Can you take me to the Palmer House in Chicago?
I didn’t really look at the destination when I picked up a businessman in a $5,000 suit in downtown LA. He said “I need to get to the Palmer House.”
I said, “In Chicago??!!” I remembered staying there on a college road trip back in the day.
“Yes.”
I said, “It’s on Wabash, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Listen, I can’t drive you in my Uber car to Chicago. Let’s go over to LAX and you can jump on the first plane out.”
“No can do,” he said. “I have a terrible fear of flying. Just drive me. I’ll tip you in the app.”
“Never say, ‘I’ll tip you in the app.’ How about I take you over to Union Station and you get a train?”
“Can’t do it. The reason I have to get to Chicago is I am giving an important speech at a conference opening tomorrow. Just take me, OK?”
“Bro, I mean, sir, it’s going to cost you a fortune.”
He took out a big roll of money, mafia-style, and peeled off $2,000. “See, I learned not to say I’ll tip in the app — here’s 2 solid racks — $2,000 — upfront, and more to come.”
“Sold!” I said and we headed east down the 10 freeway, over the desert south of Lake Havasu, through Phoenix and past the San Francisco Peaks near Flagstaff, through Albuquerque and Amarillo, left at Oklahoma City, northeast through St. Louis and on up to Chicago. Got off at Stoney Island, went up to 57th, over to Lake Shore Drive, down Roosevelt, up to Michigan Ave, down to Ida B. Wells Drive, and then to Wabash Ave. Took a right and pulled up to the Palmer House.
My new friend peeled off 25 more Benjamins and handed them to me. “Thanks, brother, not all heroes wear capes.”
I watched as he ran in the hotel just as a beautiful woman in a designer houndstooth blazer and black, pleated-front pants came out of the same door.
I heard my Uber app dinging and I knew it was her. She stood outside my window and said, “Can you take me to Los Angeles? I need to get to Burbank tomorrow.”
“I said, “Sorry, ma’am, I don’t go to the Valley.”
