Boys From The Hood

There was a group of us, about ten guys that were tight growing into manhood in Chicago’s inner city; really the northwest side is more accurate. The city is divided into blocks and streets that run north and south with a few exceptions. Each block is in number order. So, to drop a pin point on the hood: it’s 4800 west and 1900 north (Armitage and Cicero).

Don’s Grill is where we hung out and was our base for all sorts of misdeeds. Played “My Girl” on the juke box each night, think it was F7. Smoked my first cigarette on the mailbox outside the grill. Learned my drinking ability or lack thereof starting at fourteen; we would pay a drunk to buy us booze for five dollars and proceed to drink until we passed out or got sick. Fun, right!

Our hangout

We were Greasers, circa 1968 to 1974 or so. Leather jackets, duck’s ass hair style, dickie work slacks, combat boots and expensive Italian knit shirts. We looked good. The neighborhood was heavily industrial. Factories were everywhere. Not the most pleasant environment. Local bar on every corner.

We called our hang out “The Corner.” If you were going to meet, it was at “The Corner.” I could tell stories all night of the things that happened in a five-block radius of the corner. Our group of guys were a collective bunch. We had Italians, Polish, Southern folks, Germans, Irish and mutts like me: a mixture of most of those.

Nixon was President, we all drove Chevys. We protected our neighborhood. Crazy time. Vietnam in full swing; we all wanted to go fight. Riots seemed every day. Long-haired hippies usually ran through our hood as it proved unfriendly to them.

Looking back

We all smoked cigarettes. It was a right of manhood. We worked in factories sucking in metal dust, acids, paint, plating; you name it, we breathed it in. Fixed our own cars. Did more drugs than I would care to confess.

High school graduation for those who did not get thrown out was in 1971. All our names ended in “y.” Mine was Danny. We had Ricky’s, Johnny’s, Joey, etc... a few outliers like Roger. Most ended up in the military. Vietnam was in full swing. Marines were popular, Army next, Navy not so much (kind of sissified to us).

Then drugs destroyed a lot of us. Some indeed died. A friend was murdered near Cubs Park while buying drugs. Some are in jail, some OD’d, and most of us grew up and married and started our careers. We followed our factory roots and stayed in heavy industry for the most part. Lived our lives and then we hit the fifties.

The dread of cancer

Oh the Fifties. Fifties – this is where it gets interesting. We thought we were all supermen. Then mortality and disease started to show up. The dreaded word cancer has come home to roost. A good friend of mine was the first of us to die from cancer. He had liver cancer. He went young and fast. I was next with stage T3c prostate cancer at age fifty-five. Still here at 69, but have had three relapses during the last decade-plus.

Another friend was the same story, same diagnosis (T3c prostate cancer), but his is a bit nastier than mine. He has been told a couple of years, maybe. Another had prostate cancer, not as aggressive as me, but by luck of the draw, he has had a couple of strokes. Still hanging in there. One friend was just diagnosed with bladder cancer. Heart attacks, lost three friends in the last year. Had one of those, too!

Not supermen

So, what is my point? The good ole days were good. We did all we could to earn our illnesses. Drink, smoke, eat, no exercise, and the normal stresses of life. Paying the piper now. We are not the supermen we thought we were.

Friends are still important. We get together a few times a year just to say hi and remember our friendships over time. Trying to do the right things for our health these days; still slip when we have our reunions. Things I’m grateful for are love, my wife, our kids, their kids and the chance to see them travel their road. Hope they are a little smarter than the boys from the hood.