Day in Detroit

His eyes turned towards me as soon as I walked through the door. I noticed his stare, but I was drawn to him, too: a blonde man in a Negro bar demands attention, whether in New Orleans or Detroit.

It was 11:00 am, and I'd been driving all night. The road was getting the best of me. Why else would I have wanted a beer before noon? My right mind thinks I should go to the other side of the bar, but I decide against it. He has something to say, and against my better judgement, I approach him to hear what it is.

Right away, he introduces himself as Sal Paradise. He's not here alone, he assures me. His friend Dean, Dean Moriarty, headed out a few minutes ago. He had grown bored with this bar.

"What do you want out of life?" Sal asked.

"Well, I want to be a poet," I replied.

He looks at me, looks down at his drink, and back up. "I'm a writer, too." His eyes glance up and down my body, but I don't feel threatened. The predatory nature of his gaze has transformed into curiosity. I wasn't just a black woman to him anymore.

Sal Paradise began to tell me about his writing, and how he has been traveling, back and forth across the U.S. on a whim, with this Dean. I swear I could see the moon in his eyes when he spoke of his friend, but to me he sounded like a real moron. But the way he spoke, I could tell he was a writer. He talked about the road; he described prairies, mountains and sea, and all the people he met along the way. It was beautiful. But something was missing from him, and I think that I, as a writer myself, saw that.

A few minutes later, Sal left.  I gave him my new address in Chicago and told him to send me his work. It never came. He didn't give me an address. But I think about our interaction often. In my head, I thank him for talking to me, for looking at me as a writer. But I also hate him, because he so clearly couldn't see that all of the things he can do as a writer, I can't. He strolls into Negro bars like a free and open soul, but before he knew I was a writer, he only saw me as a body.

I can empathize with Sal's story. He loves the potential of this country, but ends up dissatisfied time and time again. Dean becomes his God, and the Road his path to heaven - he'll never get there. But Sal has the freedom to try. I don't. He can relish in his immaturity of sex and drugs and alcohol and sadness. I can't. My life as a black woman limits me in ways Sal will never understand. But on that day in Detroit, Sal saw me as a writer, and in that moment, it was enough.