Page 18 of You've Got a Place Here, Too
“I’m gonna start my own production company and record company and make you my first act,” Wilbur said to her about why he enrolled at Lewis instead of looking for another factory job. “But I have to get the skills first. And we’re gonna do the whole nine. Alicia Myers is doing it, Anita Baker is doing it. You’re next.”
“I think you’re doing too much,” Valencia said. “But if you say so. I ain’t got all day for you to finish a degree, though, so hurry up and make me a star before we all end up on the welfare line.”
Desmond was grown enough to walk out the apartment without an explanation of what he’d be doing and where but perhaps getting too old to be doing it so frequently without a source of income, so he did inform his grandmother that he was going to see a disc jockey at a club for a little while and that he wouldn’t be out too late. His grandmother said to be careful and to remember that both God and his mama were watching and to not do anything they wouldn’t do.
He drove his Chevy Vega up Woodward Avenue and parked by a liquor store off Seven Mile and walked into Heaven. Club Heaven. A mirror ball hung from the center, a spotlight carefully aimed on it to create an electronic snow globe, encircling theboys and men who wanted to dance with each other or themselves. Desmond made the rounds and greeted the ones he knew before he bumped into Wilbur.
He was taller than he remembered from their first encounter outside of the Lewis classroom. Wearing a ringer tee that accented his biceps, which Desmond didn’t know he was hiding under the Generra sweatshirt he was wearing that autumn day. And the electric snowflakes made his cocoa brown skin glow.
“You made it just in time,” Wilbur said.
“In time for what,” Desmond said, trying not to make eye contact.
“I’m playing a new record tonight to start off my set. I wrote and produced it myself.”
“You write songs?”
“And produce them. You got wax in your ears?”
“I hear just fine, maybe you need to speak up.”
“Listen up. I got my friend from high school to play the keyboards and another one to play drums. Then we got some other folks together for the rest of the instrumentals and all that.”
“What high school did you go to?”
“Henry Ford.”
“Oh, you grew up on the west side.”
“And let me guess, you grew up on the east side.”
“Yeah, and I went to Cass Tech.”
“I can tell.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“You Cass Tech graduates love to tell people you went to Cass Tech,” Wilbur said. “What are you doing over at Lewis? Kinda small for you, right?”
“We all have to get a degree from somewhere.”
“Cass is so big, though. You gotta be feeling trapped in these business courses.”
Desmond couldn’t help but agree. Cass Tech, a massive old schoolhouse, was right outside the tall hulks of downtown Detroit, just across an expressway overpass where sometimes kids would cut class to go to the massive Hudson’s Department Store on Woodward, or skulk around the newly built Renaissance Center.
Lewis was far off in the midcentury west side of Detroit, and almost blended right in. Each building on campus—there were exactly four—was two stories and fell in perfect harmony with the all-brick houses rising to the same height.
“Anyway, my friend here is singing on this. Her name is Valencia.”
Valencia came from behind and gave Desmond a hug, and Wilbur a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got to go backstage and finish getting ready. See you in a minute.”
Desmond looked at Wilbur. “So she must be your lady.”
“She’s not.”
“Is there anything between you two?”
“Not at all, but she’s real friendly. Why, you jealous or something?”
