In the distance, dogs barked. Mothers screamed for their older kids as the street lights anticipated night. Moments later, the 45-Lee bus revved.  As I sat on my porch, I saw dilapidated homes, aged cars on bricks, and endless feet of telephone wires draped from pole to pole like Christmas lights.  I smelled barbeque from two yards over, and I tasted the soul of the city. 

The next generation of kids under me played in front of watchful eyes. Local homeboys washed their cars, grandmammas pruned bushes, and the mailman, always late, talked to everyone about sports.  Farther down the street, the corner store on Union and Lillian attracted the usuals: crap shooters losing their weekly checks, winos sipping from bottles cleverly concealed by paper bags, and junkies begging for “bus fare” to buy their next fix.  The pimps did their thing to get a dollar, the pushers maintained the essentials of life, and the playas hustled and solved problems. Ambulance sirens reminded everyone to be on guard.  

This was my world.  

As a young man walking the concrete blocks of the North Side of St. Louis, I came into contact with many characters. The stories they told about their lives differed, as did the acts they performed in the name of survival.  Each soul inevitably landed in the war zone I called my community.

Out of all the truths that plagued our neighborhood, a pinprick of hope pierced the gloom. A Cool Ass Dude, The Father of Coolness. Frank was his name. He was the Godfather of words and wisdom, providing advice and answers to all who sought his knowledge. He became anything you needed: a brother to lean on, a momentary best friend to crack jokes with, a cousin to confide in, or a conscience.  Frank was the conduit between the good life and criminal element of North St Louis.  He wasn’t a hero, nor a vigilante, but a beacon of hope for young men like me.