Hendrix: Caldwell Brothers (The Caldwell Brothers Book 1)

When you think of Motor City, you think of poverty, but what Detroit lacks in class and elegance, we make up for in dive bars. You got the Two Way In on Mt. Elliott, Nancy Whiskey on Harrison, Old Miami on Cass, Greenwich Time in Cadillac Square, Kwicky on 8Mile, Marshalls on Jefferson, Jumbo’s on 3rd, The Painted Lady up in Hamtramck, My Dad’s Place on Kercheval, and Caldwell’s on Atwater.

You know the kind of places I’m talking about—windowless joints on the corner with the High Life sign blinking because you know the sign is as old as the paint chipped building it hangs off. The blinking sign beckons you. You have to go inside to see what the hell is going on ‘cause you can’t see in the windows, and it sounds like you may be missing something if you don’t.

They are boarded up tight, because they got busted out two nights ago when the place got robbed by the fucking thugs who walk up and down the streets, selling candy one minute and panhandling two hours later. The pieces of shit are inventive—I’ll give them that—but my suggestion is get a fucking job, slob.

Back in the day, when the auto factories dominated the area, things didn’t look so broken down. It was alive and kicking. The area was still peppered with bars. Bar owners were making mad cash, too.

At the end of every street, there was a joint that served ice cold High Life on tap and two-dollar shots. There was entertainment and fun to be had everywhere. You could always get a decent, quick meal on your lunch break; a live show at night; and the bartenders made you feel like you belonged, like you were family.

My pops won the title to Hooligans at a dogfight. With it being a great location in the Rivertown district near Chene Park, he truly got a prize that time. He was instantly banking money and banging women. That is when he met Mom.

She sang, played guitar, and had a decent following as a one-woman show. He was thirty, and she was twenty-two. She sang at his bar every Wednesday night and eventually tended bar three nights a week. Like many of his barmaids, she fell for his bullshit, and that ended up with her pregnant with me in less than two months from the time they met.

He moved her in to his apartment above the bar and embraced becoming a father. He wanted to do it better than his old man had. Isn’t that the truth in life, just do it better? Don’t we all strive for that?

Eventually, the novelty wore off. He started fucking around on her. When she confronted him, he beat her down emotionally. She busted her ass keeping the bar clean, and he busted his ass drinking the profit. Two more boys later, and she was busting her ass to raise their three kids on top of keeping his business afloat.

When the economy in Detroit deteriorated, he lost what was left of his mind. He started coming after us for stupid shit like spilled milk, a Lego on the floor, you name it. Hell, the wind blowing in the wrong direction had him on us.

Mom started stepping in with, “Boys, go to your room.”

Sure, we did as we were told, but we heard the shit. We heard him hitting her. It was no better than seeing it, either. We were helpless as the sounds of each blow became increasingly deafening to our tiny ears. Funny how, in the moment, adrenaline kicks in and instincts go into overdrive. Every noise becomes louder, clearer, and sticks with you for longer. I can still hear that shit in my sleep.

As I grew older and stood taller than him, I began to step in. He and I would go at it, fist to fist, until one of us wasn’t moving. At first, it was me. Then, when I was seventeen, it was finally him. Fucker knew it, too.

I begged Mom to move out, but she refused to leave her home and family. She made excuses for him, said that was how he was raised.

He stopped coming at us when I busted his nose. I hated the bastard, and when Morrison was big enough, I moved the fuck out. Still saw Mom every day, though. I couldn’t go a day without seeing her or my brothers. I needed to make sure they were okay, but I also knew, if I stayed, I would kill him and be in the state pen within a year.

He lost Hooligans because the fucking asshole bet against the wrong underground fighter. Who was the fighter he bet against? My brother, his own son. Who did he lose it to? Me. Fucker didn’t even know it was me until a week later, either.

I let him stay in the apartment above the bar, not for him, but for Mom.

I had been working for a contractor, fixing up old warehouses and making them into apartments for years. Even made enough to buy my own place.

I fixed up the second and third floors, making them livable. Wide open space, two bedrooms, two baths on the second floor, the third is my loft. The first floor houses a bad-ass garage. It is where I spend the rest of my money—on my tools, my toys, and my rides.

I roll over to find my pit-bull Floyd is hogging the bed as usual. She—yes, Floyd is a she—is an obvious bed hog.

When I found her, she had on a pink, spiked collar that was digging into her neck. I squatted down and peeled it off the poor girl, and she let me. Then, she took off, and I followed her to an abandoned warehouse, walking into a fucking scene that makes my stomach churn to this day. Fucking dog fights.

My dad loves those godforsaken fights, while I despise them.

I called a cop friend I knew from high school while in an outside alley and then waited. When the fuckers running the circuit were taken in, along with the spectators, I watched the SPCA take the dogs. Floyd looked at me, I looked at her, and I knew she was mine.

“Floyd, seriously, bitch”—I laugh as she licks my face—“get down.”

*.*.*.*

I walk in the bar on a Friday morning after my run with Floyd along the riverside. We don’t open until noon, but I have orders to place for next week.

I start up the coffee pot in the kitchen then walk out behind the bar. The place looks like hell. It better have been a busy fucking night.

The weekday barmaid Lola is getting lazy. I swear to fuck, she spends more time applying that glossy shit to her lips than she does doing the job she is paid for.

Work ethic is sorely lacking nowadays. Everyone wants something for fucking free. What happened to hard work, perseverance, dedication, and determination?

I watched my momma bust her ass for years. Even though I heard a million damn times, “This is my bar,” come out of my old man’s mouth, it was Momma who held those qualities—the ones it takes to run a business—not him.

Sighing, I wipe the sticky mess from last night off the nicked up, old, oak bar. One of the four sinks under the bar hasn’t drained completely, so I reach down, pull out the lime wedges, and throw them in the trash that wasn’t taken out. The coolers aren’t stocked, the fruit trays are sitting in the melted ice under the soda tap, and I am ready to fucking explode.

When I walk around the bar and look down, I find the fucking floor isn’t swept or mopped, and there are full ashtrays on the pub tables. What’s more, I have more than an hour’s worth of paperwork and orders to place before I can even start the damn clean up. Orders that have to be placed, or I won’t get a delivery on Monday when the bar is closed, and I will be fucked.

I decide the priority lies on getting the order in, so I head back behind the bar and walk up the steps between the kitchen and the back of the bar to my office.

I walk in, and there is old Lola, bare-assed, laying across my old man’s waist.

“Get the fuck up,” I yell.

She startles and jumps. “Oh, God. Oh, Hendrix—”

“Get the fuck out of my office. You, too, old man.”

“You watch your tone with me, boy.” He glowers at me as he sits up.

“I ain’t gotta watch shit, old man. What the fuck are you doing here? What the fuck are you doing with my employee?”

“I think it’s obvious what I’m doing here, son,” he slurs as he stands.

“Get your pathetic ass out of here.” I point to the door. “Lola, I’m sorry about this—”

“We love each other,” she says and starts crying.

“Is that so?” I force a laugh and shake my head as I look at my pop’s pitiful ass as he buttons up.

“Yes,” she answers and grabs his hand when it is free. “We’ve been in love for a year.”

I look at him, waiting for him to deny this ‘love.’ Hell, as long as I have been alive, I have never heard him say that word to Mom or any of us. The denial never comes, though.

“A year? So Mom was still alive?”

Still no answer, and at that moment, charity ceases to exist.

“Get your shit out of the apartment. And, Lola, you’re fired. You may wanna get yourself checked, too, old girl. His dick is a weapon.”

“How dare you? You can’t do that!” he yells at me.

“It’s done. Now get out.” I don’t yell, don’t fight. This is actually fucking perfect.

He had been under the protection of my mother for all my life and stayed that way through grief’s numbing after effects over the last year.

The first step in the grieving process is denial and isolation. My brothers and I hit denial from word terminal, but with only a two month warning of expiration, there wasn’t time to go hiding out. The next step in the grieving process is anger. I have been stuck on that one for a while now. There are even stages to this particular stage. I get pissed, and then I am numb. Then, before I know it, I’m right back to being pissed again.

Lola is wiping the smudged mascara off her face. I can hear my dad mutter to her, “Guess we were meant to be, you and me.” He puts his hand on her ass as he looks over his shoulder at me, giving me his glare. It is the same glare that once made my mother and us boys cower, but now holds no weight over me.

“It’ll last as long as she stays your meal ticket,” I respond back as Lola shakes her head and they keep walking around, gathering their things.

I head down to get back to work. He has no more control over this family any longer.

“Lost another one?” Jagger strolls in and laughs. His assumption is based off the obvious fucking mess of the bar he is looking around at.

“Maybe,” I answer noncommittally.

“Seriously, bro, you need to learn to play nice with others.”

“Look, unless you’re here to take on another night—step it up a bit—I don’t wanna hear shit.”

“I liked Lola,” he says as he sits down on the other side of the bar.

I hold my finger in front of my mouth, keeping him quiet, and point up. “You hear heels clicking up the wooden stairs into the apartment?”

When he looks at me like he has no clue, I raise my eyebrow and shake my head.

“No shit?” he asks when he catches on.

“Just found ‘em in my fucking office. Told him a month ago, when I caught him skimming from the till, he was out. Not to step foot in my fucking place again, or he could pack his shit.”

He nods and then shakes his head. Then, his fists ball up as he takes a moment to look down.

“What are you gonna do?” he asks finally.

“He’s packing his shit.”

“You for real, man?” There is a mischievous look in his eyes, making my kid brother look kind of happy. Looks good on him. Ain’t seen it in a long damn while.

“As fucking real as terminal cancer.”

Some people wouldn’t find that the least bit amusing, but they aren’t Caldwells. If we aren’t able to find humor in our misfortunes, we would never laugh a day in our fucking lives.

I look up when the door opens to see my buddy Johnny, the cop. It isn’t unlike him to stop by on a chilly morning and grab a cup of coffee.

Jagger stands to greet him. “Got bail?”

“You’re fucking joking, right?” I shake my head as I look at his knuckles, and nah, he isn’t joking.

“Jagger, you know I have to take you in.” Johnny is pissed. “You beat the shit out of your landlord.”

“His kid was crying. Heard her through the wall, opened the door, and she’s running down the hall. Fucker came out chasing her with a belt.”

“So you beat him to the ground?” Johnny asks, taking the cup of coffee I slide across the bar. “How about call 911? That’s my job, man. Now she’s so scared she’s not talking and won’t press charges—”

“What do you mean, won’t press charges.” Jagger’s vein is popping out of his neck. “She had switch marks across her goddamned neck, Johnny. She’s a fucking kid; she needs someone—”

“She’s seventeen. Can’t make her do shit, you hear me?” Johnny states then points to the door. “Restraining order, so you got nowhere to live, and when the judge asks where you work, what are you gonna say? ‘I smash people up in abandoned warehouses while others stand around and watch?’ It’s fucking illegal.”

“Nah, man, I got a job.” Jagger chuckles. “I’m a motherfucking astronaut. Just got back from the moon last night. Shit looks good up there.”

“Last time, you told the judge you were a fucking OBGYN apprentice, and that got you a week in county.”

Jagger smirks and looks to me. “Do I have a place to live?”

“Of course you do.” I lean against the bar and cross my arms over my chest.

“I work here, right?” Jagger winks.

“Yeah, man, you do. Call me after your photo shoot and fingerprints. I’ll be down to pick you up.”

With that, I watch them walk out. Only Jag can climb in the back of the squad car like he is getting in a damn taxi. Then, I see the old man and Lola the bar whore walk by with garbage bags from the side alley. They must have taken the back exit. Good riddance.

I feel a weight lift off my shoulders just before the guilt washes over me. I should have booted his ass years ago. Then, maybe Momma would have paid attention to the few symptoms she did have, cramping and shit. She wouldn’t have thought they were just everyday stresses of working too damn hard. The everyday stresses I knew damn well came from dealing with his sorry ass.

I wish I could go back so fucking bad.

You know what the third step to grief is? Bargaining. Right now, that is what I’m doing. If I only had done this… God, if I do this, will you make the loss less?

Yeah, that shit is what I’m doing right now. Does it bother me? Hell yes. But, I also embrace this new stage in life.

Bring. It. On.