Continued from last week.
We pulled out of the apartment parking deck in downtown Chicago in search of the Marriott in Schaumburg, a village some 30 miles to the west. I was to rendezvous there with my ticket broker Craig for the exchange of cash for four 2012 Ryder Cup International Pavilion passes.
BIL (brother-in-law) was driving. He was also navigating, which meant he was monitoring the GPS in the car, also known as Tom-Tom, as well as the MapQuest app on his iPad and another back up destination locator on his iPhone.
“Can I help you with any of this?” I asked, as we passed under the L.
“You can stick Tom-Tom to the windshield and then program the address in Schaumburg,” BIL instructed.
Some 40 minutes later, we had somehow arrived without causing any fiery crashes along the way. BIL pulled into the parking lot of the Marriott. It was crunch time. Would Craig, my ticket-seller, actually show? Would he have valid passes for me? Or had I been scammed, which would result in BIL and his air-traffic controller dashboard driving off alone, leaving me stranded, with slim hope for safe return to the city with the big shoulders?
BIL was skeptical, as was I, but I acted like it was a sure thing, for both our sakes. I opened the door and told him I’d be right back.
Seller Craig answered his phone, which was huge in the scheme of things. He told me to go left after I got into the lobby and walk toward the Starbucks. He said he would meet me in the bar.
I walked into the lobby and looked left. There was the Starbucks, which at least proved I was in the right hotel. I walked to the bar, which was, as you might expect in a place a hundred miles or so from a football stadium, empty at 8:25 on a Saturday morning. However, had it been nearer to my neck of the woods, say Fayetteville, Knoxville, Tuscaloosa, or Nashville, the Zing Zing and Minute Maid would have already been flowing for hours.
I stood there about 20 seconds before the doubts crept in.
Another 20 seconds and I began to pace, and after a full minute, I couldn’t believe there wasn’t a bartender nearby.
I stared down every man that came within 30 feet of me. All of them quickly diverted their gaze, probably thinking I was nuts. They had no idea; I was a Hog fan after all.
The elevators to my right opened and a short man wearing a Bears T-shirt got off and walked toward me. I stared as he looked back and came closer, at last saying my name: “Jay?”
“Craig?”
“Yes.”
My prayers to Old Tom Morris had been answered.
We shook hands and he handed me the envelope, which I opened, and saw the four passes.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Craig.”
You, too,” he said as he turned back toward the elevators.
Outside, I lit a Marlboro and walked up to the open window of the car where BIL sat. He was looking at his iPad, likely rerouting us back downtown with a plan to shave three minutes off our time.
I couldn’t resist the opportunity as he looked at me with questioning eyes.
“Well?” he said.
“Well, he does have them but the guy he got them from hasn’t delivered them yet, so we’ll have to come back later this afternoon.”
The psychotic look in BIL’s eyes made me quickly confess, and I handed him the envelope.
“How do we know these are real?” he asked.
I just sighed and got in the car.