The streets of Detroit were dark.
Bernie wore a leather. We wandered up from a yacht parked on the Detroit River looking for coffee. I sported an Hawaiian shirt.
There was a ruckus around the corner. We heard screaming and smashing noises. Five black men came running with chains and clubs.
We were out numbered five to two.
I knew gang fighting. “I’ll get the big one. You get who ever tries to save him!” If the two toughest were down the others might hesitate.
A brown Nova pulled up behind us blocking our retreat. The driver’s door swung open.
I was ready. Bernie was ready. I heard a voice from across the street. “What?”
“Git out da way foo’!”
We stepped aside. The gang rushed past, piled in the car, and roared away. Tire smoke hung in the summer heat. Sounds faded into banging echoes among the tall buildings. I realized a perfect stranger had just saved my ass.
“Hey, thanks!” I called back.
“Foo’!” Said a man slowly shaking his head. As he walked away he looked back and scolded. “You just gotsta git out da way!”
A yachtsman has a memorable sail to Detroit.