Detroit Rock City
When I was a teen, I grew up on the mean streets of Detroit, now this was before my parents could afford to leave the city and move to the suburbs. At the time we lived in an apartment next to this older black man whose name was Malcolm.
I thought Malcolm dressed funny, but I always saw woman, extremely attractive women (white and black), coming in and out of his apartment all hours of the day.
My parents both worked and as soon as they could afford to move us from the neighborhood, they did. After when we moved, I thought that would be the last I’d ever see of Malcolm, but I was wrong.
One day I happened to be running home from “Holy Redeemer” a Catholic High-School, because I was being chased by “Billy” a red-headed, Irish, bully with freckles and acne all over his face. I called him herpes-face.
Malcolm tripped Billy, as we ran past him. And Billy fell into several trash cans that were metal at that time, and it sounded like bowling pins crashing in an alley.
Billy got up pissed to face the “dead-man” was that had tripped him. Malcolm always with a cigar, blew the smoke in Billy’s face, as he approached, they were about the same height.
Malcolm seemed to know everything about everybody, even the most trivial.
“Little Billy acting like he Da Red Head King-Pen, growing up without a daddy, and figuring cuz he 13, and me 38, I won’t whoop his ass.”
Billy didn’t flinch. He was easily fifty pounds heavier.
“Boy, I just pretend I am your daddy, cuz I probably fucked your mamma anyways.”
The irony was Malcolm had freckles on his face too, he looked a little like Morris Day from “The Time.”
And then Malcolm slapped Billy so hard that he almost knocked him down again, “You got the same freckles on your face, that your mamma had on her ass.
“Billy just stood there stunned, rubbing his cheek with freckles that Malcolm just slapped, and he looked like he was about to cry.
“Now go on get Ya punk ass out my yard boy, before I teach you how ghetto-folk play connect-da dots. And then Malcolm took out his switch blade, and started laughing like the “Predator,” right before he detonated the bomb.
Malcolm said he never saw a fat boy boy run so fast in my life, I was still running because I thought Billy was still chasing me, but I stopped running when he passed me.
Cut, Cut, Cut, Malcolm yelled after him!!!
There was a motel in downtown Detroit, on the cross-streets of Michigan Ave, and Livernois, called “The Eldorado” but it was actually a whore house. For some reason it had a large sign that was colored orange, whose shape reminded me of a piece of toast. I’m sure it had lights on the inside, but I never saw the sign lit. Even at night.
The second time I saw Malcolm was there while he was buying off some uncover cop behind a dumpster near the alley. I waited nearby until their business was concluded.
“Malcolm, I said, announcing my approach.”
Malcolm put his hand in his pocket like he was reaching for a weapon, and squinted his eyes.
“Ratt,” he mispronounced my name on purpose, letting me know he remembered me, “Punk-Ass, White Boy, he would always say after my name. Then he looked at me and shook his head, then told me that I was still ugly.
Malcolm could be every bit as funny as Richard Pryor in his hey-day. He said that when I was still little, he thought I was one of those (A.D.D) retarded kids that white people hid in the basement when-ever company came over. He didn’t say A.D.D thou he just said, “Add” like the math term.
When I tried to correct him, he immediately stopped me, “That’s why you an only child, cuz your parents got short-changed after they figured you was an ADD baby, and he mispronounced the abbreviation wrong again.
Despite our age difference and background, I always got along with Malcolm, I just pretended he was my best friend, and I treated him that way, I mean I loved hanging out with the guy, because he never treated me like the child I was.
But after so much time he would chase me off because he knew that my parents would be shocked if they found out that I was hanging with a pimp, so he was very careful to be “appropriate” within the boundaries of our friendship.
“Go on boy, go home and bug your parents, they probably forgot what you look like.”
But I would always ask him first, “You want anything before I go, Malcolm,?” I would always say that before I left, especially whenever he was in front of his women.”
“Boy what you going give me except another head-ache, he would answer.”
And then everybody in the room would laugh, even me. But I did that on purpose, because I wanted to give Malcolm the opportunity to look good in-front of his woman, even if it was at my own expense.
Making him look good, was the highest compliment I could pay a man in his profession. It was all about respect, and that is how me and Malcolm became, and stayed friends.
As I got older Malcolm would brag to me about his sexual exploits, and I even based one of my characters “Assad” in a book I wrote, Yes Master: Rise of the Witch.
As I got older Malcolm would tell me of his exploits, he loved to brag. When he was ten he already had sex, and by the time he was fifteen, he was already pimping. Anytime I needed advise on woman I would always go to Malcolm “X”
At least that’s what everybody called him. I just called him Malcolm, but one day I asked him what the “X” stood for, and he said Xavier because that was his Middle name.
There was a famous black revolutionary also named Malcolm “X” who was a big activist and very popular with the black community. I asked Malcolm what his last name was, and he said Young, but he didn’t use his last name, as an abbreviation, because he said Malcolm X, from his middle name sounded better than Malcolm Y.
There aint no “why” with a pimp, the money’s the why. Period.
So, as a joke, I suggested since there was already a Malcolm X, why didn’t he use both his middle and last name, and then he could call himself, “Malcolm X-Y.”
Malcolm starting laughing so hard that the cigar he was smoking fell out of his mouth, and into the street. He stooped over and I tried to help him get his balance, and even tried picking his cigar up for him. But he knocked it out my hand as he recovered, and waved one of his bitches over to pick it up instead, and she put it back in his mouth for him as well.
Boy don’t you never do no woman’s chores.
After that he didn’t follow my name with “Punk-Ass, anymore” now he called me “Smart-Ass” which was actually a really big compliment.
Sometimes I would say something so ridiculous, like the Malcolm Xy crack, that Malcolm would start laughing so hard, he would call his bitches over, and have me repeat what I just said, just so that they could hear it too. I could always make the entire room laugh, but I was never as funny as Malcolm. I could tease him thou, without disrespecting him, and I think he admired me for that.
Malcolm recognized talent, and he said that the ability to make a mother-fucker laugh was a gift, and that I need to should share it with the rest of the world one day. Before I went off to college I promised him I would.
Malcolm X-Y, was a fascinating character and I could listen to him for hours. One day I asked Malcolm, “Why do Ho’s need Pimps when they can Pimp for themselves?”
Malcolm laughed like he had never heard anything so ridiculous.
Bitches always be selling their pussies, even if Squares (Customers), don’t know it.
They got the goods, but they don’t know how to market the services, and that’s why ho’s need pimps. Because Ho’s don’t know how to market, Pimps know how to Pussy Promote.”
Then he would laugh again. I didn’t understand, so I would keep asking him “Dumb-Ass” shit.
Okay, so what’s the difference between a bitch and a Ho?
There is no difference as Pimps use the word interchangeably.
Bitches don’t ho (whore), and ho’s don’t Bitch (complain).
And then I would look at him confused (I was an honor student), Malcolm would laugh at me like I was an idiot. And I felt like one too. But I never stopped asking questions, I learned a lot about woman, and life from Malcolm. He had a unique perspective to be sure.
I thought most of what he said was just to be funny, but as I got older I learned that everything he said was the truth, and that’s why it was so funny.
Many years later I worked for the phone company as a service rep (heavily female dominated profession), I had gained a lot of insight into woman, from working with them as a minority.
I also studied female psychology, and in the end I felt I knew more about women then they did about themselves. Sometimes woman would even come up to me to ask me why another woman acted or treated her the way she did (usually badly).
But I would never tell her, even thou I knew, because I understood women, and not-telling her was the correct response. So, I would say instead.
“Okay, let me get this straight, you want me a man, to explain to you, a woman, why another woman acts the way she does???
She would nod.
That’s crazy, I would say to her.
And it was.
Now if you would like to learn what I learned about women, you can read it here: The 10 Commandments on Women
Photo of Eldorado Motel in Detroit, MI
Photo of Morris Day
Source: Creative Commons Google