Which Way to Midway?

From time to time over the past few years, I have played the part of taxi for friends going to Midway. It's a nice, easy drive, and at an hour and a half each way, I don't mind it too much. In fact, I quite enjoy seeing the skyline as I pass over the crest of the Skyway and seeing the people in the city as I drive through the different neighborhoods down Garfield Ave, and then having a nice relaxing hour and a half to myself on the way back (once I get out of traffic, of course).

My trips so far have been without incident. Little did I realize when I agreed to drive Hannahbeth that she and I attract incidents.

It started well enough. We bought a near full tank of gas for a (these days) measly forty dollars. Then, I asked ChaCha for directions to Midway--which became very frustrating due to the 160 character limit on the responses they send. I followed them to Garfield Ave, and then turned a direction I saw fit. Now, I'll have you understand that while driving somewhere unfamiliar, I need nearly constant affirmation that I'm going the correct way, such as route signs every couple blocks, or in this case, airport signs--which were conspicuously absent down the few miles I drove before deciding to take a gamble and take a turn in the wrong direction. After another two miles, I asked a man in a gas station how to get to Midway. He said, 'just turn right here on 57th.'
Mind you, the street he pointed to was not 57th.
And yet, I believed him. For about three blocks.
Then I took a chance on a gut instinct and took a turn that got us back to Garfield and found us the way to Midway.

Now, once at Midway, Hannahbeth told me to drop her off at the United Airlines gate. We drove the whole row and couldn't find it. Were we wiser in the way of airports, we would have known that this might be a bad omen. Alas, we are not. She got out of the car and said she would find it once inside, and then bade me farewell, and I drove off.
Ten minutes later, my phone began to sing, 'I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier.' Hannahbeth was calling! And she was calling with a strange question.
'What's the code for Midway Airport?'
'..I'm not sure. Why?'
'My ticket says ORD. Is that O'Hare?'
'...'

Uh oh.

We discuss what she shall do, now that I'm unable to turn back for her. She says she'll try to catch a bus, or something of that nature, and if not, she'll just cancel her flight and take the South Shore back. I say that sounds like a plan, and we hang up.

Fastforward five minutes. I've just merged onto the Stevenson Expressway, and I'm in the far right lane. I see a sign that says 'Skyway to Indiana: Left Lane.' I proceed to navigate my way through the packed lanes so I may not be completely cut off from my exit. I merge one lane over. Excellent. One lane to go. I divide my attention between the traffic in the lane to the left the car directly before me driven by a man named William. Unfortunately for me, while I'm watching what might be an opening in the next lane, traffic in my lane slows down, and I bump into William's car going a few miles per hour faster than he was.

My nerves shoot through me. I see the small bit of damage done to his bumper and hope that this is nothing like the last minor fender bender I was in, in which the man was incredibly overreactive, to the point of asking to be carried off in a stretcher.

We pull over, and I ask him if he's alright. 'I..don't know. You did hit me.' He asks what happens, I explain, and tell him I'll give him my information. I give him my insurance card and registration, and he writes it down in a small notebook. Meanwhile, he's asking me things about me, where I'm from, if I go to college, etc. He then writes down his information for me--all without calling the police to check the situation, which is a refreshing change for me.

After we exchange information, he says to me:
I'm going to be honest with you. I'm a little worried, because I had whiplash a few years ago, and I have to be honest, I don't feel very well right now. But if I feel alright tomorrow, I'm not going to bring the insurance into it. Because that (points to his bumper), that's Mickey Mouse. I'm still going to have my guy look at it, but if it's just a hundred, two hundred dollars worth of damage, I'm not going to bother with insurance, because it will screw you over, and it's a pain in the butt for me. And I'm not out to rip anybody off. You're a young guy; you're in college, you're trying to get home, so I'm not going to bother with any of that right now.

I thank him for being so kind, and briefly explain my prior experience with stretcherguy. He says again he doesn't want to rip me off. He puts his hand on my shoulder and tells me to have a great day and to be careful. As I'm getting into my car, he tells me that the number on the paper he gave me is his cell phone.

I get into my car and drive away, thanking God for William, and that not everyone in the world is a jerk.


A few miles later, I call Hannahbeth explaining what happened. She then tells me that she can't get to O'Hare, so she's cancelling her flight. Several miles later, she calls to tell me she's staying with our dear Chelsea Henion, our fellow Cool Counselor at Brown City. I don't remember if I told her, but I was a little jealous.

They then text messaged me, with much sass.
Then at church yesterday, Hannahbeth's parents said,
'You know Hannah's staying with Chelsea?
How's that for a scary thought. Those two together?

Sometimes, I rethink introducing them.
Not really.