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“Paint is Thicker than the Bloods - How I Saved Inter City Lives through my Art” – By Ray Rum
Chapter Five – The Meeting
I could hear the humming noise of traffic and the faint sounds of sirens as I stared down the hall looking for unit number eleven on the ninth floor of the Byrne Tower in Cabrini Green. My eyes were struck by the contrast of colors of the iridescent green cinder block walls and the cold grey concrete hallway floor. My still snow covered boots squeaked like a dry fingernail on a chalkboard as I walked down the dim corridor. There was an eclectic aroma of garlic, urine and chlorine that almost burned my nasal passage as I struggled for breath after the nine story stair climb to what was to be my meeting with the resident advisory team. The thick hallway air was an unpleasant olfactory bouillabaisse with a bitter and debilitating aftertaste.
My knock on the hollow door echoed through the hall, creating a noise that caused four doors down the corridor to open in apparent curiosity. The doors closed as quickly as they opened in a uniformed choreography that seemed incongruent to the chaotic surroundings of the most dangerous housing project in Chicago.
The grey door opened and the sliver of the darkened hallway became flush with light pouring through out of unit eleven. The four bare light bulbs on the ceiling in the center of the unit worked to form a minimalist chandelier that brightly illuminated the room. I cleared my raw throat and introduced myself in the most congenial tone I could muster, “Good evening, I am Ray Rum from the Mayor’s office and I am here to talk to you about the new CHA art program, it is my genuine pleasure to be here “ I extended to my hand to the smallish woman that looked to be in her late 50’s that had opened the door. She had close cropped short dark hair, large dark brown bloodshot eyes and a broad and pleasant smile. She was wearing a light powder blue dress that looked more appropriate for a summer Sunday in church than a bitter December evening. She introduced herself as Lydia Marie and extended her delicate hand and invited me into the unit. My eyes quickly darted across the room in an attempt to take in the surroundings as I had been taught in my years of military training. The advise relayed years earlier by Sergeant Lafette during my early days with the French Foreign Legion “Access, process, access again and prepare to react.. only if necessary “ rattled through my brain in a thick French accent. I observed the small room and counted four large men in addition to Lydia Marie. Two of the men were in their late teens and the other two seemed to be about a decade older. All the men were over 6 feet tall and well north of 250 pounds. There was a shiny 35 caliber handgun in the middle of the small wooden table in the corner of the room and a sawed off Smith and Wessen shotgun propped up next to the frosted metal lined windows on the far wall. I was armed only with twenty year old memories of mercenary service and, more importantly, and un-abiding enthusiasm for art.”
“A must read for anyone charged with considering the impact of the arts on our society” Ted Kennedy “Ray Rum is an example of the good mercenaries can do to make this world a better place” Oliver North |
“Paint is Thicker than the Bloods - How I Saved Inter City Lives through my Art” – By Ray Rum Chapter Five – The Meeting
I could hear the humming noise of traffic and the faint sounds of sirens as I stared down the hall looking for unit number eleven on the ninth floor of the Byrne Tower in Cabrini Green. My eyes were struck by the contrast of colors of the iridescent green cinder block walls and the cold grey concrete hallway floor. My still snow covered boots squeaked like a dry fingernail on a chalkboard as I walked down the dim corridor. There was an eclectic aroma of garlic, urine and chlorine that almost burned my nasal passage as I struggled for breath after the nine story stair climb to what was to be my meeting with the resident advisory team. The thick hallway air was an unpleasant olfactory bouillabaisse with a bitter and debilitating aftertaste.
My knock on the hollow door echoed through the hall, creating a noise that caused four doors down the corridor to open in apparent curiosity. The doors closed as quickly as they opened in a uniformed choreography that seemed incongruent to the chaotic surroundings of the most dangerous housing project in Chicago.
The grey door opened and the sliver of the darkened hallway became flush with light pouring through out of unit eleven. The four bare light bulbs on the ceiling in the center of the unit worked to form a minimalist chandelier that brightly illuminated the room. I cleared my raw throat and introduced myself in the most congenial tone I could muster, “Good evening, I am Ray Rum from the Mayor’s office and I am here to talk to you about the new CHA art program, it is my genuine pleasure to be here “ I extended to my hand to the smallish woman that looked to be in her late 50’s that had opened the door. She had close cropped short dark hair, large dark brown bloodshot eyes and a broad and pleasant smile. She was wearing a light powder blue dress that looked more appropriate for a summer Sunday in church than a bitter December evening. She introduced herself as Lydia Marie and extended her delicate hand and invited me into the unit. My eyes quickly darted across the room in an attempt to take in the surroundings as I had been taught in my years of military training. The advise relayed years earlier by Sergeant Lafette during my early days with the French Foreign Legion “Access, process, access again and prepare to react.. only if necessary “ rattled through my brain in a thick French accent. I observed the small room and counted four large men in addition to Lydia Marie. Two of the men were in their late teens and the other two seemed to be about a decade older. All the men were over 6 feet tall and well north of 250 pounds. There was a shiny 35 caliber handgun in the middle of the small wooden table in the corner of the room and a sawed off Smith and Wessen shotgun propped up next to the frosted metal lined windows on the far wall. I was armed only with twenty year old memories of mercenary service and, more importantly, and un-abiding enthusiasm for art.”
