Fourteen years ago, I put ketchup on a hotdog, and now I’m on death row in a supermax prison.
Chicago. The mid-aughts. I found myself wandering through streets while traveling on business. My wife Mary would always say, “People don’t want to buy brooms from a door-to-door salesman in 2008,” but I disagree. Holding out your pen, looking a man in the eye, and waiting for them to sign on the dotted line is a high that I have never been able to match. And likewise, in 8–12 weeks, when that man receives their broom, He will be reborn in the flex of our patented bristles. When he gathers that first bit of refuse, when he feels that stiff flex, no matter where I am, I feel a chill, and we are connected in that moment. Door-to-door broom salesman. There is fucking nothing like it.
I digress. I do that sometimes now, sitting here in my 4x8 cell, staring into the darkness, looking around at all the possible piles of dirt that could be swept. Back on that regrettable day, I had worked up quite the appetite, moving in and out of the revolving doors peddling my wares. Michigan Avenue was wet and cold, and between the rain hitting the ground and the sea of people around me, I felt overwhelmed. Not used to the big city hustle and bustle, I ducked into Traditional Ray’s Traditional Hotdogs. I could have chosen anywhere, any hole in the wall to fill my gullet, but a true mark for family values of…
