​The bar was dim, the kind of place where the jukebox was older than most of the customers and the pool table had seen more fights than the customers too.

 

She sat alone with her pint, not looking for company, not looking for trouble. Just passing through.

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“What are you doing here on your own?” a voice asked beside her. “You waiting for someone?”

She didn’t look up. Just stared into her beer, trying to ignore him.

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“I’m not hitting on you, alright? Just... this isn’t the kind of bar most women come to alone.” A pause. “You looking to score? I can sell you something.”

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That made her lift her head and meet him in the eye.

“No. I’m traveling. Never been to Detroit before. Thought it seemed interesting.”

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The accent hit him sideways. His head tilted. “Wait—you Australian or something? Shouldn’t you be drinking a Fosters?”

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The guys at the pool table laughed, egging him on. Classic bar banter.

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“Well no,” she replied. “I’m English. And for the record, Fosters is English too. And it tastes like shit.”

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Now the laughter was aimed at him. He grimaced, embarrassed.

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“Fair enough,” he said, recovering with a grin. “Let me get you something better. Real U.S. beer. We usually chase it with a whiskey. May I oblige?” His accent slipped into a mocking blend of Aussie and British.

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She smirked. “Sure.”

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“You can handle a whiskey with your beer?”

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“Try me.”

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He flagged down the bartender, who’d been half-listening with quiet amusement. Without a word, the man placed two pints and two shots on the counter. Routine.

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“Cheers,” she said, raising the glass.

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“Cheers,” he echoed, nodding in exaggerated parody of her accent.

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“So,” he said, settling into the stool next to hers, “what brings you to the murder capital of the U.S.?”

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“Interest,” she said.

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“In what exactly?”

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“Old industry,” she replied. “I photograph abandoned buildings. The history here fascinates me—the collapse of the motor trade, how the city adapted... or didn’t.”

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His expression darkened.

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“So you’re one of them. Ruin porn tourists. Here to ogle what’s left of a city in trouble? That’s what you want? Crime and decay?” His voice had sharpened.

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He pushed away from the bar.

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“Wait,” she called, grabbing his attention. “I’m not like that. Let me explain. You made the murder capital joke, not me.”

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She gestured toward the bar. “Sit down. Next round’s on me.”

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He waited a moment, watching his friends watching him. Then slowly, he returned.

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“I’ll explain,” she said. “And I’ll beat you at pool after, if you’re up for a game.”

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“American rules,” he warned. “None of that posh British shit.”

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“Deal.”

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They clinked glasses and downed the whiskey. She slid a dollar bill across the bar—a trick she’d just learned.

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“My dad had a print shop,” she began. “Lost it when China started doing everything cheaper. Same story back home—empty factories, people forgotten. I just… want to tell their stories.”

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He stared at her, quiet for a second, then knocked back his next shot.

“You got balls coming here alone, lady.”

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He nodded toward the pool table, where his friends were cutting lines on the side. No one batted an eye. Not even the bartender.

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“Let’s talk,” he said, sniffing once, the mood shifting.

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“So,” she said, “what should I know about Detroit?”

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“I know where you’ve been. That area? Where the Packard Plant is? My mum still lives nearby. It’s not a tourist stop, lady. That neighbourhood’s got ghosts.”

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She nodded, letting him speak.

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“Used to be all white, back when black folks weren’t welcome. Then the factories shut down, white folks bailed, and we moved in. But the jobs never came back. Just the empty buildings.”

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He was Black. She was half-Caribbean. It made the conversation easier somehow.

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“Abandoned on both sides,” he said. “Not a great place to raise kids, but it’s home. No jobs, no stores—just hustles. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

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They both drank. The beer was decent. Better than Fosters.

“What do you do then?” she asked.

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“Brush Park’s coming back. Downtown too. I do what I can till it does.”

She didn’t press. He didn’t offer.

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“Do you like living here?” she asked.

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“Yeah,” he said. “People are real. No matter what the headlines say.”

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“I’ve got another week in town.” She said

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“Get on the People Mover,” he suggested. “Talk to folks. We’re alright. But maybe skip the lines with random guys in bars next time. Just in case.”

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She smiled. “Good advice.”

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They stood. She offered a high five. He didn’t hesitate.

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Because, after all, it was the States.

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Side note: This story was also adapted into a short film - I re-wrote to script format and directed it, given 48 hours with this brief:

Include two female actors, include a radio, a wink and film in a park (BIG thanks to everyone involved, including, of course, The TABB Cutting it Fine film competition guys for organising people to shoot, act and edit at short notice!).

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You can also read my post about the experience on my other site, nataleburnsdigital.com 

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You can watch it here...

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