Image by Tyrone Blackshear
WHEN THINGS CHANGED  is an urban tale of reunion, romance and mystery

ABOUT THE STORY: The year was 1992 and the death of Detroit star athlete, Randy Davis, beckoned everyone in the neighborhood to attend his funeral. What caused Randy's dramatic death?Ex-Detroiter Sheila Wayne reluctantly returned to Detroit and joined her brother, Jake, old friends and colleagues with whom she lost contact. She was reunited with a man forbidden by her mother to date. Both she and Cool Calloway had decades of failed romances behind them.  To make their relationship work, Calloway must solve a mystery from the past that blocks his moving forward and answer the question that burns within, "Where's my son?"

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     My brother, Jake, sitting next to me, was never a churchgoer.  Mama didn't demand that he go, probably because he was a boy.  Funerals were as close as he got to church.

    It was a long wait for the presiding minister, Reverend Smith, to come in and begin the service.  Eight female singers crept onto the stage in red satin robes followed by Biggie Samms, who trailed them wearing a black satin robe and black patent leather, narrow tipped shoes. He sang,"Oh Happy Day" and the choir sang along with him.
Some things about church never changed like the choir.  The women's faces were greased down and heavily made up.  Bright red and burgundy lipstick splashed across their lips.  Biggie, a local singer who had one hit gospel record, still styled his hair in a Little Richard-type pompadour.  He was a big swish from the time he was a little boy.
     Bodies swayed. Hands clapped.  Heads bobbed. Faces prairie dogged to see who was in the church.  "Amens" were shouted and feet stomped.
     It felt more like a Pentecostal concert than a funeral.
     Biggie belted out a gospel version of "The Impossible Dream."  The spectators were riveted.  Everybody clapped and swayed to the high operatic and soprano voices that sang a medley of Old Gospel hymns.

"Go tell it on the Mountain, over the hills and everywhere
Go tell it on the Mountain, that Randy's on his way."

     All eyes were fixed on the gold-trimmed closed casket perched in front with a red velvet shawl draped over it.  An eerie  feeling passed over me.  On the stage the pianist played harmoniously along with the organist.  We waited.
     An early morning call caused me to be there.  Jake was Randy's friend and felt I should know of his death and return home to share the grief.
     "Randy's dead," he heavily sighed in the phone.  It seemed every month someone from the neighborhood died.  A shooting. A terminal illness.  A drug overdose.  Away from it all in Chicago, I was at a loss to empathize.  Some of the names I couldn't remember.
     "Remember Larry Pitts?" he once asked. I didn't want to say no. I knew it would only invite criticism about how I had forgotten my past. How I had become too distanced to remember the people from the 'hood.
    "Yes," I lied.
     "He's dead.  Shot in a bar.  He was a part-time bouncer and this dude walked in causing trouble.  Larry tried to get the guy out and he pulled a gun on him."  Then the long sigh.  Silence.  Sighs again.
     "I'm depressed," he stated.
     Damn. I tumbled blindly out of bed at five a.m., tore off my gown readying to shower, pushed television buttons and scanned until I found the news.  The sports edition devoted exactly five seconds to Randy's death.

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