It's a cold, hard day in the Motor City. Wind sweeps down the sidewalk, stealing away the few leaves still clinging to branches. As I follow the crowd, I see pedestrians with steaming cups of coffee -- vendors are passing them out for free, getting in a bit of advertising as they help their neighbors stay warm on this momentous day.
I'm proud to be here, but I can't help feeling like a bit of an intruder. I've never even been to Michigan before, let alone the City of Champions. Old skyscrapers tower above me, while on every street corner, the powerful frames of future buildings stretch skyward. In decades past the frames would have been steel, often poured within the city limits, but nowadays they're built of the 313's patented alloy. It has a fancy technical name, but I like the local color: Blue Rock.
Ahead of me is the stage. The crowds surrounding it are thick and rowdy, but I don't mind; the air tastes like a carnival, and I'm glad to be a part of it. The scent of gyros mixes with espresso, reminding me that I skipped breakfast, but I'm not about to give up such a good view. The show should start any minute. Only a fool would miss this.
When a parade of cars cruises around the corner, the crowd explodes. I clap until my hands sting, watching as the procession parks stage-side. Every one of those cars was manufactured in the revitalized Detroit motor plants. Their engines are one hundred percent Blue Rock -- the roughest, toughest, lightest, cheapest metal on the face of the Earth. But we're not here to celebrate metal, and as the hero of the day mounts the stage, the crowds goes quiet.
Any other mayor would start a speech with, "Ladies and gentlemen," or, "My fellow Americans," or some tired old cliche like that. But this isn't any other mayor, and this isn't any other city. This is Hockeytown, and here, Mayor Jordan Pollock shouts a greeting like he's giving the order to charge: "Let me hear it, Detroit!"
Detroit lets him hear it. I doubt I'll be able to hear anything for a week, but I add my own shouts to the city's voice. Pollock stands there on the stage, arms crossed, nodding. He lets us go on for ninety seconds before holding up both hands for quiet.
"I'm the mayor," he announces, as if anyone needed reminding. "Maybe I'll be dead tomorrow, but I'm the mayor today. That means I've got a job to do. Right now, that job is to thank all of you for making this the best goddamn city in America."
We have to cheer again. Pollock lets us get on with it.
When we're finished, Pollock says, "In the last six years, we've turned this city around. Through hard work, creativity and determination, we've brought Detroit back from the brink of becoming a memory. But it wasn't just hard work, and it wasn't just creativity or determination. It wasn't our cars, or our sports teams, or even the Blue Rock. None of those things would have been possible without the change to our lives that also changed our hearts."
I can feel it coming. I'm not the only one -- the crowd is shifting, getting excited. Everyone knows what's next, and we're all ready for it.
"Detroit had the guts to get rid of the one thing that was holding us back!" shouts Pollock. "The thing that no other city -- no other country on the planet -- was brave enough to throw away. But we did it, and now we are the best there is! That's why today, in front of you all, I'm signing into law the unofficial policy that has brought us such unmatched prosperity!"
All around me, I hear the sound of snaps and zippers. The entire crowd is one giant spring, coiled and ready to release.
"On this day," the man booms, reaching for his own zipper, "I, Jordan Pollock -- your mayor -- do hereby declare Detroit, Michigan to be America's first Pants-Free City!"
No crowd ever cheered like ours. As one, we rip off our pants, trousers, shorts, jeans, cargos, capris, and overalls and hurl them toward the unfinished Blue Rock skyscrapers. I see Pollock's pinstripes join a flapping swarm of denim, cotton, corduroy and suede. The air is frosty, but I don't care. The mayor is right -- when Detroit got rid of pants, they got rid of restraint. Everything became new. A city without pants, we learned, is a city without rules.
It's a city where anything is possible.
I watch my Levis land on a curb, and give them a final salute. I'm just visiting Detroit for the weekend, but…
…I like their style.
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