The Collapse of the Silverdome
I had to again remind myself how long ago Pontiac could still boast a proper downtown. Even here on the main street, nine in the morning, not much traffic. A wino staggered on by, a couple hipsters with coffee cups tottered on, more than a little nervous. Cars whipped by, bound elsewhere by the looks of it. From across the street, the hospital sign flashed the employee of the month. I couldn’t believe enough people worked there to have one. Then again, that was how it was anymore. The vultures flew up I-75 to pick up our scraps, and today they were blowing up the Silverdome.
I stood under the courthouse flags. They struggled against the stiff winds. When the street cleared, which didn’t take long, I dashed across. Even on Friday nights you could jaywalk here and not worry, to say nothing of Monday morning. The only exception was when crowds descended from elsewhere. Back when they did that festival here, jaywalking would’ve been suicide the last weekend of September. I used to go to that, listen to this blues band scorch through old favorites. They weren’t anything new, but they rocked, and no one could take that away from them. Then they moved the festival ten miles south, and now the place only came alive when someone played the Crofoot. The Crofoot was fine, but a poor substitute for the Silverdome.
I trotted on down to the usual diner. A quick bite before work at least got my head on straight, and they made a good omelet there, one worth braving even the December cold to get. Some days I was the only one down there. Rita always said I kept the place in business, and it never felt like a joke. Today another guy sat at the counter. They had the TV on, local news, a fucking cesspit if there ever was one. I never got off on the money-for-misery shit. Still, I guess they needed the TV on, because today they collapsed the Silverdome.
I still wasn’t sure what Rita and I expected when we went on that date, what arrangement we felt would bubble up. For that matter, I’m not sure if I’d call it a date, or just two people, older than we used to be but not yet old, talking about the past. She didn’t have Silverdome stories like mine, but she heard me out, and her eyes lit up when I talked about all those concerts. I saw some great bands there, bands the young people don’t appreciate. Not that I’m bitter. They’ve found their own bands. Still, it had to be someone like Rita to hear it, and it had to be someone like me to hear her stories about old TV. I’d never known anyone who saw as many Simpsons episodes as Rita. All these years and all these changes later, changes she could hold forth about for hours, and she still tuned into that show every Sunday. She kept her Sunday routine. I gave up on the Lions when they left the Silverdome. Nothing but bad ideas and mismanagement followed that move.
The guy there wore mutton chops and red flannel. From Waterford, probably. They came through here, Confederate flag decals on their pickup trucks, and they found some way to tell themselves Waterford was nicer than Pontiac. Don’t ask me how, I’ve given up on any analysis. Rita poured him coffee. I always wondered how Rita felt, serving guys like this. If they weren’t commenting on her figure they were commenting on her race. I guess that was just the job.
“I’m glad they’re tearing that down,” he said. “Nothing but cobwebs there. Just a big ruin. In with the new, wouldn’t you say, sweetheart?”
Disgust flickered across Rita’s face. For a moment, I wondered if she’d call him on it. I waited for the cutting remark, the words that would send this man straight back to his favorite redneck diner for stale pancakes and freeze-dried eggs. I’d never seen him in here before. He had some nerve to come in and insult both Rita and the Silverdome.
“Kristen, get an omelet ready. Southwest, hot sauce,” said Rita.
The smile leapt back onto Rita’s face. In the morning light, she looked as tired as I felt, that cosmic sort of exhaustion a cup of coffee can’t chase off. At least neither of us were alone. She must’ve heard me come in, or maybe she had just gotten some sense of the time. She could’ve set her watch by when I walked in. Maybe she did. Rita had worked here for years, and she’d picked things up. When a first-time customer came through, she memorized their order. If they came back, she’d ask if they wanted it again. She probably had Mutton Chops’ ham and eggs filed away somewhere already.
“Imagine that,” said Kristen. “We’ve got two customers, and they’re not even in the same party.”
“That attitude will take you places,” said Rita. “The Michigan Works office, for instance.”
“If I go there, you’ll go with me. They’ll close this place before they fire me. Because I’m goddamn good.”
It amazed me how this place stayed open. Maybe that only showed how little I knew about the restaurant business. I’d never seen it full. Peak hours meant three tables occupied and another four people at the counter. Plus, the food came cheap, a matter of necessity I supposed. Here I could get a breakfast and a cup of coffee for under five bucks. That worked out well for my wallet, but I wondered about theirs.
“So what will you do with this sudden windfall?” said Rita.
“Gonna blow it all at Electricity. Club on a Monday night? Why not.”
“Don’t go without me,” said Rita. “I’m overdue for some dancing. I feel ten years older the next morning, but sometimes it’s worth it.”
“You got that right.”
“You’re still young,” said Rita. “Have fun while you can.”
The Silverdome stood on the TV screen, blue and silver, shape of a stop sign. They stood some guy in a suit up there and let him babble about what was coming next. The TV muted, his words raced down the bottom of the screen. He didn’t seem like much more than another guy with an opinion. I stared at the Silverdome, its roof a pillow, the entrance ramps open arms. In the better days, cars would’ve swarmed the parking lot. People would’ve filed into the doors, fans would’ve spilled out of the bleachers. Now those last few who loved the place had to watch it blow up on TV.
I worked there in the Barry Sanders years. I’d show the good folks to their seats, but of course I was in it for the games. All the ushers were. The job paid peanuts, fifty bucks a week, but we got to see Barry. Nobody could bring him down. They’d come at him in all sorts of ways, stand in front of him like walls or sneak up from behind or try to blindside him, but he kept to his plan. Get the ball to the end zone. Nothing else mattered to Barry, not when he was on the field. I can’t say I’m happy with how he left the team. That goddamn fax still pisses me off. Still, no doubt about it, the guy could play football.
“Shame to see the Silverdome go down,” I said.
“Would’ve been a shame thirty years ago,” said Mutton Chops. “Now we’re just weeding the garden.”
I’ve never been a political guy. It’s always the same story, how and why the big guy laced up his big boots and stomped the little guy out. I had to make an exception for the Silverdome. The day I heard they were tearing it down, I parked myself on Huron and Grand River, clipboard in hand. The “Save the Silverdome” petition got twenty signatures total. Whatever the threshold for saving it, twenty fell short. Rita signed it, Kristen didn’t, and the Silverdome was on its way down.
For some people, ’87 at the Silverdome was all about the Pope. For me, it was Springsteen. I saw him there after losing my job, figuring I had one more check left over and may as well spend it on a good time. I bought a bunch of beers, prices marked up even back then, and none of my friends could believe how fast I slammed them back. Bruce, of course, was something else. Right in the middle of “The Promised Land,” he waded into the crowd, the whole time still singing. When he got to me, I handed him my beer, and he drank the rest. I’d never seen anything like that. He took the beer and put it back, and some suds splashed my arm. He handed me the empty cup and waded on deeper. I woke up the next morning with a hangover and no job, but Bruce Springsteen drank my beer at the Silverdome.
“You were never there, were you,” I said. “If you were there, you’d get it.”
“Please, there’s no need to fight,” said Rita.
“I’m not here to fight. It’s this fuck who’s…”
“It’s starting,” said Mutton Chops. I couldn’t stand how excited he looked.
We ushers had a joke. The Silverdome would go down before the Lions won a Super Bowl. The fans who heard it would shoot us dirty looks, but in many ways, we knew better than they did. We’d seen too many amazing seasons laid low by teams who wanted it more, we’d seen too many playoff games where even Barry Sanders looked mortal, and so that joke bounced around the bleachers. It had already escaped the demolition, and I didn’t know how long it would laugh at the Lions.
Smoke poured out from the upper deck. Debris shot downwards, as though it preferred a death by impact over one by fire. I geared up for the whole thing, like I’d seen other buildings fall. The fires that burned from the bottom, the walls crumbling, the dust and shrapnel that always shot up. I expected a moment of chaos, nothing to see but the clouds, maybe some licks of flame, and then it would all settle. The builders would clear away the plaster and concrete, and a crater would mark the remains of the Silverdome. Yet the smoke spewed a moment more, blew away, and the Silverdome still stood.
“Your taxpayer dollars at work,” said Mutton Chops.
Even as the guy in the suit came on, even as he blustered out his apologies and assured everyone watching he’d chop a few heads, even as he promised the Silverdome would go down tomorrow, I couldn’t help myself, I laughed and I laughed.
Chris Schahfer's fiction has appeared in Anastamos, Entropy, the Dapper Lounge, and Caffeine Presse. He received an MFA in Creative Writing, fiction focus, from Roosevelt University in 2016 and a BA in English Literature from Wayne State University in 2013. He lives in the Detroit area and works as a tutor.