Update 9/11/2012 – Still working out kinks on restructuring the website and refocusing our strategy for the story. I’ll post an update before we pull the site down to do the redesign.  - Brett

We’re closing in on the 50% mark with the book. While I’m excited about how far we’ve come, and how much we will continue to grow as we tell Andy and Linda’s story, I’m deeply reflective on our journey as well.

I’ve been pushing hard on this project since our birth in January of 2011. The last 12-14 weeks have seen a lot of progress on the book. We’ve made a ton of wonderful connections, many of which have offered their input and insights on the project without any expectation in return – for all of this, I’m eternally grateful.

Over the past week, I’ve really dug deep to try and figure out where we need to go next. As I’ve always said, the book will be finished no matter what. I launched this site with the intention of building something bigger than just a book. At times, we’ve moved quite clearly in that direction, at others we’ve hugged the fence a little too much.

I’m seeing a narrative that was always intended to grow around the story start to look too much like a blog about storytelling, reinvention and ilk. More important, I’m seeing a narrative voice that’s far too much “me” and not enough “them,” i.e. Andy and Linda.

This was never intended to be a blog. It was, however, very much intended to be an experiment in storytelling that used a blog as the channel/vehicle through which we shared this story. So, it’s time for us to rethink the approach, starting with how we can bring Andy and Linda more into the foreground.

what’s next for i am convicted (and beyond)

I will be shutting down the blog while we rebuild and restructure the project a bit. During that timeframe, I will continue working on chapters 6 and 7, so the writing will not stop. I will also continue posting on Twitter and the Facebook page as interesting conversations find me.

Here’s where we are at:

1. iamconvicted.com will be getting a makeover, aimed at restructuring the site to be leaner, meaner and more narrative driven.
2. The overall strategy will be revisited, including how we can involve Andy and Linda’s voice more, the content we produce around the narrative and how we approach building our community.
3. We’re also working on getting YouthTurns, Andy and Linda’s organization devoted to fighting generational incarceration, back on its feet and running. The site needs some TLC, so we’ll be focusing some energy their first.
4. My wife and I are in the process of building and launching a publishing company, and the plan is to publish i am convicted ourselves. Obviously, plans can change, but for now it’s all go in this direction. We’re also working on a children’s book for launch, so lots of excitement on that front.

sometimes … you just need to slow down and breathe

When you’re in it to the teeth, hustling for something you truly believe in, the bigger picture can sometimes get lost in the fray. I said to my wife last night that I’m probably too close right now, so this decision was born from a need to really step back and take a long, hard look.

I’ve taken small vacations from the project (I believe twice) since launch, so we’re due for a true refresh. This is not a break for us, it’s a window of opportunity to sit down and really blueprint out how we want this project to reach for the finish line.

I will have more details in the coming days as to how the redesign process will work, but likely we will have to put up a landing page for a bit while we restructure elements behind the scenes. While I’m fully committed to transparency, I’m not sure redesigning a site out in the open is the best/most efficient methodology.

But who knows … never count any options as off the table.

Much love and success for us all, friends. Thank you again for your energy, for your voice, and for your support.

I’m also deeply reflective on our journey here at i am convicted so far. It’s been up and down, rewarding as much as it is frustrating at times, since day one.

I have a longer post in the works for tomorrow – all on where this project needs to go in the immediate future. I won’t give away more than this, other than to say – it’s time to look deeper.

So, today, a gentle reminder on how we are capable of transforming in spite of the challenges or the cost of doing so. If Andy and Linda can, any of us can.

I repurposed an old post from an old blog that has long been buried in the dark recesses of internet caching as well as my mind.

Why today?

Because sometimes, we just need to remember how to walk:

There will be days when your thoughts are everything but fluid, a viscous mess that sinks to your core like a lead brick.

There will be days when life spitballs your emotions in every direction – effortlessly.

There will be days when complication knifes its way in and stretches and pulls you to breaking.

There will be days when taking action feels like stacking blocks in a drunken stupor.

There will be days … when running away feels like the best and only option.

What do you do?

You walk.

You slow down and ask “why” before movement takes you or another distraction fish hooks you.

You trade blocks for just one, and focus on that.

Slow, surely, with awareness and presence – you start building, one block at a time.

Not all blocks, not the outcome, not the final goal – just one.

 When our stories are woven together within the tapestry of life, we can begin to see the whole and complete story of who we are, examine our humanity and identify our place in the universe.

- Andy Dixon and Linda Polk.

I couldn’t agree more – could you?

Feel free to share or print this as you see fit. It does not belong to me, but to all of us.

This is part of a Friday series of short posts dubbed Today. I’ll be aiming the crosshairs at three areas: The writing process, connecting with our humanity, and redemption/reinvention (all significant threads in our story)

Today, you are forgiving:

Of your failures

Of your shortcomings

Of your self doubt and waning confidence

Of other’s behaviors that do or do not affect you

To be human is to be severely flawed and dysfunctional. It’s not a knock on you or I – it’s just a simple truth that we all share.

On the surface, it seems that we are complex creatures. I would argue that 99.9% of our complexities comes from within. That is, they are self manufactured.

Humans can create an equal amount of joy as they can madness. Unhappy and happy live along the very same spectrum, two brothers or sisters of the same DNA, yet inexplicably separated at birth by human hands.

You have everything you need (internally) to be happy right now. You have everything you need (also internally) to be unhappy right now.

So you can make a choice, today.

Forgive and be grateful for what you have and what is – and violently ignore what isn’t (and what you can’t control).

Or be unforgiving, ungrateful and unhappy with what you don’t have – and violent embrace what isn’t.

These particular parts of Andy’s story are the most difficult for me to write. It’s often uncomfortable to hold a front row seat to someone else’s movie. I can only imagine how difficult it is for Andy to relive these memories through the words in this book.

But moments like this – where tragedy strikes most true – are particularly difficult to shake passed. You don’t have to dig much beyond our cultural fascination with reality TV to find examples of humans taking great pleasure in sitting on the shoulder of a stranger’s misery.

Then again, I’ve never been particularly fond of reality TV anyways – so perhaps I’m even further removed, less desensitized to other people’s pain.

So when it’s someone I know, someone I care for – it can be especially uncomfortable.

But I hold myself to sharing what I write, because I believe that every element of this story can be beacon of light for those who need it most.

Now that I’ve adequately rambled (it’s okay if you’re wondering what the hell I’m talking about – I do), I suppose I should share the excerpt that I’m referring to.

From Chapter 6 of i am convicted:

As the car pulled to a stop in the drive, Pop came out of the front door.

“I’m going take him for a ride Bea,” he said. “Do me a favor and get the rest of his stuff together.”

She nodded, the sounds of her muffled sobs trailing her into the house.

With the top down on the convertible, the warmth of the Miami sun flooded in from every angle, warming the leather beneath his legs and at his back. The steady push of the wind smelled of ocean water. Miami was as alive and colorful as always, from street corner to the kaleidoscopes of smells and sounds of the cafes, both dotted with people marinating in the energy of it all.

Pop was quiet, very quiet in fact. Andy was grateful to be relieved of Aunt Bea’s awkward melancholy, so after a time he broke the quiet with talk of home, taking the familiar presence of Pop as an opportunity to launch back into the 101 reasons why he was excited to be heading back to Paris.

The rain came sudden and heavy. Pop forced her to the side of the road and rushed to the put the top up. They continued to circle, and the sounds of the rain pounding the top forced Andy to kick up the volume as he machine gunned questions at his unusually stoic father.

“Calm down son, I’ve got something to tell you,” Pop finally interrupted.

Pop chewed his bottom lip, a habit that cropped up in times of great strain or deepest of thought.

“We’re going back, but it ain’t for fun.”

He paused then, and the rain intensified, a stampede of tiny feet tap dancing across the vinyl of the convertible top.

“Your sister Diane got killed today Andy. We are going back to bury her.”

I’ve often expressed to both Andy and Linda how difficult it is for me to imagine 27 years behind the razor wire – to imagine how any human could deal with being locked in cage, or to face the much darker realities that are perpetually present throughout our prison system.

But Andy sees it much differently. When I’ve asked him – “how did you deal with it day to day – with all that you were exposed to and went through?” – his answer has been consistent every time:

It’s amazing what you can deal with when you have to.

Andy accepted prison into his life decades ago. It says much of the strength of his character – but it says far more about the capacity for humans to deal with almost anything – if we only recognize this in ourselves.

the two monks

I love the story of the two zen monks. There are hundreds of variations and interpretations of this, but the story essentially goes:

Two zen monks were returning to the monastery one evening.

It had recently rained, leaving large puddles in the road. At one point, they spotted a beautiful young woman standing at the roadside, unable to walk across due to a puddle of water in her path (I’m assuming a very large puddle, but do play along).

Without hesitation, the older of the two monks walked over and lifted the woman her over his shoulder. He walked her across the road, placing her gently on her feet, then continued on in silence.

Several hours later, the elder monk noticed that his younger counterpart was deep in contemplation.

“Is something wrong, you seem upset?” the elder monk asked.

“As monks, we are not permitted a woman, so why would you then carry that woman on your shoulders?” the younger monk replied.

The elder monk simply smiled and replied, “I left the woman at the road a long time ago. However, you seem to be carrying her still.”

when we define by external standards

Imagine for a moment that you’ve been sentenced to prison for life without parole. Imagine knowing that your life would exist entirely under the constant, watchful eyes of razor wire. Imagine falling asleep each night to the sounds of grown men sobbing in the wake of their emotional pain resurfacing on constant repeat. Imagine knowing that this was your immediate and future hell, until the cold hands of death came calling.

Now imagine choosing to define your identity by the emotional pain fueled by guilt of past actions you cannot change, no matter how much the wanting and desire to do so haunts you.

For years – until that moment on the prison yard when he decided to opt out – false perceptions fed by his past haunted Andy. He bought into the message that he had been given as a child: “You are but a bad boy born of a bad seed.”

He played the role given, until he made the conscious choice to define the present – not past or the unknown of the future – by his own standards, and no one else’s.

we all have a choice to leave it behind

Part of the human condition is an innate ability to carry and cling to our emotional baggage. Most of us do so on autopilot, without knowing how much we allow our identity to be defined by what we cannot change

Our past grievances become future anxieties. Our future anxieties continue to feed this reserve tank of emotional excess, most of which is uhealthy negative energy that eats away at our capacity for seeking and enacting change.

It affects our relationships, our coping mechanisms and our ability to see opportunity among the noise and distractions that life inevtibaly tosses our way.

But it doesn’t have to.

One of the most powerful lessons I’ve learned by Andy’s example is this:

Nothing defines us – whether past, present or future – unless we allow it to define us.

The only question is whether you will be convicted of defining – or of being defined.

This call to action was one of the first pieces of the puzzle as we built and launched i am convicted in June 2011. It was a benchmark for our project that I kept coming back to – and still do.

It represents the core conviction behind our story: Be convicted of action, not just belief.

For a full resolution PDF that you can download and print – go here.

This is part of a Friday series of short posts dubbed Today. I’ll be aiming the crosshairs at three areas: The writing process, connecting with our humanity, and redemption/reinvention (all significant threads in our story)

Today, we need your voice.

Your story, your art, your words – these could be the pebble that starts the landslide.

But you’re scared, and I get it.

I understand the struggle, quite intimately in fact.

I deal with the face of this beast and its many tentacles on a daily basis. In fact, I can’t remember the last day that I didn’t struggle in some way, shape or fashion with the creative process.

Being a writer at times can be damn isolating, damn frustrating and damn painful.

So you we have two choices:

1. Embrace the struggle as part of us and our writing process – and just write
2. Keep running away from our work every time the struggle knifes its way in

To be honest, option two sounds exhausting.

So today, you are not the prey. You are not victim. You are not bait for the beast. You are certainly not just any writer.

Today, you are the voice that the world might just need.

So stop waiting – and start writing.

We’re mostly focused on the streets of Uptown Chicago in this chapter. Andy is cresting adolescence. His father is neck deep in it with the law. The call of crime has Andy back and forth between dark and light.

If you can imagine a life (for a boy not even 12) that rests permanently on a seesaw – one side is learning and living the ways of a hustler on the streets, the other a quieter existence in a home of deep spiritual and religious guidance – then you can imagine the life of young Andy Dixon.

Cold jabs of wind pushed up from Lake Michigan. Andy’s hands were tucked deep into his jacket pockets as he paced back and forth to keep warm. Ricky and Eddy were goggling at a pair of hookers stumbling into the jaws of the Wilson Hotel, the sight no less a header turner tonight than any other.

Wilson Avenue was a hub of extracurricular activity well into the darkest hours before dawn, pimps parading their wares up and down Wilson and Hazel. By Uptown’s standards of chaos, the Wilson Hotel was a perfect spot to soak in Chicago’s streets.

Andy spotted the preacher on the corner of Wilson and Broadway. He had showed up almost nightly for the last two weekends, his old van rattling and creaking noisily as it slowed to park. Dressed in his Sunday best, he was 50-ish with a thinning tuft of hair that rose to attention with the help of the wind.

Back and forth he strolled, from sidewalk to street corner, ocassionally leaning into traffic as his deep baritone boomed the good word at passing bodies and cars alike.

A bit bored with watching drunk whores stumble into the hotel for the hundredth time, Andy caught Ricky and Eddy’s attention with a quick whistle, nodding at the old preacher.

This would mark the 4th or 5th time they had struck up a conversation with the strange man. No pleasantries had been formally exchanged. The boys would banter back and forth as the grizzled preacher offered his sermon in whatever fashion he saw fit for service.

Tonight in particular, the preacher was more animated than usual, his eyes wide and face stretched.

“Why don’t you boys get in the van with me here and I’ll show you some stuff that’ll blow your mind,” he said, pointing to the beatup blue at his back.

Being equally curious and fearless, the boys climbed into the van one by one and grabbed seats near the back.

The old man climbed and slid the door shut behind him. He squatted near the door and began shuffling through a pile of magazines, stacking several in the middle between them and gesturing with an arm for the boys to dive in.

At 11-12 years old, the cliff’s edge of male adolescence a few toe lengths away, they dove in with a hunger that only magazines bursting with nude women could suffice.

The preacher watched the boys with a mix of anticipation and hunger painted across his face.

“Does that excite you boys, to look at those pretty girls in those magazines?” he asked.

The boys all nodded and laughed, then dove right back in. The preacher’s smile stretched even wider. He leaned forward, dry washing his hands, his skin spotted with patches of crimson and beads of sweat.

“Have you boys ever had your dicks sucked?”

The sharp crinkle of pages turning, the intake of breath, the slow, long whistles at a particularly eye-catching spread were crushed and replaced with a silence that could be cut into chunks.

“What the hell is he talking about?” Ricky shot back at the other two. The telepathic exchange between friends was a lightning flash, here and gone in a nod before the preacher could catch on.

All 3 boys launched from their seats as one, a stampede of fists, elbows and feet hammering on the preacher with everything they had to give.

Andy and Ricky reached into coat pockets and slid into brass knuckles, bruising and breaking skin as they made contact. Eddy extracted a leather flat stick from his pocket and laid into the old man, each blow landing with a sickening thud.

The preacher cried “momma” several times and begged the boys for reprieve, for which none came.

After a few minutes, the beating stopped. They emptied his pockets, wiping away blood on his pants and shirt. Ricky grabbed the wad of cash and a stack of nudie mags before diving head first into the waiting arms of Wilson Avenue, his two comrades following closely on a dead run.

Andy spent much of his time on the streets of Chicago with this core crew. There was cock-eyed Ricky, Andy’s right-hand man, the court jester known for his severe lack of adequate social cues or tact. Andy was convinced that Ricky’s mad, crooked eye came from an unfortunate meeting at birth between eyeball and the doctor’s thumb.

Ricky’s brother Eddy followed, then Eddy number two, ceremoniously dubbed Eddilyn due to his long locks of feminine-grade hair and unfortunate placement somewhere in the middle of the pecking order. There was Dale, Antonio, Philipe, Carolyn and Ramona, the remainder of the fellowship as it was, Hillbilly Heaven’s brightest stars running like wild buck.

All together, Hillybilly’s kids numbered somewhere between 50-60 kids running and wreaking havoc together. These families were all interconnected and sewn together in the fabric of the hustle, so the kids stuck close to each other, the neighborhood an electric mixture of steady movement and excitement night and day.

For those kids that got noticed, the excitement grew exponentially.

The youth of Hillbilly Heaven were mostly ignorant of the process for being “noticed,” only passively aware that the wiser folk were watching the pride’s cubs like old lions, observing waves of potential hustlers stumbling out of the blocks.

Watchful from their barber chairs and social clubs, faces veiled by a wall of cigar and cigarette smoke, they’d turn to one other and state with an air of causal conversation:

“That boy there, so and so’s nephew I think. You know, that mean little shit – he’s got potential. We’ll see what he does.”

The men kept the machine well oiled and running strong, waiting for the next crop of hustlers to step up to the big top, while Hillbilly’s youth missiled through avenues and alleyways in a mad rush.

Andy’s day generally started around 9am. He’d crawl out of bed and head for the kitchen, snatching a bowl from the cupboard and filling it to the top with corn flakes and a thick layer of granulated sugar.

He’d plop down next to the record player, the familiar scratch and hiss welcoming the likes of Bing Crosby, Sinatra, Dean Martin, and The Platters. Records eventually segued to an episode of Bozo the Clown, where Andy particularly loved the game featuring kids tossing balls into buckets for prizes.

He would emulate, strategically placing a smattering of buckets and kitchenware around the apartment. Here, Andy of Uptown was replaced by Andy the Unshakeable, his mind slipping to a place where he ran roughshot over any and all who dared challenge his prowess at the bucket toss. Bozo would gasp and guffaw as a Young Andy ran rough-shot over the other kids in the competition.

Other mornings, Andy would pay homage to NASA’s great space race, flipping a dining room chair over and commandeering his very own rocket ship. Firing all thrusters into the fibers of carpet at his back, he’d aim for a spot in the ceiling as his exit point, leaving the outside world and its machinations for the thrill of a great unknown.

When the restlessness of his mind bullied its way in, the call of the streets would return, and he would grab his chance to escape into Uptown’s abundance.

Pop would still be in bed after dragging drunk and tired bones in from the bars only a few hours before. Andy relied on stealth to ease outside to the front stoop, where he’d wait patiently for his crew to make their exits out of respective boroughs and join him.

Out they would would scurry, silent and ant-like, Ricky and Eddy first, then Ramona and Carolyn, followed closely by a few other stragglers who frequented the same haunts. They would occupy that stoop for a few hours and chat about records and neighborhood gossip until the armpit of Uptown started closing its jaws and the heat became oppressive enough to drive them to their feet.

They would trek down to Broadway and Sheridan for a shoplifting spree at the Goldblatts or Sears department stores. Infamous for netting belts, shirts, pants and all kinds of retail goodies, the pot would be divvied up among those that actively participated.

Celebration after a bit of hard hustling came in a mandatory jaunt down to Jake’s, a local hot dog stand where the Italian beef sandwich and milkshakes were a staple for hearty, youthful appetites ignited by a few hours of petty crime.

Most of the kids from Uptown and respective haunts devoted their afternoons to the park near the lake, hundreds of them in trickling in for a bit of reprieve from the heat that radiated off blacktop like dragon’s breath.

At the park, king of the hill reigned supreme. Andy and his crew had a distinct physical advantage, so they spent a few hours manhandling any poor sap that managed to push passed the tumbling bodies to reach the top.

Planting their flag of physical superiority with pride, the crest of their kingdom was aptly dubbed “Our Hill,” which equated to official ownership by Uptown standards.

The remainder of time at the park seesawed between the fine art of lounging and a few pickup football or baseball games when the numbers measured up.

As the sun’s coloring turned to deeper hues of orange and purples and the tree lines began to fade into the jungle at their backs, the crew would head to the waters of Lake Michigan. “The Rocks,” massive Graffiti bathed concrete blocks originally placed at the lake shore to serve as breakers, were prime suspects for duels of neighborhood honor.

While couples were busy scattering blankets and quilts for picnics, Andy and kids from all over lept from concrete platforms into the ice cold water, fear of the lake’s retribution numbed by an honorable dog or double dog dare that would be refused at the greatest risk of reputation.

As night settled in, the kids shuffled in packs to their respective stomping grounds where they’d re-occupy stoops and corners until the witching hour came to call.

For Andy’s crew, this was the sweet spot. They scurried into surrounding industrial pockets to scout factory buildings for air conditioning units that could be easily removed.

They’d wiggle and worm into back offices looking for the prized cigar box where big bosses would stash their petty cash. Grizzled vets who had long ago graduated to the riskier takes had cautioned the young and inexperienced of the trappings and false promises of greed.

“Always take half and no more so that the manager don’t move his stash,” they’d offer.

The big boss would return the next morning to find a hole in his coffers and suspect that one of his less loyal factory workers had a case of sticky fingers, or that he’d somehow miscounted in his haste to shut down the night before.

Andy and crew would hit several factories in similar fashion, never taking more than half from the cash box, before heading back to the neighborhood to con a ride from one of the older hustlers.

Moving into the depths of the city, the targets shifted from industrial to apartment and office buildings, small but capable hands snatching dictaphones, typewriters and whatever they could grab and hock later for cash.

As 2am rolled in and bar flies were sent stumbling, the kids would scatter like roaches in anticipiation of a well stimulated parent putting wheels down after a long night at the bars. As long as Andy arrived home before Pop fell through the front door with a skank on his arm, his world remained right-side up.

Andy would crawl into bed and pretend to sleep, just long enough for the bestial sounds of Pop and his play toy to shift to the sounds of liquor-induced slumber. Then, Andy would carefully find his way back to the streets. While the prime night hours were mostly occupied by the dedicated few sinners of age and their practiced hands, the after hours in Hillbilly Heaven were carried in the arms of its youth.

A loud whistling system was the staple for easy and relatively inconspicuous communication, pulling crew members one by one from their sleepy hollows. Three quick blasts meant “danger” or “come quick.” Two relayed “come on down.” One long whistle translated to “hey I’m out here, stick your damn head out of the window.”

Andy would find his way to the edge of Ricky’s stoop, whistling repeatedly up at the window above where faded paint peeled and reached for the streets below.

Sticking his head halfway out of the open window, Ricky would shout, “what are you doing,” the ever absent social tact erasing any chance that this was delivered quietly.

“I’m not doing nothing, come on down,” Andy would respond with a bit more care for volume.

The exchange was generally met with a steady line of curses from neighboring windows, a head on collision that started with “Why don’t you shut up down there, I’m trying to get some goddamn sleep,” and ended with Andy and Ricky laying it out straight.

“Fuck you, you old bleeding bitch,” they’d return in unison, to which the stream of cursing inevitably intensified, trailing the inseparable two as they moved like ghosts, deeper into the shadowed streets.

This was the Tao of Andy and Hillbilly’s under aged. It was often messy, kids playing in a dangerously chaotic sandbox, apt to drink too deeply at times from the nectar of the hustle.

But Chicago had her way of sticking to the guts and heart. It was more than just crime in the city; it was this constant energy that permeated everything you could touch, see, hear, smell.

It was a stillness beneath the wall of noise, a presence that most weren’t attuned to – except for Andy. This stillness breathed life into the fondest memories:

Of winters and snow-covered streets, he and his crew tightly gripping the bumpers of a passing car or city bus to ski a few blocks along the tire tracks before letting go in a tumble of limbs and spray of slush.

Of summers where they would jump on the back of city buses and hang on to the small billboards at its rear with a grip that only death itself could hope to break. These buses, the very same used by opportunistic street ski bunnies in the dead of winter, were also the very same that Andy and his would toss eggs at from building tops, only shifting their aim occasionally to pelt unsuspecting people passing by.

Nothing was as sacred as the need for constant movement. Even the most routine of days could be broken in and reshaped by those who grabbed hold of opportunities instead of playing from the backdrop.

An abandoned second-story apartment could easily change from a place to hang and people watch to a new, favorite past time that involved pissing on someone’s head as they casually strolled by on the sidewalk below.

Shotgun Moe of Hillbilly Heaven and safe house infamy experienced this hot sting of fluids once himself. After machine gunnings threats of every color and creed up at the boys above, he approached Pop as diplomatically as a man covered in piss could manage.

“You know I love that boy of yours like he’s my own,” he said. “But goddammit, I can’t have him pissing out a window on me.”

Pop rocketed up to Andy and crew’s hiding spot in a thousand-degree fury, the unsuspecting youth still laughing hysterically at the fat Irishman they’d just coated in urine. Pop he shot through the door of the abandoned apartment like the devil was close behind, wasting no time for explanation as he beat the remaining piss out of the boys, ending their prank with a swift and strong hand.

Hillbilly Heaven operated under this code of shared community parenting. Though not always enough direct supervision, there was always plenty of tough love to go around.

Adults shared the responsibility of keeping Hillbilly’s youth in line. You screwed up, you got whooped right then, plain as day. You’d spend the remainder of the day bruised and dreading the return home of parent and the assured, second helping of punishment.

Eddy experienced this first hand after making the mistake of insulting his newly christened girlfriend Ramona.

Like most boys that lacked a beginner’s manual on the ways of relationships and the beautiful complications of women, our young lover said something of the callous and inappropriate variety, enough to send a sobbing Ramona in a shotgun blast through her front door. Seconds passed before her irate mother rocketed from their home and into the street in a fit of rage.

“Which one?” she asked repeatedly.

A hysterically sobbing Ramona couldn’t form a sentence between the hiccups, so her mother proceeded to beat the hell out of the whole group for good measure. Unfortunately for Andy, who had literally walked up just as Ramona’s mother had launched into action, received his fare share of licks with no sympathies for his bystander status.

This was the way of things in Hillbilly, with no exceptions, unless a hand was laid by someone not from the neighborhood. Then, and only then, would there be blood to pay in buckets. If you were an outsider messing with someone from Hillbilly Heaven, especially one of its prized youth, you’d be leprechaun lucky to make it out alive.

There was no such neighborhood code when it came to acquring new opportunities for business. Local businesses changed hands and ownership most often by someone eliminating any and all options to refuse the exchange, even at the cost of pushing a neighbor out the door and into the streets.

Ascension into the ranks of business owner came easiest to those willing to tush hog – a good cop, bad cop methodology that the brassiest-balled hustlers used to coax businesses into relinquishing control for pennies on the dollar. Wool-pulling in a true Southern Irish tradition, it was employed with a razor-sharpened street savvy, the kind of hard nudge needed to put owners out the door quick and quiet.

It started by offering the finest protection money could buy. Tush hoggers promised to keep windows from being broken, shipments from being stolen and credit from drying up. But mostly, tush hoggers protected the bar owners from the tush hoggers, who perpetuated the need for protection by breaking the windows, stealing bits of merchandise here and there, and generally causing headache after headache – all safely behind the scenes.

Then, came the waiting. As the right mix of desperation and fatigue settled in, the tush hogger would stroll into their proudly worked and worn neighborhood establishment with a confident gait and approach the owner with a simple counter offer:

We pay you a nominal sum for your hard work and due diligence, and you give us the keys to the business today, no questions asked.

Refusals were an expected part of the process, so the men would lay it out straight and concrete, no room for misinterpretation of intentions.

It was either out on your own two feet or in a body bag, the latter reserved for necessity only. But the undercurrent was always the same: Move now with a little green in your pockets, or stand to lose much more.

It was with no greater feat of fortune or luck that landed Pop and his two best friends, Charles and Roy, the three hottest joints in Uptown Chicago – The Hideaway, Roy’s Pub and Jack’s, each within a stone’s throw of each other on one of Uptown’s busiest blocks.

Into the deep of each night, bodies stumbled in and out of these hot spots, all kinds of folk fueled by hard liquid courage, a hive of activity that elicited a line of paddy wagons up and down Montrose on a nightly basis.

The Hideaway in particular was a place to be, the very same inconspicuous haunt that hugged the underbelly of the Mitchell Hotel.

Entering, you’d tap dance down a small set of aged steps, the bar area lowered a few below the front door. A huge fireplace sat near the back, any sounds of a fire likely drowned by the clinking of glass and raucous laughter.

It was the perfect working-class concoction – good drink and better music for washing troubles, soaking tired bones and welcoming temporary amnesia.

Andy was a regular presence, making his rounds almost nightly to shine shoes at each of the three bars, making his rounds until the wee hours and leaving with fistfuls of cash. He’d waltz in through the crowd of bodies with a shoebox tucked under his arm, a wiry and cocky little lad with a penchant for hustling shines when wearing tennis shoes would normally mean exempt from service.

The taste of success was honey sweet, a young and restless hustler-in-training propping foot after foot on chair edges as he worked furiously to get paid. He’d pull $15-$20 at each bar on a given night, taking in around $60 a day.

As Andy grew a few years in age and stature, he’d slide over to Jack’s from time to time and bug Charles for free booze, finagling a case of beer more than once by telling a tall tale, usually involving Pop sending him over for an emergency order that never quite made it back to the Hideaway. Months later Pop would interrogate Andy, the conversation going something like:

“Charles says I owe him for a goddamn case of beer, and I believe the motherfucker is lying to me.”

“Must be lying Pop, I didn’t get a case of beer from him,” Andy would slyly respond. “You know how that drunk son of a bitch is, he’s liable to tell you anything.”

All shenanigans aside, Roy, Charles and Pop were like brothers from DNA somehow disconnected in the wild. Each a breed of dangerous in his own right, few dared to stick limb into cage with misguided intent, especially if they valued its return.

Of the reputable men who called Uptown Chicago home, these were three who stood confidently near the head of a strong pack, religiously devoted to each other and the call of the hustle.

Chicago gave much, and gave it freely, but there was a way of things that drove men and boys alike from one end to the next with this kind of gasoline soaked care. There were rules among chaos, enough that a wrong step one direction or another found flame.

The days would pass at the tip of a lightning strike, come and gone in small flashes, slow and repetitive motion from the streets to Uptown’s many rooftops.

From the top looking out, Andy saw nothing but a canopy of concrete and brick, fingertips crowding for space to breathe and sky to reach. He would test how far he could push her, jumping from roof to roof, a 20-story plunge hugging the rubber of his sneaker bottoms as he traveled across the expanse.

He climbed – up and down fire escapes, building to building, the hot summer air thick as mud with the smell of Budweiser, street dogs and the calls of the concrete wild below.

He moved from building top to the next, soaking in every sound. The car horns, the whistle and squeal of worn brake pads, the rhythmic tap of shoe heel to concrete, the call from newspaper stand to sidewalk folk as they passed.

Finally, the distant whisper of Lake Michigan called to him, and he would turn course to greet her.

This was her, his city.

In these moments when the curtain lifted – a rarest of views beyond the hunger of Uptown’s hustlers, the bending of cars, or shoplifting department stores and office buildings – there was a light and beauty to Andy’s Chicago that few understood.

This is part of a Friday series of short posts dubbed Today. I’ll be aiming the crosshairs at three areas: The writing process, connecting with our humanity, and redemption/reinvention (all significant threads in our story)

Today, you are not buying into the hype.

The publishing hype, that is.

We’re talking about the kind of hype that screams “Amazon is a monstrous, competition squashing wart on the publishing industry’s ass.”

A select few legacy publishers controlled the market and the industry food chain long before Amazon and digital publishing arrived.

Without the balance of power and the opportunities that the Kindle (and ilk) offers indie authors – the book market would rest entirely in the laps of these select few, as it did for decades prior.

To be fair, there is much value to be found and respected in the traditional publishing industry. For every argument that calls for a traditional publisher’s demise, there is an equal and harmonious counter argument that we need these same publishers to help our our idea market remain viable for years to come.

It’s not an “either or.” It’s not mutually exclusive. The hype speaks to both extremes – and we don’t need extremes in publishing, we need stories.

You see, this publishing hype is often an overreaction – on both sides of the coin. I’ve been more than guilty of buying into myself at times. For that, I take full responsibility for the words I am not creating instead of fiery diatribes on behalf of the indie writer’s struggles.

What do we really need to happen in publishing?

To stop talking, debating and shouting into our megaphones, and to start making more books.

So the next time you hear, read or are approached with this kind of publishing hype …

Turn back to your work. Give the world something fresh, something brilliant, something only you can give.

Today, you are not this hype. You are the writer that transcends this hype.