Reality Check in Detroit (6 page)

Up ahead, Travis could see a huge bronze arm ending in a clenched fist. It seemed to hang in the air like it was in mid-punch. It was some kind of enormous sculpture, but it was so well done it almost looked real – like a giant’s fist that might actually swing any second and knock someone out. Nish would probably take a picture exactly like that, Travis thought – of himself, in front of the fist, getting punched. Nish always liked to take cheesy photos of himself in front of monuments on their trips, and Fahd, who couldn’t recognize cheesy if it bit him on the butt, was always pleased to oblige.

When the Owls arrived at the giant fist, by then all happily chatting away, they found a woman standing there, waiting for them. She seemed very official, very stiff. She wore eyeglasses with frames so thin it seemed there were no frames at all, the lenses floating in front of her eyes. Her hair looked like it, too, had been cast in bronze.

“Quiet, now, children!” she ordered in a voice that would bring a vice-principal to attention. They quieted at once. With an abrupt change of tone, she snapped a smile so fast it was like a camera shutter clicking open and closed. Travis almost started laughing. Nish did start laughing. He burst out with a quick giggle, then caught himself, and, red-faced, stood sheepishly listening.

“I am Marjorie Gibbons of the City of Detroit Historical Society,” she said in a voice as clipped as her smile. “Welcome to the City of Detroit.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said.

“Where is it?” Nish said, another giggle bursting.

Marjorie Gibbons turned to look at him, her eyes burning so hard they seemed to weld Nish’s big mouth shut. Travis had never seen anyone deal so effectively with his loudmouthed friend.

“Where is
what
, young man?”

Nish was rattled. “Just, you know, just like, well, your city seems to have … gone missing.”

“Very funny, young man. I’ll have you know, Detroit is my home, was my parents’ home, my grandparents’ home, and it is a city we in Detroit dearly love, in good times and in bad.”

Nish turned so red he could have stopped traffic. If there had been any.

“Anyone know what this is?” Marjorie Gibbons asked the Owls, turning to the giant arm.

Fahd tried to answer – “A battering ram?” – but, as usual, was wrong.

“It’s called The Fist,” she continued as if she hadn’t even heard Fahd. “It’s in honor of Joe Louis. Anyone know who he was?”

A cameraman moved in closer on Nish, waiting for another of his silly one-liners. For reasons Travis couldn’t understand, it seemed the producers had fallen in love with the Screech Owls’ loudmouthed, barrel-chested “Money” player. Maybe Nish really was destined for fame.

“Was he a hockey player?” guessed Fahd. “The rink’s named after him.”

Marjorie Gibbons shook her head so sharply it was a wonder her glasses didn’t fly off.

Travis knew. He had the postcard of Joe Louis back in his luggage. But before he could speak, another voice piped up.

“The boxer,” Wilson Kelly said. “World champion.”

Marjorie Gibbons smiled.
Click.
Smile gone again.

“Joe Louis was the greatest heavyweight champion in history,” she said. “He and his family moved to Detroit from Alabama when he was twelve years old – the same age, I am told, as all of you.”

“Not Muck,” Nish said. “Or Mr. D.”

Marjorie Gibbons ignored him. She was catching on fast.

“He was the seventh of eight children born to parents who were themselves the children of slaves,” she said. “Do you know about slavery?”

“
We play for Muck
!” Nish joked. He knew instantly what a dumb thing it was to say. His face looked about to burst.

“We know about it,” said Wilson. “We studied the American Civil War in history this year.”

Marjorie Gibbons nodded curtly. “Joe Louis’s family was poor when they moved here, and they became even poorer when the Great Depression hit shortly after their arrival. It was a hard time. Joe Louis went to work to try to bring in some money. He even worked a short while on the Ford Motor Company assembly line.

“He was an amateur boxer, and a good one. He became city champ, state champ, and he turned professional so he could help support his parents. He fought seventy-two times. He won sixty-nine of those fights – fifty-seven of them by knockout. He was called the Champ, because he
was
the Champ.”

“He was black,” Wilson said with pride. “Like me.”

“
You’re black
?” Nish shouted, faking great surprise. Instantly he realized his mouth was again out of order. He turned even redder, if that was possible.

“Joe Louis was known as the Brown Bomber,” said Marjorie Gibbons. “He is today regarded as one of the great African-Americans in history. He is hugely admired for rising out of poverty yet never forgetting his roots or his family values. All his life, Joe Louis helped others out. He used his money to fund inner-city projects that sent young people to school. Some young people don’t get everything handed to them in life. And he had a personal code of conduct that is as important to remember today as it was in his day.”

Data took a photograph of the sculpture, typed a line or two from Marjorie Gibbons’s talk to go with it, and posted it online. Almost instantly his phone buzzed with a response: “A good person to look up to. Keep his code of conduct in mind and you’ll get even warmer …” The tweeter with the mysterious handle VintageEngine had replied again.

Warmer? In search of what? Data wondered.

“Joe told those who idolized him to ‘live and fight clean,’ ” Marjorie Gibbons continued. “He told people in sports, ‘Never gloat in victory.’ ”

“You hear that, Nishikawa?” Muck’s voice boomed from the back of the group.

Travis saw Nish’s head trying to shrink, turtle-like, into his jacket collar. But it couldn’t get down far enough to hide how red Nish’s neck had turned. Roger’s camera was catching it, too.

Marjorie Gibbons told them more about Joe Louis and Detroit while Nish tried to look casual in front of the cameras. The rest of the Owls listened attentively. Muck loved anything to do with local history and the lessons that could be learned.

When she had finished, Marjorie Gibbons thanked them for their attention and time. The Owls began heading back to their hotel, the cameras still following them. Their visit to see The Fist must have been the producers’ “Learning about Detroit” segment, Travis realized. The Owls hadn’t seen any of the episodes since that first rough cut on the bus, so there was no telling what parts were making it onto the show.

Only one thing was certain: Nish’s pudgy face, ridiculous bow tie, and dumb comments were going to make their way in there somewhere. No matter how well anyone on the Owls team played, the producers had already decided Nish “Money” Nishikawa was the star among them.

Back at the hotel lobby, the Owls who were wired were allowed to remove their microphones and they handed them to the camera crew.

They were waiting for the elevator when Sarah came over to Travis. She breathed out hard as if she had been holding her breath underwater.

“Phew! I feel I can finally talk.”

“You didn’t have much to say on the walk,” Travis said. “Stage fright?”

Sarah shook her head. “No, not that at all. I just don’t feel comfortable. I keep wondering what it is they’re hoping we’ll say and how they’ll use it. That whole history-lesson bit – although it was interesting – it felt a bit too set up, didn’t you think? Like the producers just sent us there to ooh and aah for the cameras. That’s a good story – the boxer’s story – but I felt as if they didn’t expect us to identify with Joe Louis, not really. I mean, the way that woman talked to us, it was like she didn’t think any of us would have summer jobs until we’re thirty years old. Like we’re all rich kids or something.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Travis. “We’re not rich kids.”

“Exactly. I dunno. There’s just something weird about all this – something a little … fake.”

“Oh, good! Sarah!” Inez flashed a quick smile as she walked out of the elevator and right into Sarah and Travis’s private conversation. She gave Sarah a serious look. “I’m glad I found you. Brian forgot this … for the walk.”

Inez pushed a small pink bag with a zipper into Sarah’s hand. Sarah looked at the pencil-case-like object, confused.

“We’ll get you all into hair and makeup before the dinner tonight at Green Dot Stables, of course. But here’s a little something for just walking around,” she smiled, nodding like a mother hen.

Sarah opened the pink bag and peeked at its contents. This was exactly the kind of thing she’d just been talking about. Inside was a round cake of blush, a stick of mascara, a small, round case labeled “
SMOKY EYE
,” and a shiny silver tube of lipstick. Sarah didn’t wear makeup. None of the girls did.

“Um –” Sarah started, but she didn’t get to finish.

“It’s for walking around, like I said,” chirped Inez as she marched away, her clipboard under her arm. “You never know where the cameras will be … or our dear Cody ‘Hollywood.’ ”

Travis looked at Sarah, his eyes wide, but Sarah just froze.

A
s the menus went around the table at Green Dot Stables, Travis chose his order – a peanut butter and jelly slider, the first item his finger fell upon – without even looking. He wasn’t
capable
of looking. His eyes were stuck on the glittery, blow-dried, face-powdered members of his hockey team who were sitting across the table from him.

The makeup, Inez had told them, was just for
TV
. It would make them look “normal” under the harsh lights the production crew had set up in the restaurant. But Travis was not convinced there was anything normal about any of this.

Sarah and Sam looked like movie stars, with sparkling tank tops, lipstick, pink cheeks, and hair that was puffed high enough to rival even Nish’s carefully styled mop. And big Gordie Griffith, the poor guy, had even been given a fake tan to make up for what the producers called his “unflattering paleness.” It would all look good on camera, Inez continued to reassure them, but in real life, Gordie just looked orange.

This is the reality of reality
TV
, Travis thought.

Green Dot Stables was a cozy restaurant on Lafayette Boulevard with a big, somewhat weird selection of sliders – that was why Inez and Brian had chosen it, they said. Most of the seating was in booths along the red brick walls of the restaurant. It was a funny building – Travis thought the brick walls made it look as though it had been turned inside out. There was even a little indoor roof. The producers had rented the whole restaurant: the Owls were all seated at one long table, and the Motors were at an identical table right beside them. The two hockey teams – the only customers – had been plopped down in the middle of the room so the cameras had space to weave in, out, and around.

“We’re setting up a special camera in the corner, and I want you all to take turns going over there,” Inez said as she clutched her clipboard to her chest.

“Can’t we just eat first? These kids are hungry,” said Muck. He was standing next to a big photograph of a harness-racing jockey, and between Muck and the jockey, Muck was the more determined looking. Muck, of course, didn’t have a single speck of powder on his face.

Travis could tell that the Screech Owls’ coach was starting to regret agreeing to let the Owls get caught up in this production.
Goals & Dreams
wasn’t the skills development camp that he’d envisioned. The promised “forward-thinking coaches” had never shown up. But that wasn’t all that was upsetting Muck.

On the bus on the way to the restaurant, Inez hadn’t sat down. Muck always told the Owls that standing was dangerous, especially when the bus was driving on icy roads, but Inez said it was the only way to get the Owls to listen to her. Nor did Muck like how her makeover crew had transformed the Screech Owls into hockey-playing peacocks. But worst of all, Inez had taken the one gap in their schedule – in which Muck had hoped to visit Hitsville U.S.A., the shrine to his beloved Motown music – and plugged it with what she’d called “character development” talks.

“There’s not always time to eat, not while you’re in production,” was Inez’s hurried response to Muck’s question. She stood in front of Muck and faced the Owls. “But anyway,” she added, “you’ll only be away from the table one at a time. The rest of you can eat. And take your time when you talk to the special camera,” she said, scanning the Owls’ and Motors’ tables. “You see it? It’s just beyond that black curtain. That will be
your
time. It’s like writing in a diary. You can tell that camera how you’re feeling – how you feel about the other team – and about your hopes and dreams. Really be yourselves.”

“I dream of having a mini burger named after me. The Nish Spin-o-Rama Slider!” Nish’s voice boomed as he made his way back to the Owls’ table. While the two teams had been busy ordering their small, round sliders – three or four apiece for some – Nish had gone over to the hair and makeup team to request a quick touch-up.

“
Monnn-ey! Monnn-ey
!” Nish started to chant, but no one but Fahd joined him.

“You’re already on the menu,” Sam chuckled with a crooked smile. “Didn’t you see the slider called Mystery Meat?”

Inez kept going. “Roger will be roaming around, grabbing bits of conversation, bits of ‘color.’ We’d like you to be yourselves … to act natural.”

“Oh, I’m a
natural
, all right!” Nish shouted above the murmurs that had erupted at both of the teams’ tables.

“You
are
,” Inez cooed.

“A natural pain in the butt!” Sarah and Sam shouted at the same time.

Nish sent them each a raspberry and took his seat beside Travis. Inez waved the cameras over and directed them to start filming right in Nish’s face. The Screech Owls’ loudest mouth, of course, loved it.

“The camera in the corner is for our ‘hockey diaries,’ right?” asked Fahd, who always liked to clarify.

“Yeah, sure,” said Nish as if he dealt with such matters every day of his life. “We talk to the camera about ourselves. Like, I just have to say how great I play, and what I’ll do when I reach the
NHL
, and then they’ll put it on the show. Right?”