We had just finished the tour—Hitsville, U.S.A.—that unassuming white house on West Grand Boulevard where the walls still hum with harmonies. Stevie. Smokey. Marvin. Diana. The ghosts were thick in the air, sweet and sad like old vinyl static.
My brother and I didn’t say much as we walked back toward the truck. There’s something about Motown that doesn’t let you talk right away. It gets in your head. The basslines settle into your bones. The stories—the real ones—stay with you longer than the melodies.
We turned a corner, cut through a side street where a vacant lot had been cleared and half-heartedly fenced off. The sun was falling fast now, painting the skyline in copper and blue.
That’s when we saw him.
At first, I thought it was one of those city art installations—too clean, too still to be real. But then he turned.
Robocop.
Just standing there at the edge of the sidewalk, where the past meets the possibility of something better. Chrome armor dulled by dusk, one hand resting casually at his side, the other clutching—of all things—a melting Vernors slush in a souvenir cup.
He looked at us. Or maybe through us.
“You visited the Motown Museum.” His voice was flat, mechanical, but not unkind.
I blinked. “Uh… yeah. Just now.”
He nodded. “Motown was classified as a Level 5 Cultural Asset in 1984. Preservation priority.”
My brother gave me a look, the kind that says Are we hallucinating this? I shrugged.
“You a fan?” I asked.
“I was programmed with the complete Motown discography. Also select cuts from Stax and Atlantic.”
“Nice,” I said. “So what’s your favorite?”
He paused. “'What’s Going On,'” he said. “Marvin Gaye. Logical structure. Ethical inquiry. Soul resonance at 98%.”
“That’s a good choice,” I nodded. “Top tier.”
“It was not a hit at first,” he said. “Even progress encounters resistance.”
That hung in the air a moment.
He turned back toward the empty lot. “There used to be a record shop here. Independent. Shut down in 2009. Replaced by nothing.”
“Maybe it’ll come back,” I offered.
“Everything comes back. Or it doesn’t. Detroit adapts.”
We stood there a second longer. My brother checked his phone. I glanced at the truck parked a block up. The lights of the city flickered into life. A kid on a bike zipped past, headphones in, probably bumping a beat made on a laptop in a bedroom just a few blocks away.
“Anyway,” I said, “we should get going.”
Robocop took a slow sip from the straw sticking out of his Vernors.
“Proceed with caution. Road construction on Trumbull Avenue. Also, avoid unlit alleys. This is still Detroit.”
We started to walk away, then I turned back.
“Hey—one more thing. You ever get tired?”
He didn’t move. But the visor tilted slightly, almost like a smile.
“Only when the music stops.”
And with that, we left him—half-man, half-machine, all Detroit—standing in the amber haze of memory and neon.
We didn’t speak until we hit the truck.
“Did that just happen?” my brother asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Or maybe it always happens. This is Detroit, after all.”