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By Root 333 0

Side of New York. But, alas, the Flint River was not the East River, and a few other things were missing, too. Nonetheless, a half-dozen restaurants struggled to stay open inside the food court that was empty for most of the day. My next-door neighbor from childhood worked behind the counter of the bakery in Windmill Place. I would go in there and she would warm up a chocolate croissant for me. The Chinese take-out place a few counters down made a mean moo goo gai pan, and that was what I was enjoying a few minutes before noon on Thursday, November 6, 1986, when, on the overhead TV screen in this desolate food court, the regularly scheduled program was interrupted by a live feed from the world headquarters of the General Motors Corporation in Detroit. Roger B. Smith, the CEO of General Motors, was standing before a podium, and he had an important announcement to make:

“Today, we are announcing the closing of eleven of our older plants. We will eliminate nearly thirty thousand jobs, with the largest cuts happening at our Flint facilities, where nearly ten thousand of these thirty thousand jobs will be eliminated.”

I looked at this man on the TV screen, and I thought, You motherfucking cocksucking son of a bitch. You’re a fucking terrorist. You’re going to kill another ten thousand jobs here after you’ve already killed twenty thousand others in Flint? Really? REALLY?

I had forgotten about my moo goo gai pan. I calmed down and thought: I need to do something. Now. What could I do? I had an unemployment check in my pocket. I had a high school degree. I had about a quarter tank of gas in the car.

And then the idea came to me.

I walked over to the one working pay phone and called my friend Ben Hamper. Ben was the autoworker/writer I had put on the cover of Mother Jones before they fired me.

“Did you just see Roger Smith on TV?” I asked.

“Yeah. More of the same,” Ben replied.

“I can’t take this anymore. I have to do something. I’m going to make a movie.”

“A movie?” Ben asked, a bit surprised. “You mean like a home video or something like we did for your going-away party?”

“No. A real movie. A documentary. About how they’ve fucking destroyed Flint.”

“Why not just write a story about it somewhere, like in a magazine or something? I dunno.”

“I’m done with magazines and newspapers. I need a break. They don’t want me anyway. A movie seems better.”

“But how you gonna make a movie when you don’t know how to make a movie?”

“I’ve seen a lot of movies.”

“Yes, you’ve seen a lot of movies.”

“I’ve seen everything.”

“No one will dispute that. I don’t know anyone who goes to as many movies as you. What’d you see last night?”

“Jumpin’ Jack Flash. No, wait—that was the night before. It was Soul Man.”

“Jesus, why do you waste your time on such crap?”

“You’re missing the point. I think I’ve seen enough movies to figure out how to make one. And I can make this movie. And I know someone who can help me.”

My next call was to Kevin Rafferty.

“I’d like to come to New York and talk to you about something.”

“Can’t you just tell me over the phone?”

“No, I want to do it in person. You around this week?”

“Sure.”

“OK. I can be in the city by tomorrow night.”

I borrowed my parents’ car and drove the twelve hours to New York. I met Kevin in a bar in Greenwich Village.

“I want to make a movie,” I said to him straight up. “I want to make a documentary on Flint and GM. But I don’t know the first thing about how to do that. And I was wondering if you could help me.”

Asking Kevin Rafferty for help was a crazy move; yes, he was an award-winning documentary filmmaker, but he was clearly broke. It was like me asking a homeless guy to dig a quarter out of his pocket cause I wanted a latte. I had no idea what Kevin’s situation was financially, but suffice it to say that I looked like I was dressed by Saks Fifth Avenue compared to Kevin. With him it was always the same torn black T-shirt, the same plaid shirt over it, the same worn-out loafers. Making documentaries made no one any money, even if you made great ones like Kevin. His mop of red