Inner City Miracle

Dangling from a cold metal railing on the second level of Cobo Hall Auditorium in downtown Detroit, I gaze down on thousands of unsuspecting concertgoers who actually think that a performance by the Average White Band is going to be the night's main event. I say to myself, "It ain't about no damn band, you fools! If you don't believe it, check this shit out." Grinning, I plummet to the concrete nine feet below, which is fairly difficult to accomplish wearing platform shoes with four-inch clear plastic heels. The impact sends a jolt crunching through my thin body and I stumble forward a few steps. I'd nearly dropped on the head of a young black male usher who is now frantically sprinting toward an exit. He's probably trying to alert the police, but it's a little late for that. The boldest mass robbery in Detroit's history is under way, and ain't nothin' he or anyone else can do to stop it! The Errol Flynn gang is in the house and everybody at this concert had better give up some jewelry or a wallet. Either that or get cracked upside the head. The year is 1977 and I'm in my element--lawlessness, chaos, and bold action. The same holds true for two hundred or so of my fellow Errol Flynn gang members presently terrorizing the Cobo Hall Auditorium all around me during a brief intermission between musical acts. Some have actually vaulted onto the main stage while frightened and bewildered concertgoers look on. "Errol Flynn, Errol Flynn!" I gleefully holler at the top of my lungs, matching the cadence of a handful of my homeboys who've commandeered the microphone onstage and are rhythmically waving their hands as they perform a popular 1970s dance called the Errol Flynn. Like our movie star namesake, we Flynns fancy ourselves to be suave, swashbuckling, and rakish. And like the matinee idol whose name we carry, if we're trying to bust a move and you get in our way, we'll go upside your damn head. Scanning a row full of Average White Band fans to my left, I see what I've really come to Cobo Hall for. As I look down the row, everyone on it is scowling mightily and shooting me expressions that leave no doubt about their fear and disgust. They have no way of knowing it, but the looks on their faces only heighten my tremendous sense of exhilaration. I lock eyes with a young, muscular brother who has his hands protectively interlocked around his girlfriend's. His demeanor is defiant, as though he's feeling his oats and primed to do something heroic and macho. I instinctually understand that if I break him down and force him to bend to my will, the entire row will meekly follow his lead. "Your wallet, please," I bellow, giving my victim the hardest, meanest look I can muster. He shoots me a hard look right back, releases his girlfriend's hands and turns in my direction, preparing for battle. I expected that and slowly pull back the black pinstriped jacket of my double-breasted suit so he can see my ace in the hole--a .38-caliber revolver tucked in my waist. Then with my eyes I silently dare him to continue his foolhardy challenge. Some concertgoers have already been punched and kicked for resisting, but things can get much, much worse. Reluctantly ceding defeat, my muscular victim sullenly digs into his back pocket, pulls out a brown leather wallet, and angrily flips it into the concrete aisle near my feet. As I quickly bend over to retrieve my booty, the air inside Cobo Hall is filled with the noise of frantically chattering voices, the amplified racket from my partners onstage and screams of fear and pain. The sounds of bedlam and anarchy, sweet music to my ears. "Thank you, sir. Gimme that watch, too." The still-warm, expensive-looking silver timepiece is obMathis, Greg is the author of 'Inner City Miracle' with ISBN 9780345446428 and ISBN 0345446429.