SHOT IN DETROIT-Wylie Edwards

In SHOT IN DETROIT, twelve African-American men under forty die. At one point in its long gestation, I composed back stories for each man, not sure if I would use them or not. 

I decided not. The story belonged to Violet Hart, the photographer, and these long pieces diluted that--and it made for too many characters, something I personally don't care for. 

But I do feel their stories are worth telling. The stories are all basically fictitious but mirror the sort of deaths that take place in any urban area. 

And THEN THERE WERE THREE: Wylie Edwards

His whole life was about cars, and it was a flat tire that landed him here—that was one of his final thoughts as he lay dying on a deserted road outside Jackson. Deserted except for the two dudes who’d just stabbed him and were about to steal his truck. At least, that’s what it looked like from his view from the ground. What else could they want? It wasn’t even dark yet—he’d bet they were high on something. It was a back road, but someone could possibly come along.

            A huge fist had jabbed him as he put the jack away.  The hand was so quick he hadn’t spotted the flash of metal as the knife went into his chest. Only got a look at them as they walked away: two white guys with bullet-shaped heads, black tee shirts, swastikas on the backs of their necks. Nobody’d believe it. Except maybe they would. Hadn’t one of those Oklahoma City bombers come out of Michigan? He’d been a kid then, but he’d heard later they came from Lapeer or some farming community. Or deer-hunting country like this was.

 Wasn’t even a new truck they were hi-jacking—he’d bought it used, if not used up, last year. Made the mistake of fixing it up, drawing attention to it: decals, cool paint job. Well that’s what he’d done since he graduated in June. Fixed trucks up. He was learning how to customize vans right now. Don Blake, guy he worked for, was showing him the ropes.

“You got an artistic bent,” Don said, encouraging him with the personal use of the garage’s tools and paint ‘cause he couldn’t afford to pay him much. “You’re a decent mechanic but a better artist.” Don built a special down-draft paint booth for him and brought a fellow in from Indianapolis to give him some tips on the air-brushing technique. He picked it up quick. Too bad he hadn't been half as good at math.

Sometimes Wylie imagined putting his pictures on a canvass. Maybe not the graphics that looked like cartoons or tattoos, but the ones he sometimes was asked to do of nature. Last month he painted sand dunes and beach grass on a van. Those  dunes would look awesome on a piece of wood.

He guessed his future as an artist was coming to a quick end—along with everything else. Funny thing. He didn’t even feel that bad. Probably in shock. If someone—like his Mom, a nurse—was around he could probably be saved. She’d stick a tube in his chest and stop the air flow out. Keep his lung from collapsing; stop his insides from kinking up. He’d read a textbook or two when he wasn’t looking at car magazines or Playboy. No Mom around to save him today though; she was doing the night shift just a couple of miles away. No way to call. First thing the guy did after sticking a knife in him was take his cell and toss it.

 Knowing some medical stuff from living with a nurse, he thought he was probably a goner. He also couldn’t help but wonder what the guys were going to do with him. Probably leave him here to bleed out or die of an obstruction before bleeding to death.

If his whole life had been spent around cars, his whole life had also been spent around guys like those two. One of those guys was ripping the tab off a can of beer, lighting weed from the smell of it. Other one was examining the contents of Wylie’s toolbox. He heard a wrench fall, clattering against the side of his truck.

Cons—he could pick up the smell of the prison down the road from the ground he lay on. He’d bet they’d been out of the place less than a month. They still had the kind of haircuts men got at Jackson though. Everything about these guys shouted Jackson. Could have even climbed the wall, but he'd have heard the sirens.

He could hear the two guys debating what to do with him now. Telling each other that he’d probably be okay if they just let him lie where he was. But maybe someone would see him on the roadside before they could get away. He’d be alive to identify them, one of them said. Maybe it was better to take him along. Get out of here before someone else came along.

 Suddenly they were picking him up, dumping him in the back of the truck. The wind whistled through his chest as they fled down the road.