Motor City Burning

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UNCLE BOB WASN’T LYING. Can’t miss it, he’d said of the hippie house on Plum Street where it would be safe for Willie to park his baby, his immaculate classic Buick. And there it was now, right side, halfway down the block, painted up like a bad acid trip — orange walls, purple trim, some of the windows missing and others cracked and milky, the front door covered by an American flag with a peace symbol on the blue field where the fifty stars were supposed to be. A kid with stringy blond hair halfway down his back was waving cars onto the back yard. Music poured from an upstairs window, jangling electric guitars and a woman wailing, “Go ask Alice when she’s ten feet taaaaaaaaall. . ”

The driveway was pocked and cracked so Willie took it slow. He had the Sonomatic radio tuned to the pre-game show on WJR — Uncle Bob told him he absolutely must not miss it — and a guy with a folksy southern drawl was reciting some kind of poem:

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