Detroit '67

Detroit ‘67

By: Aaron Zaremski

It was like a cemetery. Here lied this building, this is where the Pistons used to play, just rubble now. Here is where the Tigers played, a space fenced in by a rusty gate. Some buildings were still up though. I did not know why, I do not think buildings have pride. But, if these buildings could tell stories, I would definitely like to hear them.

If it was not for my father, I would have felt like I was the only person there, the Omega Man with an entire boulevard to myself. All I saw was the broken down ruins of what was. I could not help but stare though. It felt like a piece of art that was ugly to others but somehow I understood, captivated by the arches, the acres and the afterthought.

My father noticed my interest as I gazed in wonderment from the passenger side window, “You’ve heard about the Midas touch, right son?”

 “Uh, yeah… yeah. I know who he is.”

 “Well, then you know how everything he touched turned to gold.”

I nodded my head in acknowledgment even though my eyes had already wandered back to the passing brick facades.

“What you are looking at is the Detroit touch. Everything they touched turned to rust.”

***

            My alarm clocked sounded. It was 6:15 in the morning on July 23^rd. I always set my alarm to the AM news station and I set for 6:15 and 6:45 a.m. because those are the times when they up date sports. But this time was different; they were broadcasting a historical archived broadcast from the riots of 1967.

            It was amazing to hear the broadcast. “Breaking news into WWJ 950. There appears to be a riot spreading rapidly from 12^th Street.” I sat there like a grandchild listening to their grandfather tell story. Then they aired the audio from the Tigers game the afternoon of the riots. I heard Ernie Harwell’s voice, always so delicate and calm, somewhat tremble when he made note of smoke rising beyond the stadium walls.

            I went downstairs for breakfast and told my parents about what was on the radio. They grew up in and near Detroit. They were kids when the riots happened. My father took me in the backyard one time and pointed at a tree in the neighbor’s backyard. He told me that for a week the National Guard would fly over Jefferson in helicopters en route to downtown and they flew so close to the tree that the leaves would fall off because of the force of the wind.

            My mother’s story was always a little more serious. She actually grew up in the heart of Detroit. Her neighborhood looks like a war zone now, empty houses, burnt down houses, fences keeping nothing in. The riots started on a Sunday and she always said that tanks freely roamed down their neighborhood streets to get to the mayhem.

            I figured they would have been listening too, but they were not. I told my dad to go downstairs and turn on the radio.

He shouted from the basement, “What station?”

I replied, “WWJ 950.”

He turned it on. It was the sports updates and then traffic and weather together. I was excited for them to listen. It went to commercial and when they came back, it was the normal news.

            “Well, we must have missed it.” I said.

            “We didn’t, we were there.” My parents retorted as they sipped their coffee and read the morning news.

I went back upstairs to my room to get ready for work. My radio was still on from when my alarm went off.

“This is breaking news: the second game of a double header with the Yankees this afternoon has been cancelled.”

“That’s odd,” I thought to myself. The Tigers play the Cardinals today.

I ran downstairs and asked my dad who the Tigers played on July 23^rd, 1967. He held the cup to his mouth as he dug into his baseball almanac off a mind.

“The Yankees,” He answered and then sipped his coffee.

Standing there I felt like I should have said something. But, whatever it was, my parents were definitely not going to believe me.

***

As I was driving down Jefferson and through Grosse Pointe, I realized a slew of old cars parked on the street. Some with license plates from ’61, ’64, ’65, but none of them were later than ’67.

Then all of the sudden this raucous noise overpowered the stereo in my car. A low flying National Guard chopped flew past me like a child running home before dark so it would not get trouble. It was flying with a purpose. Like it had a place to be.

I have never claimed to be an investigator, like Sherlock Holmes. But, I have watched far too many episodes of The Twilight Zone than a normal twenty-year-old should. And it was with that expertise that I surmised that this was officially weird.

Passing the Grosse Pointe City limits into Detroit is a lot like getting out of warm pool on a cold day. The minute you get out of that pool, you notice the stark differences in temperature real quick.

I mean, how unfair is that though? Being right smack dab next to mansions far too big for a family of three… or even forty-three.

But, that culture shock was nowhere to be seen. These buildings were pristine and beautiful, in immaculate condition. And they were on the Detroit side no less.

Places like “Al’s Drug Store and Soda Bar” and bus benches with ads for Coca-Cola seemed very uncharacteristic of the Detroit I was accustomed to being greeted by when entering its city limits.

When I passed Belle Isle, I noticed it had a new sign. It looked better than the one they have now. And I could see from a distance that the fountain was on. It had been shut off for months due to budget cuts.

Driving further and further into the city, I could see smoke bellowing. I turned onto 12^th Street only to be greeted by a blockade of police cars.

I got out of my car and asked one of the officers what was going on.

“Are you dumb, son?” One of the officers retorted.

He continued, “Can’t ya see? There is a riot going on?”

I asked why they were not intervening then.

The chief stood tall and said, “We are only guys with a badge and gun. The National Guard couldn’t even stop this.”

There I was. In the middle of what I heard about as a kid. The “turning point” of the city. The riots.

I walked through the mass mêlée of people. Blacks and whites were working together. And they were tearing the city apart. They were throwing rocks, cinder blocks, shoes, anything that could be turned into a projectile.

The shattering of glass and the crackle of fire was juxtaposed to the songs of Motown blaring out of the speakers of a transistor radio on the stoop of an apartment complex. As men and women were tearing out the heart of the city, Marvin Gaye was singing with Tammi Terrell saying that they were all each other needed to get by. From the distance I could hear Dancing in the Street.

There was no dancing here. There was chaos and despair. African Americans screaming of injustice were being reprimanded by white cops who did not care.

The ones who were arrested were lucky. I was shielding myself behind a Cadillac door as bullets were wizzing by me and finding themselves in the flesh of black protesters. Children, mothers, fathers murdered in gun fire with bullets buzzing around them like bees. With so many bullets someone was bound to get stung.

I stood there in the middle of the street taking in what was around me. People kept on bumping into me. Some fleeing and retreating some trying to grab more stones and bricks to combat the National Guard.

One even shouted at me to join the revolution or get of the way.

I got out of the way.

The only place that made sense to go to was Tiger Stadium. I walked to the corner of Michigan and Trumball. The further away from 12^th Street the more calm it got, but I could tell the riots were spreading. It was like a sonic boom of destruction.

I approached the ticket teller and purchased a ticket for a bleacher seat for two dollars. The game was already underway. Word of what was happening had spread through the confines of the stadium. But, none of that mattered to me anymore.

Here I was safe. Inside the confines of Tiger Stadium there were no riots and the only race that mattered was the one from first base to home plate.

My eyes were fixated to the outfield. I got to see Kaline in right field and Willie Horton in left. They just stood there roaming the outfield like palm readers. Predicting where the ball would go on a whim. Except they actually knew where the ball would land. Fans would yell at Kaline to hustle and would call him lazy.

I stood up in defense retorting, “What are talking about? He is a Hall of Famer!”

 I kept having to remind myself it was 1967 and a year from now on the same streets where people were rioting would be rejoicing for their Tigers would win the 1968 World Series.

I felt like Marty McFly with the sports almanac in Back to Future. Would any of these people believe me if I told them what was going to happen? McClain winning 30 games. Beating the Cardinals in seven games?

Baseball has always been a beautiful game to me. It just seemed more beautiful today. The grass seemed greener. The sound of the ball hitting the bat echoed through the stadium walls.

 Looking on as Lolich shook off Freehan and dug into the pitcher’s mound before he delivered a curve ball that could make the Statue of Liberty’s knees break. Seeing Kaline hit a ball further than any tape measure could put into context. Watching Willie Horton command left field and shimmy in the batter’s box and hit a frozen rope in the gap in left-center field was just mesmerizing.

I could tell why my father was so fond of this team.

The game concluded and I just sat in my seat for awhile. I looked around and surveyed every last detail of the stadium. The green seats. The smell of peanuts and stale beer on a summer day.

 I had only been there a few times as a child before they tore it down. It was just a field now, diamond still in tact, up kept by citizens and fans.

I stole dirt from it once. My brother and I had gone downtown and decided to run the bases there. I laughed to myself as I realized that I had something in common with the looters during the riots.

I had stolen something from the city.

I walked down the concourse as I exited. Taking in one last breath of what is was like back then. To be there in its glory. I bought a pennant as a keep sake, to remember the moment by. I gave the man a five dollar bill for it and told him to keep the change.

I saw him look at me weird as he looked at the bill.

“Sir, you trying to trick me,” he said.

“No,” I replied.

I didn’t understand why he was not accepting my gesture. The pennant was only a dollar.

“This ain’t a five dollar bill,” he retorted.

I went pale. I remembered that the currency now compared to then looks different. Instead of engaging further with this man, I decided to leave without my memento. As I began to walk with a more feverous pace, I could hear him call for security.

I ran past the first exit, rounded past the second one and then the third and finally out onto Michigan and Trumball.

“Safe!” I exclaimed while waving my arms like that of an umpire after making a call at the plate.

I turned around to see if the security guards had followed me out. I turned around only to find the rusty gate that surrounded what was Tiger Stadium.

Frantically running down the streets of Detroit, I realized that there were no longer any riots. Only ruins.

I ran to the nearest newspaper stand, the date read: July 23^rd 2012.

Confused and weary I drove home. This drive was familiar. There were no cars with metal fins on them with paint jobs that resembled colors of ice cream.. No, these were just normal cars. Normal buildings. The same old ruins of the past.

I arrived home torn as to whether I should tell my parents about what had just happened to me. All of that was washed away when my father greeted me with tickets to the Tigers game.

“The 1968 Tigers will be there signing autographs,” he said.

Taking my ticket I smiled while thinking to myself, “Will they believe me when I tell him that I thought they played a good game against the Yankees in ‘67?”

After all, I was there to see it.

I Have My Parents To Thank For This

You do not have to be 55 to know the impact of Kennedy's assassination.

You do not have to be 105 to know that Ty Cobb was the greatest hitter ever to play the game of baseball.

And you do not have to be 45 to know of the great Johnny Carson.

I recently watched a documentary the other day with my father about the late and great Tonight Show host, Johnny Carson. I knew of him and had seen clips of him throughout my life and through stories from my father, mother, grandmother, grandfather and really any family member of mine.

Every time one of them talked about the Tonight Show, you could see the child in their eye. Just that happiness, that unexplainable happiness that you try to put into words but just cannot, no matter how hard you try.

Needless to say, I rarely get goosebumps. And when I do, they usually come from songs. When John Lennon says, "I read the news today, oh boy..." at the beginning of "A Day In The Life" or when the intro to the Beach Boys' "God Only Knows" comes on and every time Paul Simon opens his mouth.

But even more rarer than that, do I get goosebumps from just being in the presence of greatness.

I got them last night by the presence of Johnny Carson on my television.

Now I know how what my father, mother, grandmother, grandfather and really any family member of mine really felt when Carson was on every night.

I do have to say that I love watching things like this when they come on television. But what I love even more is the fact that I can watch things like this with my parents. The act of watching something from Don Rickles or Bill Cosby or Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin back in the day, and having an as mutual admiration for it as my parents, is truly something very special.

While watching the documentary I was reminded of watching something with my mother a month before on Victor Borge. Now, many people of my age probably do not not know who this man is, but you should. And because of my mom I do.

Thanks mom.

When the documentary concluded with a montage about Carson's death, I could see my dad getting emotional. Or in the words of Mike Myer's character in the "Coffee Talk" sketches on SNL, "A little verklempt."

I have only seen my father cry about five times in my lifetime. Two of which occurred because of something on the television.

First, it was the episode of Wonder Years, where the dad, Jack Arnold sell's the old family family Stationwagon for a brand new car. Every one in the Arnold family wanted to see the old Stationwagon go, But, when it finally did they realized how much they loved it. And Neil Young's "Long May You Run" played during a montage of memories with the family's car.

Yesterday was that second time.

After it concluded and I noticed a shift and crack in my father's voice, we started talking about Carson. I told him of my favorite Carson clips that I watched on YouTube and he told me some of his.

We both got to talking about his famous sketches and guests. We talked about Carnac the Magnificent and how my dad said that Carson always jabbed at Ed McMahon and would call him things like, "Budweiser Breath". We talked about Carson and Sinatra. But in the end, we both agreed that Carson's bits with Don Rickles were the best.

I told him about the episode where Don Rickles broke Johnny Carson's cigarette box while Bob Newhart was filling in for Carson. Then next night Carson found out about it and tracked down Rickles, who was filming an episode of CPO Sharky, live across the hall.

My father smirked and said, "I remember watching that when it happened."

And that is the consensus with stories of that time. Of my parents' time. Of my grandparents' time.

They remembered with great reverence when those things happened.

I am just lucky and I am privileged that I was shown and told stories about people like Johnny Carson and stories about things that happened "back in the day" by my father, mother, grandmother, grandfather and really any family member of mine.

So I too can experience that unexplainable happiness.

My Second Ever Short Story... (Welcome to) The Machine

Prologue

This story takes place in Eurtopia in the year 2374.

Eurtopia was formed after years of constant invasion and fighting amongst the countries of that made up Europe as we know today. Germany initially took claim to the country, or so they thought. Germany came very close. That was until the outside forces of the United States and its allies suppressed Germany’s attempt at establishing an absolute power once again.

Soon after that, France tried to take over. And soon after France’s attempt, Britain tried to state claim. None were successful in law term rule.

In a last ditch effort by the United European Countries, the U.N. decided to combine all of the countries of Europe under one democratic ruler and banner. They decided the country would henceforth be called Eurtopia.

For many years Eurtopia thrived under its democratic regime. But as population continued to grow at an alarming rate the leniency of democracy was no longer authoritative enough to control the population.

Slowing but surely Eurtopia became corrupt. The populous began electing militant officials and undeserving leaders. And soon after that, there were no elections at all.

With non-elected officials in office, the population of Eurtopia became anarchists.

The non-elected officials did not care about discipline the citizens. They cut funding for police, firemen and doctors, so the government leaders could have a higher salary. And whatever policemen and firemen there were, they were in the pocket of Eurtopia’s corrupt and negligent leader.

With over crowded streets and a leader with no direction, the people of Eurtopia started to become their own police force.

But once again, over time that too became corrupt.

An honorable police force morphed into gangs that rule the streets. And the gangs morphed into terror groups that desired absolute power by any means necessary.

That used propaganda and brute force to take what they wanted when they wanted. Eventually all the terror groups merged into one.

And that is where this story begins.

It was a rainy day as blood flowed through the cobble stone cracks on the streets of Eurtopia. The immoveable force of the citizens met the unstoppable object of their oppressive adversary once again.

The overcrowded and malnourished masses of Eurtopia were once again unsuccessful in their overtaking of the current regime. But much like before, a mission became an excuse. An excuse to loot, to steal, to kill, to rape, to pillage.

The people of Eurtopia indulged in all the excesses that were made accessible to them, and the only time these were readily available were in times of revolt. And once they got their hands on the alcohol or drugs they coveted, they revolt quickly became a moment of liberation to a saga of intoxication.

Nobody exemplified this more than McAvoy.

McAvoy was a brash and outspoken musician who had gained popularity through his out spoken nature against the government. He would educate the audience and on lookers at his shows about tyranny that they were under. He was one of many who spoke out against the government and their henchmen and mercenaries.

But, McAvoy had one thing that the others did not.

He had a microphone.

And because of this people could hear his message. Not only that, but they could listen. McAvoy knew that the most dangerous thing that a militant regime could face is an educated populous.

But Eurtopia needed something much stronger to bring down their opposition.

A terror organization that was faceless.

A terror organization that donned black masks as they made their way through the riotous crowds. Who infiltrated secret meetings of rebellion. Who blended into society like chameleons. Who served as the police force, the judicial system, and the executioners.

No one could stand up to their guns and brute force.

They incited riots just to get people out in the streets, so they could kill the ones that they deemed were in the way of their ‘cause”.

They were the Machine.

***

The Machine had been formed five years prior. As many terror groups were vying for the chance to control Eurtopia.

The Machine either took out the ones that were in their way, or the ones that were still left consolidated into the Machine to spare their lives.

All the other terror organizations were open with their identity. People knew who was apart of which terror group. So citizens would seek out these people and kill them.

This was not the case with the Machine.

Due to their infamous black masks that they only wore in times of action, they were able to assimilate into society. They were able to live normal lives. They held positions such as lawyers, officers and judges. The Machine had access to documents that no other terror group had access to.

The Machine could find the occupations and addresses of people who spoke out against them. They could seek out anybody anywhere and take them out.

They were extraordinary at keeping their allegiance under wraps. Members of the Machine could have very well been your next store neighbor and you would have never known.

The Machine were on every corner, on every street, on every block. They lived with you, they laughed with you. They lied to you.

There was no stopping them.

This fact did not detour McAvoy, he still made it his mission to take down the Machine.

McAvoy’s concerts, once a place of entertainment and release, became more and more like rallies.

His signature guitar that precariously hung down from his left shoulder was soon replaced by automatic machine gun that adorned his shoulder instead.

The crowd once full of teenagers wanting to party and have a good time began to contain to contain more and more people who did not want to hear rock and roll music.

They wanted to hear how they could take down the Machine.

Due the ever ominous presence of the Machine, McAvoy had every person in the audience swear allegiance to his cause and detract the Machine’s oppressive nature. McAvoy did this, because he knew how prideful the members of the Machine were. He knew that if the Machine was being spat upon, the Machine would reveal itself.    

No one got past McAvoy without doing this. He checked and questioned everyone to make sure they were clean and on his side.

He checked everyone except the bartender.

***

One night as McAvoy and his band, the Churchill’s were performing at another club, the Machine in possession of his home address, decided to raid his house and capture the outspoken rebel.

McAvoy was obviously not there.

But his mother, brother, and fiancé were. To send a message to McAvoy, the leader of the Machine ordered for all three to be executed on the spot. The leader then also called for the execution of the Machine who had falsely led them.

Four slain bodies laid in the bedroom of McAvoy’s house. But much to the Machine’s chagrin, none of them were McAvoy.

Word spread quickly to the club where McAvoy was playing.

When word finally reached him, they were in the middle of their set, when a roadie whispered into his ear the news.

McAvoy immediately collapsed to his knees and stayed there motionless for what felt like hours on end, until he let loose a raucous yell.

The concert was over.

And the meeting to formulate a he plan for rebellion had begun. McAvoy was as passionate as ever in his speech. The distraught on lookers and supporters could see that he was visibly upset and shaking. His fellow band mates had to grab him and pull him off stage before he did something that he would regret.

When he got backstage, he again collapsed, and continuously mumbled the phrase, “The bloody Machine... they… they took everything.”

As his band mates consoled him, they reminded McAvoy that he could not go home. For the Machine new where he lived and they would be waiting for him.

***

In the months after the execution of his family, McAvoy became a squatter.

He lived in abandoned building and on the streets, trying to evade the attention of the Machine. This was no easy task, as the Machine had grown stronger during the time that McAvoy was on the streets.

            More people were being captured and executed everyday by the Machine. It was a miracle that none of those people were McAvoy, himself.

            The Machine had grown by hundreds or even thousands. No one person could tell. But there power had grown immensely.

            During the Machine’s rise, Eurtopia’s militant leader had been assianated, and many expected it was the Machine who pulled the trigger. Without a head of government in place for Eurtopia, the Machine was one piece and step away from absolute power, the only problem was they did not have a man for the job.

***

            McAvoy spent his time on the streets observing the oppression before him. He saw mother’s with new born babies walking down the streets scared, he saw former friends, teachers and students get captured. He saw old shops that he loved and remembered as a child boarded up and closed.

            Everything in his life was just a distant memory.

            McAvoy knew now more than ever that something had to be done. The Machine had to come down.

            So, McAvoy diligently and secretively began to form a coalition of people.

People who shared similar stories to McAvoy’s. The too had families torn and friends murdered by the Machine, and they too wanted nothing more to see the Machine meet the same fate as their loved one’s did at the hands of the terrorist organization.

            McAvoy knew of the danger and sheer impossibility of taking out each member of the Machine one by one. He decided that the best way to destroy the Machine was to blow up their headquarters.

            It was revealed to McAvoy through one of his supporters that the Machine’s headquarters had been compromised and revealed in a newscast the week prior. This was the opportunity that McAvoy had been preaching about and preparing for years.

            He was finally about to do what so many had tried to do before.

            McAvoy was about the kill the Machine.

            McAvoy and his group of rebels spent the next few weeks collecting the parts needed to assemble a bomb capable of blowing up the headquarters. And this proved to be no easy task, as the Machine’s headquarters was a twelve story skyscraper that towered into the sky and was constructed with sleek and shiny metal, so when the sun’s light would reflect on it, it produced a blinding reflection to the passerby’s on the street.

            But after weeks of meticulous and deliberate planning, they had finally constructed a bomb powerful enough to complete their task.

            McAvoy had one of his followers put on a black mask, so he could infiltrate the headquarters and place the bomb in the lobby. Everything was moving smoothly and as McAvoy had envisioned.

McAvoy and his followers went to a safe location, and McAvoy with the detonator in hand, he was one button push away from ending the tyranny of the Machine.

Before he pushed the button, he addressed the coalition. He looked at all of them as he paced back and forth and said, “This is the moment, this is our independence!” He then smirked and continued, “Do you feel that?” The people looked at each other confused. McAvoy then clarified, “That is the feeling of years of oppression finally of our backs. For we no longer have a machine… to weigh us down!”

As McAvoy uttered that final phrase, he pushed down the button on the detonator and simultaneously, smoke and flames bellowed in the distance as the Machine had finally met its demise.

***

McAvoy was a hero. The citizens of Eurtopia made him their knight in shining armor. With no terrorist groups to speak of, Eurtopia went back to its old ways, the ways that the U.N. had once promised and envisioned.

The country of Eurtopia held its first democratic election in more than 50 years, and McAvoy won in a landslide.

He pledged to restore the Eurtopia that he once knew and they all loved. And he did just that. Eurtopia grew quickly in every single facet that a country could grow in. Jobs were available everywhere, food production was at a surplus, Eurtopia became a major player in global trade.

McAvoy was the perfect leader, the leader that Eurtopia had wanted and needed for so many years prior.

But that soon all came to a screeching halt, as one night when McAvoy was going over some paper work to develop a new government building, an inanimate object crashed through his window. When McAvoy picked it up it exploded and gave of a thick fog that quickly enveloped the entire room. Then he could hear a commotion outside his door. He felt and heard the noise become louder and louder as it approached. McAvoy’s door was then kicked and twenty masked men filled the room.

It was the Machine.

As the fog settled, one of the members approached McAvoy. He struck him in the back of the leg with an assault rifle causing McAvoy to fall to his knees.

He then moved to the front of McAvoy, where he stood arms crossed and laughing. He slowly moved his hands toward his head and removed his mask to reveal his identity. Still laughing, the leader of the Machine bent over with his hands behind his back, and leaned in towards McAvoy’s ear and whispered, “Boo.”

He then put his mask back on signaled towards one of the Machine members. He put a black bag over McAvoy and struck him in the face with the back of his gun.

***

When McAvoy awoke, the same man that had revealed his face to McAvoy was standing in the room.

“For such a valiant hero, you sure put up quite the tussle.”

He continued to mock and demean McAvoy. He only referred to and addressed McAvoy as, “Oh, hero” and when he did, he clasped both of his hands and acted as if he was a teenager girl talking of her celebrity crush.

His sarcastic face quickly turned stern, as he slapped McAvoy across the face and yelled at him, “We will recreate you in our image!”

McAvoy then spat upon the leader of the Machine’s face. That only led to McAvoy getting slapped again. The leader then called for some assistance and they began to torture McAvoy.

The torturing went on for weeks.

Until one day the leader of the Machine approached McAvoy and asked him if he would like to see the Machine’s true headquarters.

A broken and shell of person that he once was McAvoy obliged.

The leader of the Machine then took McAvoy to a dark empty room with just a desk and a chair. McAvoy was confused until the leader of the Machine spoke to him, “There is no headquarters, McAvoy. We are the Machine. You are the Machine. We are all the Machine. Everyone just needs to realize their part… Realize your part McAvoy… Join us.”

Confused and in dismay, McAvoy did not know what to say. The leader of the Machine then revealed his name, “Rommel, my name is Rommel, McAvoy.” He then continued, “I was once like you, McAvoy, fatherless and with no direction. Then I realized my part in the Machine.”

Rommel then took McAvoy back into the torture room where he began to brainwash McAvoy with propaganda. He pleaded for McAvoy to realize his part in the Machine. Rommel started to tell McAvoy that his whole entire life was a lie, and that the Machine always knew where he was and where he had been. Rommel told him hat his band mates were the Machine, his mother was the Machine, his brother, his fiancé, they were all the Machine.

After days of this, McAvoy finally caved.

He became apart of the Machine.

Rommel was pleased with this and for the first time since McAvoy had been in his presence, he cracked a smile and said, “Welcome to the Machine, McAvoy. Welcome to the Machine.”

The Machine had finally acquired the missing piece to their takeover of Eurtopia. It was their biggest adversary all along. It was Eurtopia’s white knight, who they turned black. Better yet, who they turned into the Machine.

With McAvoy now in the pocket of the Machine, he did their bidding for them. Rommel had McAvoy cover up and convince the citizens of Eurtopia that the Machine was actually doing good for Eurtopia. But the people of Eurtopia were not buying it. And after awhile, neither was McAvoy.

Fearing that the Machine was going to loose its key piece to power, Rommel, who knew of McAvoy’s past with drugs and alcohol, decided to suppress McAvoy’s second thoughts with all the alcohol and drugs available.

McAvoy became a heroin addict and was too strung out to ever doubt the Machine again.

After a couple of years of this McAvoy became a non-factor in government. He just became a figure head, as the Machine was back in power and in dominance of Eurtopia. He just became the Machine’s pawn.

As Eurtopia began to decline back into its dystopian ways, McAvoy began to slip further and further into the Machine, to the point where he no longer served as the day to day President of Eurtopia. But he instead donned a black mask and ran the day to day terror operations of the Machine.

***

Ten years later, another outspoken musician was garnering attention from the Machine. This time it was not because of his outspokenness toward the operations of the Machine, but for something that the Machine thought was far worse.

He was preaching a message of peace.

The man was thought of as a second coming of Eurtopia’s now cult of personality, McAvoy. Except this time they knew there was no way he could become apart of the Machine.

And much like McAvoy he was only referred to by his last name, Thatcher.

Thatcher was much more open with the people than McAvoy, he accepted and was more receptive to other’s ideas, unlike McAvoy who forced his ideas onto people and forced others to do his bidding.

The people of Eurtopia found Thatcher’s sincerity refreshing and much needed.

But Thatcher’s chance for changing Eurtopia was short-lived as the Machine quickly broke into Thatcher’s apartment as he was sleeping one night and captured him.

They took him straight to McAvoy.

McAvoy revealed himself, they same way as Rommel did a decade before. Except this time, no life was going to be spared. McAvoy cocked his gun, and was about to execute Thatcher. But he realized something.

Thatcher was a spitting image of himself.

Bewildered, McAvoy dropped his gun and ran out of the room. He ordered for Thatcher to be taken to the torture, as that was what happened when McAvoy was captured.

But instead of torturing Thatcher, McAvoy ran tests to see if what he feared was true.

That he could Thatcher’s father.

After a few days of testing, McAvoy’s fear became true. As the test results showed that he was indeed the father of Eurtopia’s newest threat to the Machine. Instead of executing Thatcher and have that be message to Eurtopia. McAvoy decided to be what he never had and always wanted in life.

A father.

He decided it would be his mission to initiate Thatcher into the Machine so he could develop a relationship with him and mold Thatcher into their heir to power. McAvoy found this task to be quite easy, as Thatcher was eager to belong to the Machine. For McAvoy had brainwashed him the same way Rommel did.

After just merely days of brainwashing, Thatcher accepted his role in the Machine. And McAvoy, displaying a happiness he had never exuded before reached in his pocket and offered a celebratory cigar to his son. As they both lit their cigars, McAvoy put his arm around Thatcher and brought him near. He exclaimed, “Welcome my son, welcome to the Machine.”

***

After just a month as apart of the Machine, Thatcher quickly rose through the ranks of the terror group. He embraced everything that the Machine stood for, much quicker than McAvoy ever did.

He was able to control fleets and carry out executions and captures with relative ease and no effort at all. He understood how the Machine worked. He was able to use propaganda and lies much better than McAvoy; he had the people of Eurtopia and the terrorists of the Machine eating out of the palms of his hand.

McAvoy became increasingly weary of this. He felt that Thatcher could either form a rebellion with the people of Eurtopia, or even with the terrorists of the Machine usurp all of his power.

Thatcher always insisted McAvoy was being paranoid, and reassured him that the last thing he wanted to do was damage the relationship between them. For Thatcher finally had the father he always wanted. And McAvoy got to be the father he never had.

That was until McAvoy and other top officials of the Machine went out to suppress a rally that was going on in the capital of Eurtopia, a rally that was called in by an anonymous source within the Machine. 

As the jeep which contained McAvoy and the officials left the hide out of the Machine, it exploded high into the air.

McAvoy was dead.

***

In the days after McAvoy’s assaination, Eurtopia celebrated once again. The streets were free.

They were free from the Machine once more.

At a celebratory rally, a man in a black mask similar to that of the Machine rushed the stage and grabbed the microphone. In front of the masses he asked, “Do you remember me?” The people of Eurtopia were puzzled and confused. Then the masked man removed his mask, to reveal himself as Thatcher.

He then reiterated, “Do you remember me, now?” The crowd roared, as their second savior had returned and brought down the Machine.

Thatcher revealed that he was never captured by the Machine and that he actually infiltrated the Machine’s headquarters and brought them down by assassinating McAvoy. He promised the people of Eurtopia something that McAvoy never did after seemingly bringing down the Machine.

Thatcher promised and assured the citizens of Eurtopia that the Machine was dead, that it seized to be and was no more. That is was never coming back.

***

A couple years later a rebuilding Eurtopia elected Thatcher as their new leader, their first democratically elected leader since McAvoy.

Well aware of what McAvoy did, the citizens of Eurtopia demanded that Thatcher implement a police force.

And Thatcher obliged.

Thatcher created the ETF, the Eurtopian Task Force. He put them in charge in disciplining the people of Eurtopia. And Thatcher did not stop there. He personally appointed judges and lawyers and other government officials.

He created specific job duties for each Eurtopian citizen and he had everyone contributing to the re-birth of Eurtopia. This went on for years until the citizens became disenchanted and dismayed. They no longer believed in the message and promises that Thatcher once made to them.

Eurtopia began to slip back into its dystopian past once more, but this time it was far worse.

Buildings were decaying, families were going hungry, education was non-existent and jobs were now only for specially trained people.

And one of Eurtopia’s biggest fears was becoming more apparent.

Not the resurgence of the Machine. That was one promise Thatcher had kept. The Machine never came back under his watch they could not especially with his creation, the ETF.

Instead of being fearful of the Machine the people of Eurtopia were fearful of the communist nation they were becoming.

And one day this fear became real, as Thatcher had cranes drape the buildings of Eurtopia with red flags that had a blue circle on it. And within that blue circle was a white lighting bolt.

This was the new flag for the United Communist State of Eurtopia.

Thatcher had a rally to introduce the citizens of Eurtopia to their new country and way of life. He made the people remember that he had kept his promise about the Machine. And he tried telling him that he created something better for them, the UCSE.

As Thatcher stepped down from the stage, he lit a cigar and reveled in the new regime he had created. As he exhaled the smoke from his lungs he mocked the words that his father had uttered upon him years before.

“Welcome my son… Welcome to the Machine.”

A Note I Got From My Grandma Today

I had to use Rosetta Stone: Grandma to try and read this:

Dear Aaron,


Grandma had some luck at bingo. I am sending you a check for $45.00 to share the wealth. I won $331.00 dollars. How are you? We had 4 inches of snow Saturday. Did you get any? Is everything going okay for you, Aaron? I miss you. Aaron send in all your resumes now so they get them early on, so you have some good luck. Take care of yourself. May God bless you. 


Love You,
Grandma


Let me know when you get the check.

God, I love that woman.

My grandma is better is better than your grandma.

I Am (Still) Lucky

You know, I am lucky.

I am not the luckiest, but I am lucky.

I am 19 in college, going for a degree in something I love to do, have my family support in that. Hell, I have a family to support me.

I am lucky.

It is not everyday that your son says that they want to pursue a degree in Creative Writing and as a parent you say, "Go for it!" as opposed to saying, "What kind of doctor did you say?" But, nevertheless I have parents who actually support me in that. I have parents who are curious about what I write, who actually say with a degree of confidence to other people that I am a writer, and I have a grandma who always asks me where I come up with all that stuff.

I have a brother who is my role model and best friend. A guy who has a kidney surgery and one of the first things he tells me is that the only thing he was worried about before the surgery was me. I have that type of person in my life. Someone who I can talk to on a daily basis on the phone while I am at school, hang up afterwords and realize that I just spent 45 minutes with him talking about Ghostbusters, Batman, and Nelson Cruz.

I have a mom and dad who would do anything for me. I know that because I am at SVSU. I do not have to be, and I really shouldn't be. But, because of them I am.

I have a dad who I can spend simple father and son time with watching a George Harrison documentary or by talking about how we would have handled Custer's Last Stand if we were George Custer. A dad who has a subtle humor and can teach a person the importance of bow-sawing techniques... even if they come after a half inch gash has occured. Someone who I tricked into saying, "I love you" first today before I hung up. Gotcha, dad.

I have a mom who works her ass off. Never for herself though. Always for someone else. Who is there with something to make me laugh even if I do not want to. "Here do not forget my handicap sticker... I guess those do come in handy, get it?" Someone who always just happens to have planned all my favorite meals when I am home. Someone who posts Facebook statti bragging about me. Making me actually feel like I am doing something right.

I have a family on my dad's side and on my mom's side that I love dearly. Who believe in me too. Who I can go garage saleing... excuse me, junking with. Who post songs on my Facebook wall just because they think I might like them or try to convince that the Lions are good. Who offer me rides to go see my brother. Who help keep me inspired.

I have a girlfriend.

Yeah, me. I have a girlfriend. And god, is she beautiful. She has a smile that makes me fall into an endless loop of love with her. And I do not even care. She likes Louis Armstrong. She sends me individual bags of candy with little notes that would be the cutest thing ever, if not for her. Who looks over at me while I am driving and smiles and thinks I do not see it, but I do. Who texts me exactly as I am writing this about her and says she does not want to ruin my creative flow. Yeah, that girl is mine.

How did I get this lucky?

I have no clue.