TENSEGRITY (Excerpt from Corktown Press)

They sell crack-cocaine across the street from Mr. G's, so when the shivering bum in the pajama top and hair net asked for some money to buy two eggs and a half-loaf of bread, he received not only a generous amount but a suspicious look.

Once inside, he headed straight for the coolers and plucked a single can of Colt 45 from it holster. His flip-flops cut into a pair of uneven, gray, wool pillars that blossomed brown polyester dress pants under a buttonless, navy-blue, corduroy coat. He slapped three crisp George Washingtons inside the mini-turnstile, next to the malt liquor, and spun it toward Mr. G.

"Can I get three squares with this?" He nodded toward his good fortune.

"For you, since you're a regular, I give you two."

The bum did not hesitate. "Awright then." His words meandered through the seams in the mini-turnstile, around the scratched bulletproof glass. Two unfiltered Lucky Strikes pre-wrappped in cellophane. One Colt 45 served in a brown paper bag. You don't get a receipt at Mr. G's. You don't even get change. This is the neighborhood of disposable income, where during the summer children hear merry-go-round music blasting from Old Man Floyd's fleet of restored Good Humor trucks, where the drivers--all decked out in sterile cotton--carry concealed weapons and sell red, white, and blue Bomb Pops for ninety-five cents each. Let me tell you: Business is better here, better than in the suburbs, where parents force their children indoors, and serve them ice cream from five-quart pails. "We belong to Sam's Warehouse," they explain.

"Hey Homey," I said, "You're not getting any more money from me, not a dime." He ignored me, so I drove the words into the back of his neck. "Hey Homey, I'm talking to you. Do you understand? ... Zilch."

He turned to face me while patting his pockets. "Haven't I looked out for you, Cookieman? Watched your car?"

Was he threatening me? Or was he merely defending himself from the exposed lie? Where were the eggs, huh?--The half-loaf of bread?

He vanished out the front entrance, leaving a thin cloud of smoke drifting toward us and a spent match on the sticky floor.

"Cookieman, he's harmless," Mr. G said from his fishbowl. "I got security cameras, Look, real reality t.v."

Sure enough, the bum reappeared as he stepped off the curb. He traveled from each quadrant of the monitor at varied time intervals and slightly different angles. Once he reached the blurred centerline, his flip-flops sunk into the slush. But he didn't seem to care. His head snapped back as he gulped his beverage; his chin folded into his chest as he sucked large quantities of nicotine into his lungs. He was a bona fide human tragedy jaywalking the cold-patched streets of Detroit, and since I was remarrying and considering adoption, it occured to me: kids shouldn't have to see people like him. He reached the other side by sheer willpower, gripping the brass knocker on the crack-house door. Then a woman--what seemed to be an apparition of my lovely wife Lorna--opened the door and beckoned him inside, into a world most middle income folks could never imagine. Strange as it seemed, I found this comforting.