The South of Michigan

        Detroit. James Jameson didn’t need a metaphor to describe how he felt about Detroit. The city’s name carried a connotation that said it all. That’s why he chose his latest novel to be set here. The city itself was a metaphor; for something that was happening on a grander scale across the nation. It was the perfect setting for his literary masterpiece. He just never thought that the citizens of Detroit would embrace such a novel. Didn’t they realize he was mocking them? And since when did people in Detroit read literature?

        Now, as he trampled through the sidewalk’s dirty snow, he felt trapped in this rust belt city. Where were the trains? The buses? The taxis? Any transportation to get him to the airport; to take him away from this godforsaken city? He regretted coming in the first place. But that was part of the job, wasn’t it? To travel to your audience, to read your words aloud for their simple ears, to convince them that your story is worth their hard earned pay? But why did he choose Detroit? Why not the South of France? And now, what the hell was this?

         James stared at the bar in disbelief. The Motown Tavern. But it couldn’t be. He was always meticulously careful not to use real establishments in his stories. But even the sign on the window was the same: “If the Doors Unlocked, we’re Open.” Son of a bitch, he thought, they stole this straight out of my book. This meant they were using his ideas for their profit, which surely meant a lawsuit. He pushed the door. It was unlocked.

            “Whatchya drink?” the bartender asked.

            “Excuse me?” James eyes widened.

            “This is a bar. People come here to drink booze. What kinda booze you want?”

            It couldn’t be. Could it? The bartender looked exactly like the main character in his novel, right down to the suspenders and sideburns. He even talked the same. “Is this a joke?” James asked.

            “Is what a joke?”

            James half laughed to himself. “Tell me, what’s your name?”

            “Names Martin, friends call me Chops. Who’s askin’?”

            “All right,” James said, so everyone in the room could hear. “Where are the cameras?”

            “Cameras? Watchya talkin’ ‘bout, cameras?”

            “Now, you listen here,” James pointed at the man behind the bar. “I don’t want to be on some idiotic reality television show…”

            “Television show? What da hell you talkin’ ‘bout?”

            “Listen, we both know who I am.”

            “Oh yeah. And who’s that?”

            “James Jameson. The Author. I created your character.”

            “My character?” The bartender yelled. “Now you better watch your…”

            “Hey!” A voice echoed from the end of the bar. “Both of you, quiet down.” The young, handsome man looked at James. “What did you say your name was?”

            “James Jameson.”

            “That’s impossible.”

            “And why is that?”

            “Because James Jameson is a character I created for a short story; an author, in Detroit for a book reading…”