The Hand That Won Chicago
So, I’m
driving north on LaSalle St. and I’m thirsty. I pull into one of those
drive-thru, fast food joints along any street in Chicago.
“Wecometoshekrrrsmyhepyou,” assaulted
me through the loudspeaker at an ear-splitting volume.
“A medium, half diet, half regular Coke,
please,” I shouted into the speaker. I have this notion that if I cut the Coke
with Diet Coke, I won't blow up like a balloon. Is this true? I don't know.
I pulled around the semi-circle and
spotted a car next to the pick-up window—a Lexus I think. As soon as I pulled up,
I knew something was going on. Three or four female employees were hanging, up
to their waists, out of the window, arms extended, screaming and pushing each
other out of the way.
“Oh, please, can I touch your hand
again?”
“Will you sign this paper, oh,
p-l-e-e-e-s-e. Comeon.”
More pushing, shoving, giggling and
screaming. I'm directly behind the car now and totally fascinated by the
theater on the other side of my windshield.
Suddenly, to my left, a
stern-looking woman, arms folded angrily across her considerable bosom, began
to shout, “Mebee he's gonna give you
a job, huh! If you wanna keep yours, you better stop hangin' out dat
window!”
I don't recall ever
seeing anyone ignored quite so completely.
I looked at the car ahead of me and
saw a black leather-jacketed arm unfold out the window, each finger at least
six inches long, beautiful, smooth brown skin. That hand allowed itself to be
touched, mauled, caressed. A piece of paper was shoved into that hand and it
disappeared into the window. A moment later it appeared again, delivering the
piece of paper to a swooning girl, who promptly clutched it to her bosom.
The stern-looking woman returned,
looking particularly threatening now. “Git back inside and git to work if ya'll
know what's good for ya!” she shouted, hands on her hips now.
Again, that hand appeared; fingers
slowly unfolding, languishing out of the car window, allowing itself to be touched
and adored some more.
A young woman came out of the back
door of the restaurant and started screaming something at the stern-looking
woman, totally unmoved by her threatening look.
I lowered my window and asked,
“Who's in the car?”
“Scotty Pippen, girl, don't you
know?”
“Get outta here,” I said, trying to
sound hip.
“You better know it!”
I had only had three encounters with
celebrity in my lifetime. A Woody Allen sighting on 44th & 8th
Ave. in Manhattan way back when he was still just a radical, low-budget movie
maker. A glimpse of Soupy Sales on 6th Ave. after he had been thrown off the
air for being too “suggestive” on his afternoon children's program. A nice
discussion with Roger Ebert in Whole Foods about a review he had done years ago.
So, what should I do with this opportunity?
I'm not a big basketball fan, but I
know a star when I see one. Even I
knew that the Bulls had won a three-peat in ‘91, ‘92, & ‘93, led to victory
by the troika of Michael Jordon, Scottie Pippin and coach Phil Jackson. It was
all Chicagoans could talk about, prancing around like peacocks, basking in the
glory of their Hall of Famer gods. And,
here he was, one of the big three, right in front of me, unable to drive away since
the girls hadn't given him his order yet.
I could get out of my car and shake
his hand too, maybe even get his autograph. But I decided that seeing him up
close would somehow take the fun out of it. Seeing his hand was enough; quite
impressive even a car-length away.
One of the screaming, giggling young
women handed him a box of French fries. It was over. They had no excuse to keep
him there any longer.
By now most of the women, and some of
the men, had come out of the restaurant looking longingly as the car pulled away.
Even the stern-looking woman had uncrossed her arms, a hint of a smile on her
lips.
I pulled up to the window; a man and
a woman stood inside, laughing. “What was your order, ma'am?” they asked.
“I don't think anyone even took my
order!” I said, and we all laughed together.
The spectacle the women had created
continued inside the restaurant, screaming, laughing and high-fiving each
other, not one of them doing a speck of work. I suspected that that visit to
their fast-food drive-thru would be the topic of discussion for weeks to come.
As for me, that hand is indelibly
imprinted on my memory. That hand told the whole story. Now I understand why
that single hand can hold a basketball with such ease.
