alien came down and swapped his brain out for a puddle of mush. I adjust my plastic Tigers souvenir helmet—it’s a good thing I’m wearing it to protect my own brain from whatever got to Derrick.

Back to the game: "Mickey throws a slider! Big Frank leans in and smashes the ball deep over the wall into the center-field bleachers! A fan from Kalamazoo, Michigan, snags it out of the air!"

It was always a mystery to us kids how Ernie Harwell knew the hometown of everyone who caught a ball in the stands.

Eventually, I get tired of the game—which the Tigers won, 6-4, naturally. I decide to head to Tomboy’s myself. Not to follow Derrick, but because all that pitching worked up a thirst. I have a quarter left from my allowance, enough for a grape Faygo and a Hostess Sno Ball.

I head for the checkout line where Tijuanda is working. She’s my favorite. Sometimes I’ll skip a shorter line just to talk to her. Tijuanda has a short Afro, long legs, and a strong back. I know about the back because I’ve watched her haul huge pallets of groceries from the stockroom. Sometimes I ask if I can help.

"Don't let Mr. Thompson see you," she’ll warn with a smile. Mr. Thompson is the owner and doesn't want anyone who isn't an employee working in the store—something about insurance and getting sued. I keep it on the down-low.

I walk back outside into the crumbling parking lot and find a broken cement barrier to sit on. I peel the cellophane off the Sno Ball. When you lift those pink, coconut-covered cakes off the cardboard, there’s always a thin layer of chocolate cake that stays stuck to the bottom. I always eat that part first.

As I finish my snack, my mind drifts back to the "Alien" that took over Derrick. Giving up a perfectly good afternoon of baseball just to spend his money on Lizzy? In the words of Mr. Spock: "It does not compute."

I make sure my hard plastic batting cap is on tight and start the walk home.

 Jimmy Survives the Cafeteria

There are certain places where you know to be careful. Like riding my bike to Pedro’s, I have to go down this alley where all the winos go to sleep during the day. Actually, the winos aren’t the problem. Sure, every once in a while, Curly will be doing one of his speeches about all the people who piss him off. That’s only if he has booze money from recycles. But he’s usually harmless as long as you don’t interrupt him.

Other dangerous places are less obvious, like the school cafeteria. Our cafeteria has these long, dark green benches where you sit packed in like sardines. I used to try to eat my food quickly and then go out to the playground for sports. Then Vice Principal Duran got this idea that the students were eating too fast and how that is bad for us. So now we have to stay for 20 minutes, which is about 15 more than what I need. 

That extra time can really get you in trouble.

Most of the kids try to protect themselves by hanging out in groups. There's the cool kids, the smart kids, and the jocks. But the group that I stay away from are the Youngbloods. The Youngbloods are kind of a gang for kids too young to be in the Bloods. The wannabes. And the one thing you know about kids like that is they're always trying to prove they're tough. So if the only seats left are next to them, I sit on the floor in the corner.

One day I got to the cafeteria early because my teacher let us out a few minutes before the bell. That was the best because I got to choose where I sat with nobody around. I grabbed my cheeseburger, fries, and chocolate milk and headed straight to the end of the bench so only one side of me was unprotected. Then the bell rang and the rest of the kids crowded into the cafeteria. My plan of sitting at the end was working. The group that sat down next to me was the smart kids.

I was just finishing my lunch when in walked Darren of the Youngbloods. He’d been in detention with Mr. White, his teacher. Darren was mean, angry, and huge. And he liked to show it. Some things I’d seen personally, like when he was torturing animals. What he did to frogs—my favorites—was disgusting. I saw that. The other things he did, I heard about from other kids. They said he’d been in juvy five times. He started fires in the bathroom just for fun. Basically, he intimidated any kid who looked his way. That’s why you looked at the ground when passing him in the hall. 

Darren was big, dumb, and dangerous, but he knew when he was outnumbered, so he usually left the groups alone.

Well, this day, Darren came in late to lunch and there wasn’t any room on the benches. I must have been daydreaming about the Tigers' next series against the Yankees because I never heard him standing right in back of me telling me to move. Darren wasn’t used to saying things twice, so the next suggestion to move came with a shoulder to my back. That woke me up. I turned around and jumped up like a jack-in-the-box, but it was too late. Darren thought I had disrespected him.

“OK punk. See you after school,” he said. By the time the threat had sunk in, I was already throwing what was left of my lunch into the garbage.

Now, time moves slowly when you’re getting ready to die. I knew I had about three hours of life left. I was on the edge of my seat and Mrs. Gables noticed.

"Jimmy, are you going somewhere?”

"No ma’am.”

That was a big one because I was sitting there looking at the minutes and seconds on the clock, waiting to bolt out of there at the bell. I felt like one of those frogs Darren used to catch by the creek. He’d hold them by their back legs, and they’d kick and squirm, trying to find some air, some way to push off against nothing. They were just green blurs of panic. Sitting in the third row, I realized I was just a bigger version of the same thing. I wasn't a "punk"—I was practice. Small and caught.

My plan was to use my speed to get home and hope that Darren wouldn't see me. Then with his caveman brain, maybe he’d forget about the whole thing by tomorrow. I was already packed up when the bell rang. 

Jumping out of my seat, I made a line for the door. Everything was working as planned until I got outside, where Darren’s class had gotten out early.

As if teasing me, he waited until I got my bike away from the school. Around the next corner and out of sight of the school, his big foot stuck out and blocked my way.

“Hey punk, slow down!”

He ripped me off of my bike and had me on the ground in a heartbeat. My heart was beating so loudly I could count the beats against the pavement. Darren’s boot slammed into my face, making me woozy. I didn't even have a chance to put my arms up fur protection. I just pulled my arms in tight to my chest, making myself as small and insignificant as possible. I was waiting for the final frog squeeze, the part where he decided whether to let me go or break me just to see how I worked.

He threw a couple of punches. And then, as soon as it started, it was over. Darren saw his Youngblood friends down the street and forgot all about me. I guess it was nothing personal to Darren. He was just being Darren. He didn't even look back. He didn't gloat. He just left me there in the dirt, a small, gasping thing that wasn't worth his time anymore.

I got up, rubbed my face, and jumped back on my bike.

The dinner table was quiet that evening. I guess my face wasn't bruised or cut yet, so Mom and Dad didn't notice. Lizzy wasn't so easy to fool.

"What happened to you?" she asked after dinner.

“I fell doing a new bike trick.”

She looked suspicious, but was soon off to her room to read her Tiger Beat magazine.

The next day, back at school, Darren didn’t even notice me. As much stress and terror as I went through leading up to the beating—to Darren, it was just another ordinary day.

Jimmy Cass Goes Shopping

It was finally Saturday. The morning was a sacred ritual of cartoons: Bugs Bunny, Yogi Bear, and the main event—Speed Racer. Speed was my hero because that kid could practically fly in his Mach 5. I spent a lot of time imagining those modifications on our family car. It had a dashboard full of buttons that could transform the vehicle in seconds. Button A triggered the giant hydraulic jacks that could vault the car over any wreck or roadblock. Button C released twin rotary saws from the front to clear a path through anything. But the best was Button F—Frogger Mode. One press sealed the cockpit air-tight, allowing the car to dive underwater like a sleek, white submarine.

I loved the water. Mom said it was because I’m a Capricorn. I didn’t know what a "zodiac sign" was until my sister, Lizzy, showed me a picture in her Teen Best magazine. Those pictures didn’t make much sense to me; I didn’t think a goat would be particularly good in the deep end.

But the water was my element. I loved making mud puddles for the salamanders I found under garden rocks, and I lived for water balloon fights. But in the Detroit summer, there were two primary "wet spots." One was when someone would "wrench" a fire hydrant, creating a geyser that erupted thirty feet into the street, drenching every kid in a three-block radius.

The other was the Swim Mobile. The Swim Mobile was a gargantuan truck filled with water—essentially a portable pool on wheels. About twice a summer, they’d park it at the Civic Center right by the river. Most kids had to beg for a ride there, but living in downtown Detroit had its perks; I could walk to the Swim Mobile. The water came right up to my neck, and the bottom felt strange—cool and metallic with the distinct, bumpy ridges of a truck bed. The only downside was the agonizing line to get in and the "twenty-minute whistle." When that whistle blew, you had to climb out, dripping and shivering, to make room for the next batch of kids.

Some people have dreams of flying. I had dreams of being able to swim underwater without ever coming up for air. I wanted to be like Aquaman, but without the super cool powers. In one recurring dream, I was gliding through a crystal-clear lake when I saw a light brighter than the sun. It told me it would answer any question I had. I had recently been thinking about death and why people had to leave. I asked the all-knowing light. It gave me an answer that made me feel incredibly peaceful. The only problem was that the moment I "surfaced" and woke up, the words vanished. But the warm feeling stayed—the quiet certainty that there was a reason for death.

After the cartoons ended, Saturday meant Mom’s shopping trip. Most boys would rather be playing "strike out" in the alley, but I knew that if I tagged along, I had a high statistical probability of a treat. Mom was a master of the budget. She only bought things on sale and treated name brands like forbidden luxuries. I once heard her tell Dad quite sternly that "I don't make that much money," which was why she treated every penny like a prisoner of war.

Our first stop was the Wonder Bread Day Old Store. Lizzy and I would hop into the gold Galaxie 500. When Dad first said he was buying a "Galaxie," I pictured a rocket ship. Instead, he brought home a car that was about as boring as a station wagon. No fins, no saws, no Frogger Mode. Just a big, beige boat.

The Day Old Store was a wonderland because it was the only place Mom would buy name brands.

"Mom, look! Hostess cupcakes! The ones with the white squiggle!" Lizzy pleaded, holding up a pack like a holy relic.

"Lizzy, those are nearly forty cents," Mom said, squinting at the price tag.

"But they're 'Day Old'!" I chimed in. "That means they're practically half off. You're actually saving money if we buy them."

Mom sighed, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "You and your math, Jimmy. Fine. Put them in the cart.

But the real highlight was the Wheel of Wonder at the checkout. It was a giant spinning wheel that looked just like Milky the Clown’s Birthday Wheel on TV.

"Alright, Lizzy, you take this nickel and buy the loaf of rye," Mom whispered, handing her the coins. By splitting the purchase, we got two spins.

I stepped up, gripped the edge of the wheel, and gave it a massive heave. Clack-clack-clack-clack. It landed on a Hostess Fruit Pie. Lizzy spun next and scored a pack of Ho-Hos. It was the biggest win of the week.

Next was Eastern Market. It was a total madhouse—just a giant, noisy crowd of people pushing past each other and farmers from Northern Michigan shouting about their prices. There must have been fifty trucks lined up, all filled with dirt-covered crates. Mom gave us each fifty cents. Lizzy didn't even try to look for a deal; she spent hers at the very first truck we saw and ran back to the Galaxie. She wanted to get back to her pinups of David Cassidy and Bobby Sherman in her Teen Best magazine. She also had this paperback about witchcraft and ghosts she was obsessed with. I think my parents only let her read that spooky stuff because they were just happy she was finally reading something.

I was different. I liked the hunt. I walked up and down the rows, doing the math in my head. I checked the price of the plums at one truck, then moved to the next, comparing the size and the color. I finally found a guy at the end of the line selling these huge, deep-purple black plums. I calculated that I could get more for my fifty cents there than anywhere else in the market. I walked away feeling like I’d just won a second spin on the Wheel of Wonder.

When my mom had finished getting all the vegetables and fruits she could carry, it was time to hop back in the car and head home. It was a fun day, but I had my limits about being with Mom. We got home and pleaded for another treat while putting away the goods, never really expecting a "yes" from Mom. 

But that was okay because in the parking lot next to our house, the strikeout game with Pedro and Tommy was still going on, and I knew I'd be out joining them in a few minutes.