Pit Stop

Dear Mrs Higgins,

Returning from a grueling, important, high powered, business trip, a good friend of mine picked me up from the airport.

We are driving through a part of Chicago I’d rather see from the plane I just got off of, and my friend, who I’ll call Frank (although his real name is Tim) hits a pothole that could easily house a medium sized cow.

Frank/Tim, displaying excellent driving prowess, is able to keep the car from rolling over. But sure enough, in a couple hundred yards we are riding on 3 inflated and one flat.

Due to all the work, and stress, and exertion of my previous trip, I’ve taken a bit of a cold. And this lovely Chicago evening its about 10 with the wind howling.

When I remarked that I had a AAA card, Frank/Tim/Dip@#$% said he didn’t think they would come to this part of town, and if they did, they wouldn‘t be in a hurry.

Lovely.

So while I’m just delighted with Tim, he seems pretty giddy about driving a couple hours of Friday rush hour traffic to save me a few bucks on parking - with his 7 month old daughter in the back seat.

No worries. A couple sharp mechanics would get that tire changed in no time.

What that has to do with Tim and me, I’m not sure.

Fortunately, we had no one bother us. Not sure who would attack a pudgy, red faced, swearing, sneezing, coughing, lug wrench wielding maniac, but you just never know. (and Tim did have my back)

Only later, after dropping Tim and the baby at his house did I wonder how that road could have gotten that bad.

As I approached a toll booth on the expressway home, it became clearer. Gov Blago’s name appears in big letters on each toll road sign. I could almost picture his hand grabbing the change as I tossed it in the basket.

Anyway Mrs Higgins, watch out when you are driving. I know your eyes aren’t what they used to be.

Mike


Dear Mike,

Next time you go on a “high powered business” trip, take your briefcase, not your skis.

And what in the world are you doin draggin that young daddy and his baby out to fetch your butt from the airport. I’ve seen that baby. She is as beautiful as her mama, and has no business riding through Chicago winter streets to save you a couple bucks.

Its called a taxi.

And if you are having trouble pulling a couple twenties out of your pocket, just close your eyes and pretend you’re back buying $6 beers at a ski lodge.

And my eyes are just fine. I just don’t drive after dark anymore.

You’ll get there too boy, maybe.

Mrs Higgins