I left Traverse City last Monday, heading south towards the Indiana border and up around to Chicago. I took M-37 all the way down, through Oswego, Newaygo and Baldwin (whoa, tough livin!) until it met up with the 96 which will take you down and around Gary connecting you to 80,90 and 94. Quite a hub. The traffic picks up substantially as you enter “Michiana.” …that famous “no mans land” around the border area. Michiana is a dirty place. Thugs, fireworks, trailers, sadness, grit and cheap gas.

My time in Chicago was pretty interesting. I was there to meet up with friends from my tenure at the Minneapolis College of Art and Design. A reunion of sorts.

Highlights include:
01. Being in the city and the enormity of it all. The place is teeming with life. At times it seemed too big. Something to think about. Minneapolis is maybe a 1/8 of Chicago. That’s good. Portland maybe a 1/16. Portland is just right.
02. The amazing wealth of original “old-timey” signs adorning bars, flower shops and restaurants around the city. Masterpieces of homegrown typography. City treasures on par with skyscrapers, parks and landmarks.
03. Skyscrapers.
04. Being with everyone. Good folks with colorful idiosyncrasies. Lots of laughs. Lots of drama.
05. Seeing PJ, Ryno, Kaja, Adam, Andy, Berling, Zoe and Sarah.
06. Cheering in the new year at the local honky tonk bar. What a crowd.

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Bullshit: The phenomena known as “Group Dynamics.” Basically, whenever you arrange a bunch of fuckers (who all enjoy each other’s company) together “to have a good time” and things go awry. Fistfights, bouts of heavy-lipped pouting, mania, general chiding, etc. One minute everything is cool and the next, someone is fighting with their girlfriend or exchanging fisticuffs in the park. And god forbid someone doesn’t approve of the group plan—people are put on the spot, people ridiculed, etc. Fuck that shit. At some point, you got wise up and break away� or you get sucked in to the trouble. I almost strayed. Thanks to PJ for holding it all together.

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There was a lot of tough talk about fistfights and shit going down. Little did we know the prophetic nature of this banter…

——— THE ACCOUNT OF THE EVENTS THAT UNFOLDED ———-

The altercation was avoidable.

All it took was one “Fuck You” delivered with force and stern diction.

We were getting off the EL train, hiking back to PJ’s flat to regroup and ready ourselves for the big night out. The sidewalk was tight, just enough room for two people coming from opposite directions to pass comfortably.

Our group had eight people in tow. The three gals were up ahead, I was carrying up the rear, and behind me, in the darkness, was the caboose: Andy. We’re truckin’ back and proceeded to pass a couple of black kids. One was stout and thick. A good 50 pounds on me. The smaller was about 5’11”, 160 pounds.

Just as they passed me, somewhere in between Andy and I, the smaller of the two yelled.

The outburst had a certain direction to it, which hit Andy perfectly from his vantage. I remember it sort of jarring me, and I was ahead of them. Andy was on his cellphone, and it shook him up a bit.

I hear some rambling, and turn around to catch Andy, rather heroically-stanced saying, “Fuck You.”

That was the big mistake.

Now the kids, either surprised or satisfied from the rise they provoked had a reason to double back. They were looking for trouble. They came up on us, and our group sort of clustered and began to chat with the guys, offering sentiments along the lines of, “Hey man, everything is cool.”

They wouldn’t hear any of it, mumbling to each other, “Let’s fuck him up.” “That motherfucker should watch his mouth.” And so on.

I remember looking over at Andy and seeing him take off his glasses, and how his accelerated breathing had a certain power to it.

Then Andy stopped and faced them. They came up. Andy said something about how they yelled in his ear and how he didn’t appreciate it or something.

That’s when the bigger of the two took a punch.

Andy took it well, obviously ready for it. It bounced off and Andy went for the smaller of the two. They wrestled and Andy got off a couple quick roundabouts, stunning the kid. That’s when the larger guy reached over the writhing mess and tried to strike. Andy would have none of it. He handled both of the guys, at one point, in between wallops saying, “Uh guys, a little help would be nice.”

(The sound of flesh and bone hitting flesh and bone is a nauseating sound. Take yer hand, make a fist, and forcefully hit the lower palm of your opposite hand, right above where the wrist meets the hand. Hear that “meaty thud?” That’s the sound of a man getting pummeled. No “slaps” or “pows” or “explosive movie sounds”…just meat and bone hitting meat and bone. Ugly.)

I remember it sounding funny and sad. And this was as the fight was going down. Fuckin’ insane.

I remember how Andy sounded, grunting with each punch� a set of squealing, hoarse, guttural noises. It was very primal.

I wanted nothing to do with any of it. All I could think of was, the next thing we’d be seeing was a gun waving around, or pointed in Andy’s face. You never know.

We broke up the fighters. The smaller of the two had tears streamin’ down his face. Andy landed a couple good ones on him and he was shook up. I pushed him back gently, saying, “Hey man, you alright?” and “Take it easy, now.”

The larger guy scurried back into their courtyard towards some bushes. Visions of a gun or knife or rock flashed in my head.

Words were exchanged and we started back.

Basically, Andy shamed them. He handled both of them. Dangerous.

Thankfully, Andy came out unscathed, except for a small nick on his forehead, prob’ly from a jacket button or something.

It shouldn’t have happened. That is all there is to it. Whether or not they were fucking with us is beside the point. We were in their neighborhood. We were out of our element and that is no time for regulating of any sort.

It could have gotten really ugly. Thank god it didn’t. Andy just doesn’t take any shit, and that can be dangerous at times.

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