The Hand That Won Chicago

Copyright 2018 Anita Fontana

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 & 8^th 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.