Chapter Sixty Five:     Detroit City

Art here, I'll be reporting on Detroit. Right, as you know I'm not on the Tour, just sitting here at the Hacienda in Monroe, so how can I be submitting an eye-witness account of what goes on in far-away Detroit?

For one thing, I AM an eye-witness: Elaine and I have been in Skype-contact with the kids pretty much for the whole tour. Live streaming video & audio, it's almost like actually being there as long as it takes place in front of the laptop camera. Or the buss's external and internal security cameras. We are not only in touch but have recordings, not of everything, but much of the important stuff.

Every morning about 10:00 either Adam or Melly goes online to keep us up to date. Or sometimes in the evening if there's something fun to report. Usually with Pokey or Lissandra butting in, whoever's inside the bus at that moment, it's pretty uncontrolled. Sometimes it's just to say "Hi", maybe only a few words, other times we get a full report about whichever city they happen to be in at the moment. There are also some dashboard video cameras mounted on/in the bus-- installed after their "traffic problems" in Mexico, for insurance/legal reasons --so we can actually monitor just about every mile of the trip, if we should ever want or need to.

So we actually saw the kids leave Indianapolis Tuesday morning, bussing solo because Chrome Pie and their roadies were staying another day. Charlie Madison wanted to spend some time with that woman (Anne) he'd met at Indy Speedway. Scott and the others were okay with that, since Charlie hadn't been so interested in any particular woman in a long time and they wanted to back up their buddy. Or at least Scott did, being Charlie's best friend; the others would rather hang out in Indianapolis than Detroit anyway.

But our S&F group was eager to visit Detroit, wanting to check out a current Bigfoot sighting they had become aware of while Googling "Interesting Things to do in Detroit".

They usually research each next city on their tour, to get an idea of where to go and what to see, thus had been made aware that much of Detroit City was abandoned and in ruins. It had been a thriving metropolis of over 2 million inhabitants until the 1950s, but now the population has atrophied to about 700 thousand citizens, due to the auto industry going more or less bankrupt. So now there are large areas of suburbia that have no people living in them. There are thousands of abandoned houses, mostly now unfit to live in due to neglect and decay, and there are criminal gangs who make it somewhat dangerous for those who dare to try. Nor is there electricity or water in some parts of town, those facilities have been turned off years ago. Large areas have become No Man's Land: gigantic factories shut down long ago; schools, churches, and hospitals boarded up and crumbling, including even several skyscrapers that have been emptied and sealed off for over 30 years. Wandering around in those areas is not recommended, especially at night.

But Squatch & Friends had become interested in exploring precisely that deal of Detroit because of that Bigfoot sighting just the day before. Evidently, at about the same time they were performing their Indianapolis concert, a family driving through a desolate part of Detroit at night claimed to have spotted a rather large and hairy apelike creature with a human-looking face, which sounded very much like a Nokhon. Actually, the witnesses called it a "Yeti" because it was white-haired. It had been seen coming out of an abandoned house in an area where no people were living anymore and all manner of wild life was flourishing. Naturally, S&F decided to investigate, since Detroit was to be their next concert performance anyway.

They were on the outskirts of Detroit City by 3:00 pm, after 300 miles and six hours on the Interstate. They were not due at their Detroit concert until Wednesday noon, the 27th of May, so they had Monday evening and all of Tuesday to do their research.

They learned that the sighting took place in Grixdale, one of the most abandoned areas in what used to be a thriving Detroit neighborhood, so they started their search out there. Driving up and down empty streets past overgrown fields where many houses had collapsed so completely that there were sometimes only a single house remaining out of eighty that had stood there sixty years ago. It was desolate, the houses looked sad, but it was also lush with green growth reclaiming the land. It resembled more an ancient ruin site than a neglected neighborhood in the heart of Industrial America.

But of course, there was no sign of any Sasquatches to be seen.

Still, the streets were not completely free of human traffic so close to a major city, homeless people invaded some of the houses and occasional cars drove through the streets on their way to somewhere else, some once-major intersections even had a few functioning shops or gas stations, but there were long stretches of uninhabited territory in between, so theoretically a Nokhon or two could easily be wandering around without being seen, although it was unlikely that any squatches would be interested in abandoned houses, because they were skesk. They have no use for houses. Perhaps during a harsh winter, but it was now late May and the weather was becoming quite pleasant.

But Adam had a theory as to what might attract a Nokhon: "Squatches are just as curious as anybody else, they could be tourists like ourselves."

So they drove around and stopped every now and then, as Adam and Magga would call out the Bigfoot Howl to see if they got any responses. But nothing. The sun set and they started looking for a good spot to spend the night.

They drove through downtown Detroit a few times, which was like any American town and uninteresting: crowds of people, some bright city lights, restaurants, bars, busses and cars. It might have been safer but they weren't interested in spending the night there when all that fascinating ghost town was available. There was unlimited free parking where houses stood empty, including those skyscrapers that had been abandoned for 30 years. Of course, criminal gangs probably controlled some of the neighborhoods near the center, so they drove further out of town, cruising through meadows that had once been suburbia, now just rows of decaying empty houses and yards of shaggy long grass. Then there would be a clearing and one or two huge abandoned factories, maybe automobile assemblies. Garbage and graffiti everywhere, buildings boarded up.

Occasional functioning neighborhoods clustered together, many cars parked on narrow streets, sometimes a well-lit house with large groups of people-- mostly black --hanging around front porches in the summery weather. There were some charming scenes: families and friends gathered for parties, music playing, food being eaten on the steps, beer, grass. A flow of people on foot wandering two and fro in the dark of unlit streets, usually in groups. It all seemed completely unthreatening, just people being social, visiting friends.

But on one ex-suburban street a bunch of young black guys deliberately stepped in front of the bus, blocking the way, so they had to stop. I caught all this on the buss's forward grill camera:

There are nine guys, mostly teen-agers but some even younger, and most of them have guns in their hands. The biggest among them, who looks to be over 6-foot-6 and built like a football pro, steps forward as the leader and signals for everyone to come out of the bus. Their demeanor is threatening enough that Pokey, who is driving, jams the gear into reverse to back away from this crowd real fast. But it's already too late; some of those guys get behind the bus. Then the big guy aims his pistol at Pokey, signaling again for everyone to come out.

Well, the band has a big guy of their own, of course: Adam steps out to face the black gang. Not that he is feeling brave, he's just as shy of guns as anyone else, but he is obviously the logical one to speak for the group. The street gang's biggest thug is suddenly degraded to being a little twerp in front of Adam's 8-foot-3. The gang is impressed, they all step back a step, but because they are scared there are suddenly nine pistols aimed directly at Adam.

"Hey, man, you some big fuckin mother fucker."

The gang's biggest mother fucker, whom we later learn is called Marvin, is not used to being dwarfed, so he has to get belligerent and points his pistol straight-armed at Adam's face. "What the fugg IS you, man?"

As usual, Adam remains composed and polite, "I'm Adam Leroy Forest, maybe you've heard of me."

"Who? Naw... never heard of nobody like that."

A younger fellow, Dennis, whose glasses and clothes suggested that he could be somewhat more scholarly than Marvin, buts in, "Hey, yeah, he IS Adam Leroy Forest! I recognize him now, from TV and YouTube. You know, the Bigfoot with that rock and roll band!"

"Naw, muffugga, ain't no such thing as Bigfoot, that's just a myth." Marvin revealing just how out of touch he is.

"Yeah, well LOOK at his feet, man," Dennis insists, "that IS a Big Foot!" Adam was barefoot, as he often prefers, so his large furry feet are indeed proof of his pedigree.

Another guy joins in, "Yeah and he IS in a rock n roll band, Squatch 'n' Friends, man. See that's gotta be their tour bus!"

"Well, this ain't no bus route," Marvin announces, then to Adam, "you's guys are trespassing on our turf here. Gotta pay the toll."

They are obviously in the middle of a public street in suburbia, but Adam calmly plays along, "And just how much is the toll?"

"oh... uh.. heh, everything you got!"

"That's rather exorbitant, don't you think? Perhaps we should negotiate."

"Yeah? Do you see this gun?" Marvin waved it: his form of negotiation.

"Yes, but what do you think happens if you do shoot me and I don't go down?"

"What? You gonna put up some kinda fight?" Marvin grins, whether nicely or nastily is unclear.

"Only if necessary," Adam responds, "I really don't like to hurt people."

"Yeah? Maybe you're just scared of getting hurt yourself."

"Well, you guys ARE pointing guns at me. That IS kind of scary."

"And you SHOULD be scared! We's some serious niggers, man!"

"Okay, I'm scared, all right?" Adam speaks calmly, politely and honestly, although he does not look scared.

Marvin seems to be slightly irritated by this and then orders: "Everybody out of that bus! Chico, you go up and get them moving. And make sure they bring all their cash with them."

Inside the bus everyone IS scared, not knowing if these kids are actually dangerous or just pretending to be. But they are brandishing real-live guns so they take it seriously. But Magga really does not like noisekillers. Having experienced a similar situation in Mexico, in this very same bus, she was already semi-expert at dealing with this kind of problem. She quickly slips into the driver's seat, to be well out of Chico's path before he climbs aboard with pistol waving, then she sits very still, holding her breath: implementing the you-can't-see-me squatch trick. The rest of the company has seen her do this before, understand, and back deeper into the bus to give her room to work.

So Chico simply doesn't notice Magga as he comes into the bus, up the steps, moving on past the driver's seat, looking the wrong way. He is also surprised and distracted by all the beautiful girls facing him: Melly and Lissandra, Masnia and Maki; barely registering Pokey and Mike at all. He waves his pistol in a half-assed threat, saying "Okay, y'all come on out of this bus now, y'hear. Come on, hurry now. And you bring your purses, wallets, whatever." He now has his back to Magga, who is silently turning his way.

The first hint Chico has of Magga's presence is when her bigger hand closes over his own gun hand and jerks him backwards, almost gently, but with strength he cannot resist. At that moment he finally does notice her-- surprise! --turning to see her very large and perfectly white teeth exposed in a either a smile or a silent snarl right beside his ear. He panics, struggles to free his hand, but it is squashed in a grip so mighty that he can't move his fingers enough to pull a trigger even if he dared. The pistol is jammed into a position so he can only shoot up at the ceiling. He tries to scream but Magga's free hand clamps over his mouth and he is absolutely helpless. Eyes wide all the way, as in a horror movie.

Pokey steps in and takes the pistol from Chico-- for a second him not knowing what to do with it, then dumps it behind a seat since he does not want to shoot anyone.

Marvin calls from outside, "Hey, Chico, where you at, man? How long can it take?"

"I assume Chico is our prisoner," Adam politely informs Marvin, now stepping and reaching forward to snatch Marvin's pistol away with blinding speed and accuracy, "as you are now mine." He demonstrates that he has the pistol, pointing it at the sky rather than at anyone.

With his free hand Adam easily grabs Marvin’s shirt, turns him around and folds him to his chest in a gentle but overwhelmingly firm embrace. To the other gang members he says, "If any of you shoot me I'll have to squash your guy here so that I'll have my hands free to deal with you individually." Then he smiles and says, "But none of us really wants that, do we?"

Marvin can obviously feel the strength in Adam's body, his own chest and ribs are being compressed so that he almost cannot breathe, although Adam is seemingly exerting no effort at all.

"No," Marvin gasps, "we don't want that. We wuz just fuggin wit ya, man."

The pressure is immediately released so that Marvin can breathe again. Adam pats him on the shoulder as a friendly gesture, although it's clear that to Marvin that hand feels like it weighs a few hundred pounds. Then he is released.

He turns to face Adam again. Humbler now, but not especially afraid, aware that Adam could have hurt him but didn't. But he has to win some face, so he maintains his bravado. "Okay man, now give me back my gun."

"Do you promise not to shoot me with it?"

"Yeah, man. Gimme the gun."

"You know, I can tell when people are lying or telling the truth. Lies stink."

"Are you saying I'm lying?"

"I'm saying you haven't promised not to shoot me. You have made no commitment."

"You gonna give me the gun?"

"Not if you don't promise, no."

"But then you're going to trust my promise?"

"As I said, I can smell a lie and I can hear a truth."

"You're kinda wierd, man."

"Well, I'm a Nokhon-- a Bigfoot --so I'm from a different cultural background, just like yourself."

Dennis, the academic gang member, once again the voice of reason, "He's sayin he ain't no honky."

Adam shrugged, "Well, actually, that's true. I'm neither White nor Black, I'm Nokhon. Although I was raised by white people, so maybe I'm half honky."

"I want my gun, man. Ok, ok, I promise not to shoot you with it."

Adam politely hands Marvin the pistol. Marvin looks surprised, but then puts the pistol away. The others hesitate.

Magga steps out of the bus, dangling Chico in the air ahead of her with one hand, straight-armed, as if he weighs nothing, his body serving as a shield from the other's guns. Chico is upside down and trying to get his feet back on the ground, but she has him by the back of his belt and he flails helplessly. Magga growls and faces the crowd, who cringe back, clearly intimidated by this Big Bad Bigfoot Babe.

"Shit, man, that's Queen Kong!"

"It's okay, Magga," Adam assures her, "we've come to an understanding here. Right, guys?"

The gang hesitates, they all look to Marvin, who shows that he's put his pistol away and nods, so they also nod and pocket their weapons. They are obviously relieved, since none of them wants to get into a fight against two obviously superhuman Sasquatches. Magga sets Chico gently on his feet, who meekly asks, "Uh, can I have my gun back too?"

Adam announces, "Okay, now that we're all friends, maybe you can help us: we've heard there was a Bigfoot sighting, so we're trying to find him or her."

"There ain't no Bigfoots around here," Marvin insists with great authority.

But once again Dennis corrects him, "Yeah there was, just yesterday. It was in all the news." Others confirm this.

"Shit, nobody never tells me nothing," Marvin complains with a shrug.

"Anyway," Adam goes on, "we'd like to camp overnight in this area. Can you recommend a place that won't get us in trouble?"

"Oh hell, sure," Marvin shrugs, "you can camp behind our club house. Nobody will fuck with you there. Gotta watch out for some of the gangs around here, man, they'd like to rob you. But they won't dare come in our turf."

The gang's clubhouse was a big old abandoned town house, almost a mansion, but in disrepair and with neither electricity nor running water. They had occupied it the year before and no one had challenged their right to be there, the actual owners long gone since the mid-eighties and the police disinterested as long as the kids didn't set fire to anything. There had been a hole in the roof, which they had covered over with a tarp, and they used camping lanterns for light at night. They had large plastic tanks of water, so it was actually quite livable and comfortable. They had once defended it against another street gang, but after a few heroic shots had been fired both gangs decided that there were too many free houses available to get killed over any one of them.

The bus was allowed to park behind the house, the only almost intact building remaining on what was otherwise an empty meadow of overgrown grass. It was a nice evening, so Adam and friends made a campfire and played some guitar. That ferociously criminal street gang sat down with them and sang songs. Since Adam could remember just about any song he'd ever heard, he ran off a series of old Motown hits that all those black kids also knew by heart. S&F was the most interesting company they had experienced in a long time, living under such marginalized conditions.

Even big bad Marvin turned out to be a jolly fellow, once he dropped his Big Bad Black Gangsta Boss persona, offering joints to everyone. The S&F folk politely refrained, even though most of them smoked grass occasionally, but never publicly since they had become representatives of the NNP.

The kids in the gang proved themselves not to be hardened criminals; although that was the direction most gangs strived for. Some of them still went to high school, others had dropped out. As the resident academic, Dennis was trying to keep them civilized, even teaching some of them to read. But there were problems with alcoholic or criminal parents and some of those kids were in hiding, both from their parents and the law.

Dennis himself, it became revealed, had been a child prodigy, graduating from high school early and was presently enrolled in a junior college in downtown Detroit, even though he was only 15 years old. He was apparently a gifted scholar, so he and Adam had a good discussion comparing black culture to the Nokhons and how each dealt with social integration. Dennis was especially interested in how well or badly the Nokhons were adapting to the American Way of Life, of which he was rather critical.

At midnight Adam, Magga and Masnia went for a twenty-mile run together to stretch out their muscles, as well as to explore the empty weirdness of that abandoned suburbia, still hoping they might stumble upon that local Bigfoot they had heard of. Just in case they actually met him/her they took off their clothes and stashed them in a shoulder-bag, so as not to offend a purist Nokhon with any skesk-like accoutrements of civilization. They sprinted over unmowed lawns and leaped shaggy hedges, stopping every so often to call out an invitational howl to attract the attention of any Nokhons, but got no response and finally gave up.

Magga and Masnia truly enjoyed all the nature around them, saying that Detroit was their favorite big American city so far, with all this quiet and open space. Crowds and traffic constantly stressed them, of course. But one paradox is that they both actually do like singing and dancing for big crowds in the old-fashioned theaters, such as can only be found in matured city centers.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, to wit: Wednesday morning back here at the Hacienda in Washington State. Although vicariously following the band's USA Tour, our daily routines were still going on (the language school, the NNP legalities), although at a reduced intensity, since most of our key persons were away on the trip. Especially Adam and Pokey, who normally dealt with Nokhon newcomers arriving from the woods.

We were busy fending off the politicians and lumber corporations trying to register and categorize and somehow monetize those newcomers. Doug and his little team of lawyers were good at the legal end of things, but we needed a native Sasquatch to represent the Nokhons.

Fortunately, Dabronat and Malasna have stepped in nicely, both of them now having a simple but usable command of English and presented themselves as highly intelligent examples of their race. They too were a team: they discussed legal quandaries and formulated solutions (sometimes brilliant!) by dint of reason and respect for the other's ideas. One might expect a Sasquatch couple to be primitively sexist, the male invariably calling the shots, but that couple has an innate comprehension of how sexual equality should work.

I've taken over Pokey's usual duties, trying to teach squatches the basics of English, which ain't easy. They're definitely not all natural-born linguists like Adam or Masnia, in fact, most of them are pretty damn hopeless. I have to remind myself that Pokey had also been a hopeless student back in high school. Now he's my best colleague, just shows to go ya.

Speaking of colleagues, big fat old Dambaraggan has come back to us from Aket. But he only teaches us human-types the Nokhon language, his English is still not good enough to be teaching it to anyone. Funny, he's an Orator, just like Adam, you'd think he'd be just as linguistically talented. But of course, he's probably about 150 years old: old dog new tricks, etc.

Our local 12 year-old runaway, Roberto de Vega, is still with us, both learning Nokhontli and teaching squatches English. But that wasn't academic enough for him, so we got him enrolled into Monroe Junior High School and he's on his way to becoming a teenaged Gringo. He's made some new school friends, but is keeping his identity secret: he goes by the name of Bobby Forest now, my brand new nephew. We don't want Salvador de Vega to know about the school so that he can launch a Cruise Missile at us when Roberto is away. So far so good.

Roberto had been disappointed that he couldn’t go on tour with the band, although he understood how legal complications with his own father made it impossible. But he enjoys being included vicariously during our Skype sessions with the band.

Someone on the bus usually Skypes us around 10:00 am every day, but they tend to sleep in until then. Or stay in bed, probably not "sleeping" at all. Magga is almost always the first one up, going out into nature at sunup. Left to his own devices, "Addy" would also get up early but he is constantly plagued by demands from Melly and Lissandra, who want their day to start off with a bang. The poor guy just doesn't have the heart to let them down. Then when Magga comes back... well, seems his mornings can be a long drawn-out affair.

Today they had a day free to be tourists in the functioning part of Detroit's city center, if they wished, but they had driven around town the evening before and were not impressed by the wreck that is Detroit. It was just one more big collection of buildings, but shabbier and sadder, rather less impressive and inviting than other cities they had been to.

"Magga and Masnia are burning out from too many bustling NokhSo cities, one after another," Adam explained, "and the other girls would rather save their energy for New York. The only ones interested in Detroit are Pokey and Mike, mainly because of cars. I too am somewhat weary of all this cement and glass and crowds of people.

"We've sort of become friends with that gang who accosted us yesterday and they were still nearby when we finally got up today, so they recommended a trip to Belle Isle, which is a Michigan State Park with a beach, right beside Downtown Detroit, not far away at all. When we mentioned that we were interested, some of them asked if they could come along, so we're doing a big picnic trip."

They made a stop at the Fox Theater on their way through town, just to assure the venue staff that they (and Chrome Pie) would be showing up for tomorrow's concert. It looked like a nice venue but they didn't take time to go inside, since they had so many guests in the bus. The Fox Theater's staff was gracious, informed that Scott had also called so they were not worried about anyone being late for the show.

From there they drove past the General Motors Headquarters, a cluster of skyscrapers called the Renaissance Center. Adam had a twinge of guilt for avoiding them because GM had been offering to build him a new car and giving it to him for free as a PR stunt for Chevrolet, since Adam was already famous for driving his beat-up old Chevy Camaro. Adam simply did not wish to be compromised into advertising for any large corporation, especially not a fossil-fuel burning clump of skesk.

Belle Isle was only accessed by one bridge. They had to buy a Michigan State Park Passport for $11 to drive onto the island, but that covered everyone on the bus and they were 14 persons onboard, the 7 regulars and their 7 guests. Some of them had never been to Belle Isle even though they lived in Detroit, so they were very grateful for the experience.

It was not that they had always been too poor to visit the island. More that it had a family-friendly reputation that did not appeal to a gangsta mentality, too uncool for tough guys, too straight. But they quickly found it to be a fun place: the aquarium, the botanical garden, the classical Roman fountain. It may just be the largest old city park in the USA, bigger than Central Park in NYC, and much has been restored to its former glory before Detroit had sunk into the economic sea.

The weather was good and they had a picnic on the beach, which sported a Caribbean look, thatched huts, palm trees. Melly and Lissandra wore their bikinis, since nude bathing was not allowed, but some of those young street gangsters reacted as if the girls were stark naked anyway, got a little excited and had trouble controlling their urges. So much that Dennis had to remind them that they were guests and should behave properly. Those guys were from a culture of macho dudes who did not quite understand modern concepts of sexual politeness, it was just not in their social codes. But the girls played their old "oh-oh, better not make Addy jealous" gimmick, which usually always works.

Actually, Magga and Masnia convinced them to behave more effectively than Adam did. Masnia even accepted a little flirting just for fun, hardly a problem for her kha-rat morality. But she was not sexually interested in any of them and whenever a boy became uncomfortably aggressive-- which traditionally included demeaning "bitches"-- she casually let him know that she was at least three times stronger than any of them, which they found rather emasculating.

But in general everyone had a nice day at the beach. It was early evening when the bus returned the gang to their clubhouse. They had done grocery shopping on the way and put on a dinner for everyone: veggy lasagne, a squatch favorite that humans could also enjoy.

THE FOX THEATER -- Detroit, Michigan -- Thursday May 28
DENNIS FONTAINE reporting

Last night I finally got to experience a concert of the Chrome Squatch Concert USA Tour at The Fox Theater in downtown Detroit. I was there with six friends, all of us broke and black, so none of us had ever been to such an event before, nor even just to The Fox Theater, because mainstream concert tours are always wayyy too expensive for us; we've never been able to afford them.

But this time we happened to be guests, personally invited by Adam Leroy Forest of Squatch & Friends (yes, the Singing Sasquatch himself), we got the VIP treatment and had a fabulous evening. Then Adam specifically asked me for a favor in return: to write a critical review of that concert for their web site.

But who am I and why me? You've certainly never heard of me. Well, my name is Dennis Fontaine, I'm a 15-year old black kid who hangs with a gang of hoodlums in the back streets of Detroit. My only academic credential is that I graduated early from high school and am now enrolled at Wayne County Community College Downtown Campus. Not to brag, but I suppose I should admit that I'm considered smart enough to have won a scholastic grant, which is the only way that I could ever afford to study there.

But I have never written a critical review of a rock/pop concert before, I don't really know how to do it. I mean, am I supposed to be CRITICAL? Am I required to list everything I didn't like about the show? Well, then I'm in trouble, ‘cause I ain’t seen nothin' bad. I liked it all, it was fun, so that's a dead end. Even though it wasn't exactly my kind of music, which is to say black-oriented rhythm & blues, while the music they were playing was more acoustic-electric folk-rock. But I liked it anyway, sorry to be so uncritical.

But I get why Adam wants me to write it: he wants a fresh perspective. "Just be honest," he told me, "you don't have to flatter us." I think mostly he asked me to write it because I've fooled him into thinking that I'm smart... for a gangsta. And because we liked each other. Who'd have thought I'd be friends with a Bigfoot?

Although when we first met Adam and the band it would seem that we'd gotten off to a really bad start: I mean, a street gang of black gangstas on some abandoned back streets of a Detroit suburb stopping his bus at gunpoint and demanding everyone on board to hand over all their valuables is usually not good PR. But the thing is, we didn't really mean it, it was sort of a gag, just messing around, y'know?

I mean, the whole scene was so absurd: you force a bus to stop and an eight-foot-something tall Bigfoot steps out. Surprise! That bus sproings up as a quarter-ton of weight comes off the springs, so this is a HEAVY dude. And he's WIDER than he is tall, this guy is MONSTEROUSLY huge! We freaked a little, you really think we wanted to mess with him?

Besides, I recognized him at once as the same one-and-only Bigfoot I'd seen in that spectacular video of I Like To Run, which popped up on YouTube around last Christmas. I'd been impressed by the pace and power of seeing him and that awesome Bigfoot chick (Magga, she hot, man), they were running, hopping, dancing, all to an absolutely bodacious beat. I won't say I suddenly became a fan, but that video did stick in my brain.

So I can't say I had absolutely no opinion about Adam's music before that concert. Also, we'd spent the night before sitting around a campfire and singing along with him and his band. Like a scene from a PG movie. But anyway, we'd heard that they could sing and play their instruments professionally, but didn't know much about their own original music. They'd mostly played old Motown hits--Blueberry Hill, Only You, The Great Pretender-- which was fun for us, but had nothing to do with the band's current on-stage repertoire.

Actually, there's no way I can be critical about the concert we heard last night. I was blown away: by the songs, by the beats, by the vocals, by the instrumentals, by the dancing, it was all pure joy to hear and see. Even though the other companion band, Chrome Pie was 100% honkey music, it was all FEEL-GOOD honkey music.

And so Marvin pulls out his gun, maybe because he got scared, just like everyone else. Except for me, maybe, but only because I was already aware that this Bigfoot was not a wild animal but a YouTube star. Marvin can get pretty gangsterish sometimes: he considers himself the boss because he's the biggest and strongest and he always has to play the part. Meeting Adam had to make him feel small.

Okay, the truth is that if they'd handed our gang a bunch of money without making a stand, I'm pretty sure we would have kept it. We can be naughty boys sometimes, sorry about that. Not our fault, living on the outskirts of Detroit has made us this way, or at least some of us.

But Adam did make a stand and we respected that. Besides, none of us was actually willing to shoot anyone... I never have and don't know anyone who has. At least not personally. And really, taking a shot at anyone as big as Adam might be asking to get hurt. I mean, he's very cool and calm and a perfect gentleman, but I'm pretty sure that stinging him with a bullet might have pissed him off just enough to show us how strong and mean a Bigfoot could be. The way I heard it, he's been shot before and it didn't stop him.

But instead of that happening he and his whole band became buds with us, parking their bus behind our "club house" and taking us along to the beach on Belle Isle next day. Most of us had never been to Belle Isle before either --it just isn't a place where black gangs hang out. But they invited us to a picnic, free food and beer, so we went. And the next day they invited all nine of us to their concert at the Fox Theater.

For most people in Detroit the Fox Theater is probably the most famous music venue in town, it's this big old-fashioned palace right in the middle of the city where the biggest names come up on the marquis, so you can't miss it. It's a relic from back in the days when Detroit was still considered a major American city, long before everything turned to shit. It was originally 20th Century Fox's flagship movie theater, later on to become a concert hall for big-name bands. But none of us had ever gone to a show there. Big concerts just weren't in our budgets.

But suddenly there we were, as guests of a big-name band. Okay, I wasn't sure just how BIG a name S&F was, they're still pretty new, but those other guys, Chrome Pie, they've been around a while. Not that either of them played my kind of music, but I remember hearing some of their stuff on radio when I was a little kid. Please Don't Kill Me, Baby, that was it. I guess I even liked it back then.

I've automatically preferred black music, that's my default cultural heritage. Yeah, Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, hip-hop, reggae, Kanye, 2Pac, Beyoncé, Rihanna, you know the drill. So I can't say I started out as S&F fan, but was sure it would be fun to go to that theater and experience the concert. Just like I'd never been interested in classical music until I got to see a live symphony orchestra play Tchaikovsky, all those musicians, all those notes, everything working in tandem to make a perfect sound written 200 years ago— genuinely fantastic!

I can remember having heard I Like To Run on the radio once about a year before, but I was busy doing other stuff so hadn't really paid attention at the time. Although I did notice in passing that the radio announcer said it was a song by a Bigfoot, which sounded intriguing. But then I forgot all about it until seeing that video version of it on YouTube, which really did impress me. And now I was friends with him, so I was ready to enjoy the show.

Sometimes my bros in the gang rag on me about being a "professor" because I happen to be slightly better educated than most of them. They tease me if I use "big words" like exacerbate. I'm not trying to show off or brag, if anything I wish they’d all get the chance to study in a good school, because sometimes their ignorance exacerbates their social situation. But they'd rather be street-smart, badass gangstas. But I know I was just lucky, I'm only getting to go to junior college because I was given a little grant. Truth is, I don't know if I can afford to go on to the University next year, since the grants are so small here. I do have a part-time job at McDonald's but it doesn't pay much.

Anyway, all that was just a roundabout way to say that when I met Adam I recognized a fellow academic. He's so big and burly that you'd expect him to be dumb, but when he speaks I can hear genuine wisdom. And he's really perceptive, picks up on stuff right away.

And he recognized me too, told me I seemed pretty smart and asked what was I doing in a street gang? I told him that this gang was mostly my neighborhood friends, since I'd been 9 years old. We had to become a gang to survive elementary school and later high school; it wasn't really a matter of choice. Other gangs threatened us, so we had to team up, had to get guns, otherwise we'd be constantly victimized. Not all gangs are bad; it's a matter of tribal self-defense rather than being out to hurt people. None of us ever wanted to be evil, honest. But there are some bad MFs out there who do, so we have to defend ourselves against them.

The band drove to The Fox Theater about noon to set up and rehearse, we were told to show up about 8:00 pm, Adam said tickets would be waiting for us. When we got there a crowd was waiting to get into the theater, but we got to go past all that since we were guests of the band, it was so cool. I heard there were two and a half thousand people there, including us. Even lots of black folk, so we didn't feel weird. We were excited.

When they started the S&F folks played essentially acoustic instruments (mike-amplified) and the CP folk played electric, you'd think there'd be a mis-match, but it sounded really boss, man.

I grew up being racist, it's hard not to be when that is the default social norm. Maybe especially here in Detroit, I don't know, I've never lived anywhere else. If you've never heard of "the Birwood Wall" you might Google it, although I hear that's actually become a positive symbol these days. Anyway, racism was a lot worse in the 60's: riots, mass killings, now it's mostly just racial slanders. Sure, some white cops are still murdering black civilians and getting away with it, but not like before. Now at least the problems are being addressed, you know, the "Black Lives Matter" movement, stuff like that.

Personally, I don't think I'd ever actually MET a white person before I started going to the Junior College. Sure, I'd seen them in movies and on TV, but that was about it. Maybe I'd even talked to one or two in passing, but growing up in a poor black neighborhood means that all my friends were black, my schools all black, and my momma's church sang nothing but gospel. Some white cops were bad news, corrupt and racist, but most of the cops in our side of town are black, and some of them are just as corrupt and racist as the worst white cops-- so race really doesn't matter, everyone's bad. And lots of black street gangstas are even worse, murderous, trafficking, all that shit.

Adam wondered why I'm in a street gang, says I'm not like the others. They all do drugs, drink themselves blotto every night, out to score da bitches, but not me. Honestly, that’s because I'm only 15, so I can't drink legally for another 6 years and I prefer girls who are not bitches. Or maybe I should just admit that I'm a little scared of them, but I assume that I'll grow out of that... or hopefully find the right girl. It’s not the way a gangsta thinks, but hey, I’m still young.

But I wasn't avoiding whites, I just didn't see any around. Or Latinos or Jews or Asians, for that matter.

I can't criticize Squatch & Friends for any kind of racism, not only are they racially blended, they're SPECIES blended. Adam and those two squatch chicks, for a start: should we consider them inhuman? I'd say superhuman. Then there's Lissandra, who is somewhat black but mostly a gorgeous walking advertisement for some major advantages of racial blending. And Maki, what a perfect little Asian chick. The only actual "white person" in the band is Melly and she's the kind of super-hot blonde that every black dude would like to score just because he would then be cool. No honky guys at all, instead you got Miguel de Santo, Spanish guitar hero and oh-so smooth Latin lover. And Pokey Snowchild, genuinely noble Native American. All they're lacking is a cool black dude— yeah, like me. Man, too bad I don't play an instrument.

That’s my report. Sincerely, Dennis Fontaine, high school student.

SPECIAL BIGFOOT REPORT
ART

Later that night, after the concert, Adam, Magga and Masnia went for another two-hour run through the abandoned suburban streets of Detroit, again stopping periodically to call out the squatch howl, still trying to contact that elusive local "Yeti" reported to have been seen. But they were having no luck and began to wonder if the sighting was just another Bigfoot hoax. They were in an especially desolate area where the streets and abandoned houses ended at the edge of a forest when they finally heard a response from far off.

It was a howl from some male Nokhon who introduced himself as Djaarket. They howled back and forth as they came closer to each other, until after half an hour, a white-furred squatch came out of the woods to meet them. Here is Adam's version of their meeting:

"We smelled him before we saw him, the squatch stink often associated with Bigfoot sightings, so he was evidently a traditionalist. Most of us squatches in the PNP never smear ourselves in piss & shit any more, considering it one of the first steps in joining NokhSo culture, so we've become unused to the stink. Of which I'm glad.

"This guy seemed kind of stressed about meeting us, not exactly friendly or outgoing, maybe like he just needed to talk to someone after being alone too long. Or maybe he was checking us out to see if we were a threat of some kind. He hesitated a few times like he was ready to bolt back into the woods, so we made no advances, just stood there and waited. I got behind Magga and Masnia so that I'd seem less threatening and the sexy babes could be bait. It worked: he kept on coming.

"As he got closer we could see that he was really shaggy with long white hair that had probably never-ever been trimmed in his life. White squatches are rare, although he didn't seem to be albino or especially old. Well, he was definitely older than me but then I'm not even 22 yet. He was also a bit shorter than me but taller than Magga, solidly muscular, pretty much your average squatch except for his white hair.

"We greeted each other, standard Nokhon etiquette: ”Kha, Djaarket,”etc. I introduced myself and the girls. He bobbed his head in acknowledgement, then asked Tyø-ya ahat?: what do you want? He spoke a funny dialect but it was still Nokhontli, so there was no problem communicating. So far it seems to be consistent that all Nokhons speak the same language due to learning the Atli.

"He was obviously much more interested in Magga and Masnia than another male, like me. Which was no surprise, most males are. So Magga explained that we were from the far-away Nokhon City of Aket near the Western Sea and that changes were happening over there and we were trying to contact other squatches to inform them. I gave a quick description of the Nokhon Nation Project and how some squatches were coming out from hiding to take their place in the NokhSo world, ya-dada ya-dada. I was careful how I worded all this; lots of squatches can be pretty fanatic about obeying the rules as laid out in the Atli.

"But Djaarka seemed more nervous about where we were than what I was saying, constantly looking around to make sure none of those horrible little humans I had mentioned were sneaking up on us, here so close to where they had once lived in those now-empty bakhls.

He was also confused about us: three Nokhons he had never met wandering around in the forbidden remains of NokhSo territory, where most squatches never go. Surrounded by too much skesk, one couldn't avoid having to touch it, actually walking on it with bare feet. We asked the guy if there were other Nokhons in the area, but he said, "No, not here, but farther North there are several large mlønoli".

"It soon became apparent that he was here alone because he was kronoke, exiled for some reason. We asked him what he had been exiled for and he became defensive, ashamed. I suspected it had something to do with skesk, considering that he was hanging out in an abandoned city that had once produced technology.

"And sure enough, he had been caught red-handed with skesk and rejected by his mlønoli: he'd found a Swiss Army knife and kept it, then started collecting machine parts, fascinated by their shape and glossy solidity. A hammer, an axe, a cup, a spoon, useful utensils that seemed crazy to do without once you understood their function.

I cut short his shameful self-recriminations by saying that I agreed with him and that we used skesk all the time. At first he didn't believe us, but then I showed him the shoulder-bag we'd put our clothes in, and the clothes themselves, a cell phone that lit up when activated, showed him pictures on screen. He was astounded. Then unsure if he should be talking with decadent Alti violators like us.

He told us he had heard about The Negotiator and violations of Atli at the last kha-rat he had attended, that people were offended by what was going on over there, etc. There is a moment in every kha-rat when a kind of group telepathy kicks in and the mlønoli gets an update from the rest of the Nokhon world, so they are in touch with their fellow Nokhons in Shamballah or Aket, everywhere on the planet, even without radio or TV. Or skesk.

"Djaarka became excited and began an indignant rant against anyone who would violate Atli, as if he was himself innocent of exactly that, obviously conflicted and feeling guilty. Not that he had yet connected ME with THE Negotiator, that was some far-away Master of Evil and I was just this doofus he'd met somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

"We asked Djaaket if he could direct us to the mlønoli up north. We invited him to come and see our bus. He was both disgusted and fascinated to hear that we had a traveling skesk-machine! But he tagged along with us, almost absent-mindedly, as we strolled back to our camp.

"When he finally saw our bus, camped behind that big old house where the gang of tiny black NokhSoli lived, he froze. His eyes went wide, nostrils flaring, he looked ready to turn and run away forever. Of course, he'd seen cars and busses before, even touched abandoned or parked cars, but had never been inside one. He whimpered when I opened the side door-- which hissed as hydraulics became active and was suddenly illuminated by running lights. Then he gasped as I stepped up into the bus, like he was seeing me being eaten alive. He was also even more amazed when Pokey, a redskinned NokhSo, came out of the bus and greeted him in fluent Nokhontli.

"Djaaket didn't dare enter the bus, too conflicted about the sin of touching so MUCH skesk in one clump. And when Melly stepped out to greet him (diplomatic enough not to hold her nose against the stink), the sight of her golden NokhSo hair and tiny beauty was too much for him and he finally did turn and run away. We assumed we might never see him again.