Low Road (22 page)

Donnie's reflections revealed the degree to which he had begun recognizing his addiction's impact on his burgeoning career.

Without drugs, at this stage of my life, [it's] not only difficult, but damn near impossible. I can't concentrate enough to work without them. If I smoke weed, it makes me daydream too much, so that in the end, I don't have any work did. If I get a shot of heroin, I'm able to work from morning to night, my writing seems to be better, and I can think.

Confessing such a dependency that he couldn't function without drugs, the pensive writer allowed that medical attention was likely the answer.

In need to go into a hospital or something because I'm not able to afford the price of drugs now. I don't want to start back to stealing; I'm having enough trouble with the courts now, so I don't do any hustling whatsoever. The only money we have to live on is the fifty-dollar check I get from my publisher once a week, plus Shirley's check, which comes every two weeks. It's a hell of a small amount …

Along with penury, he wrote of other sources of daily stress. The sentiment ranged from sarcasm to anguish, at times distorting the lines between fantasy, reality, and a junkie's fuzzy perception of both. Of his desire not to worry “about the police harassing me whenever I decided to go down the street to the store”:

Now I realize if I were white, this wouldn't be such a problem, because my publishers could then give me the keys to one of their homes abroad and tell me to just keep the place together without misusing it. But, being of the black race, there is always the chance that we will contaminate whatever we touch, so I understand … but why, why refuse me the opportunity to do so much for so little? Even if it cost you five thousand dollars out of your private account to send me somewhere that I can work uninterrupted for just four to six months—not on garbage—but on one book that might not be a number one best seller, but it would be the best that I'd ever do.

Donnie's thoughts appear to have occurred almost randomly, as he questioned his worth, perhaps not just to the company that contracted him:

Now let's try another tack. If my life were in the balance, would Holloway House think I was worth this much money if someone had demanded that much money for my return?

And then he seemed to jerk himself into coherency, appearing every bit the concerned and rational author.

I don't want to sound [d]efiant, or like some smart-ass nigger. What I'm trying to say is, “Help.” … I want to write, but there is not much money in paperbacks, as we both know, unless the writer turns them out like comic books. But I want to write something that you and I would both be proud of. I have the novel in mind, but it's utterly impossible for me to spend that much time on one book when I can turn out three others in the same length of time.

Donnie continued, directing his concerns to the typewriter as if they might be vicariously addressed:

By this time, you are wondering, “Where is this letter going?” and how can you possibl[y] help, I hope.

Urging would-be benefactors to take a risk on him, he elaborated.

This is my answer—take a gamble. Am I asking too much? Would it really hurt you for you and Ralph to sit down and figure out some way to help me? Does your magazine need a writer in Africa, or anywhere other than right here in Los Angeles? I mean is it utterly impossible for you to see how in helping me, that you might just help yourself?

At stake was not only his future with Holloway House, but his future as a stable, secure individual and family provider. Donnie continued acting as his own best advocate, urging an imaginary audience to recognize his good work and potential, if not
“destroyed by this system that we live under.”
As if he were stalked prey, Donnie expressed feeling “like a bird whos[e] [sic] wings have been clipped.” Moving to another home in Los Angeles wouldn't be enough.

I'm still afraid to go out the door to the store unless I'm carrying two children with me. It's too much. My sanity is slowly going. I see it coming—what the black ghettoes couldn't do, Los Angeles is slowly doing.

Apparently, on occasion, urgent thoughts of crime had even returned, but Donnie resisted.

I don't want another case, so I live like this, looking forward to Friday so that I can at least have the fun of driving out to Melrose, even though I bring my family along then, not taking any chances.

If nothing else, do this much for me: Check the paper work and see if I have enough money coming so that you can ship me and my family back to Mich. There, I can at least live free.

Donnie had become so frantic to get out of the “concentration camp” which was his existence that he would sacrifice four months' prepaid rent in favor of Detroit's approaching winter climate.

I don't even have coats for me or my children, but I'd rather die of freezing than stay here and lose my mind. Maybe I have been rambling in this letter, but I hope you understand one thing. The police have won. I can't cope with them much longer.

Then, not unlike what might have occurred if he had fallen into a sudden nod, the words faded.

I have never hated white, but since being here, this city has made me hate everything in a …

Blank space, in the place of characters, filled the remainder of the last line. “Private Thoughts” ended abruptly, having apparently failed to reach its conclusion. For whatever Donnie's intentions with the letter, there was no clear manifestation of its impact beyond the mental and emotional release it provided. Whether he had seriously considered sending it to Bentley Morriss and Ralph Weinstock or to any other professional contacts versus merely rehearsing what he might get up the nerve to express to them, it was a libation of his soul that he had poured out onto the paper. Although it was filled with typographical and spelling errors, the message contained in “Private Thoughts” could not be misunderstood. Double-spaced and bearing the name “Goines,” manuscript-style in the upper-left-hand corner, they were three pages of desperation. Gone was the arrogance he injected into the dialogue of his most brash-talking characters. In its place was the naked fear and insecurity of a creative yet frazzled mind. The pages would be retired to his personal briefcase and discovered more than a year after the date when he typed them. In another retrospective moment, he never chose to bother with the typewriter. Donnie got into the habit of scrawling thoughts onto paper, these written after what were the apparent beginnings of some rewrite work on a novel. Beneath the words “Page 73–74 Rape Scene,” he printed: “Can't get it right. Damn [it's] hot here. Can't stand it here. When my check gets here we're going to Detroit.”

Prodigal Son

… I turned on my heel and departed, on my way to pick up my new Cadillac. And then from there, I'd hit the highway. Like I said, Los Angeles and me had had enough of each other … After all, I've been out here for damn near five years. It's time I slowed down. Maybe now I can settle down and live respectably. Something I've been wanting to do all my life.”

—
Never Die Alone,
Donald Goines

 

If things were going to get any better for Donnie, Shirley, and the children in California, there obviously wasn't much indication of it. Donnie had failed to establish any significant contacts in the film industry. Failed to kick. Failed to get any real sense of refuge whatsoever. All he really had to show for his time in Los Angeles that suggested any sense of achievement was a black Cadillac with a white convertible top. He had never bought one when he was a pimp. Now, at least, he could say he drove a nice ride. There was no doubt that he wanted to put it on the highway as soon as possible. He continued that stream-of-consciousness method of journaling that he did from time to time, summarizing in a checklist his need to depart California. “Spoke to my Mama today, she said come home now—Joan to[o]. Received $250.00 from Wea Wea; she sent a large box of food—heavy—cost a fortune to send. Have to get out of here … to get wong—Shirley wants to go home to[o]. Feels like I'm losing it—not enough time. We are leaving today. Got my check and money Wea Wea sen[t].” The folks at Holloway House didn't seem entirely surprised that Donnie was going home. It had been months, but less than a year. His peace and sanity were on far shakier ground than they had been the day he arrived. If he could get back on familiar concrete, he figured, at least he couldn't do any worse.

Following the 3,000-mile drive home, Donnie was slow to make contact with the friends who had chipped in to send him away. It wasn't long, however, before phones were ringing. “Did he call you yet? He's back.” Walter shook his head and laughed at the news of his old friend's return. He wasn't angry, at least not in any way that a good cussin' out wouldn't cover. Donnie was trying to find his way, and through it all he still had people who believed in him. He and Shirley found a place to live in Highland Park, where they planned to readjust to the slower pace they had begun missing. Before the close of 1973, he had added
Street Players,
the story of Earl “The Pearl,” a pimp who sits on top of the world until fate and karma pay him a visit, to his body of literary work. He was gaining name recognition. The work that followed in July was
White Man's Justice, Black Man's Grief,
which he dedicated to Shirley. Her “love and infinite patience helped me to keep the faith and to make my editorial deadline…” Donnie explained. He acknowledged a few personal supporters in the family of acquaintances Charles and Carol Cunningham, then, in yet another conflicting sentiment, added the folks at Holloway House: “and for my publisher and editor, whose help and kindness I doubt I'll ever be able to repay in full.” But that last sentiment would change. Donnie had intended
White Man's Justice, Black Man's Burden
as the title, but in the final draft,
Grief
is what made it to the cover. Drawing from his experiences in and out of the joint, it was written almost like an exposé of the court and prison systems. Fiction was merely the weapon of choice for the truths Donnie told in revealing the fucked-up conditions of the overcrowded, dirty, and often-violent jail facilities that housed the innocent-until-proven-guilty in urban communities.

In an uncharacteristic move, Donnie wrote a forthright and personal author's note in the book's opening pages:

Since this work of fiction deals with the court system, I'd like to direct the reader's attention to an awesome abuse inflicted daily upon the less fortunate—the poor people of this country—an abuse which no statesman, judge or attorney (to my knowledge) has moved to effectively remedy. I'm speaking of the bail-bond system.

He reported the county jails' daily herding of poor blacks and whites. Donnie witnessed it numerous occasions while incarcerated, and he pointed out that many of those eventually found innocent could spend more than a year locked away, “simply because they couldn't raise bail-bond money.” Removing himself from such scenarios, he told of the stunning injustice, through which “those who are lucky enough to raise bail-bond money will never get it back—even if their cases are eventually thrown out of court, or if they are tried and found innocent!”

Donnie went on in measured written tones, drawing a link between the system's flaws and economic hardships.

Because of the overzealousness or stupidity or (and let's be honest) bigotry of some law enforcement officers, countless numbers of poor persons have to pawn their belongings, sell their cars or borrow money from finance companies (another high-interest bill they can't afford) to regain their freedom so that they can, hopefully, stay gainfully employed, only to be found not guilty as charged when their cases come up in court.… The cities should be made to reimburse those falsely accused.… Then and only then would the cities' taxpayers exert pressure at the upper levels, forcing policemen to use better judgment than to arrest people on ridiculous Catch-22 charges that they know will be thrown out of court. Black people are aware of this abuse, for a disproportionate number of blacks suffer from it constantly. But black people are powerless to remedy the situation.… Make no mistake about it, there's big money in the bail bond business, and most of it is being made at the expense of poor blacks.

Printed at the end of the statement:—Donald Goines, 1973. From somewhere between the editing staff and Donnie came the label “An Angry Preface,” which was used as a heading for the introduction. It had the ring of white folks' translation. Whether Donnie or an editor was responsible, the heading took away from the thoughtfulness of the short essay. In actuality, Donnie's tone revealed no anger of any kind. It was a simply stated yet well-argued position that reflected careful analysis, not emotion. Rare indeed, though, was the occasion when a black man or woman could speak boldly in condemnation of some condition that affected people of color and not be accused of anger, no matter how calm he or she really was. Perhaps ironically, calmness and composure were major attributes in the man Donnie created as the main character for
White Man's Justice, Black Man's Grief.
Fitting with the routine he developed, he had sketched out Chester's composite, along with the composites of the other men he would encounter during his extended stay in Detroit's Wayne County Jail:

Chester Hines—Tall, slim, brown-skinned, in his early thirties, doing time for possession of pistol, 3–5 years; Willie Brown—Twenty-four years old, short, black and husky, doing time for B-E … gets out before Chester's time is up; Charles Williams—Willie's rap partner … Tall build, husky, plays on football team, boxes inside prison; Albert Jones—Doing life in prison for killing girlfriend, brown-complexioned, fat, eats all the time, teacher in the prison's school; Billy Johnson—23 years old, short, black with large gut from eating prison meals … been in prison since he was 17 …