Lary Bloom
Writer, Editor, Teacher
The Bloom Blog
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Sunday, March 12, 2006
Wilma
Wilma held her cigaret out of the driver's window, as if she anticipated objections by her riders. None of us were in what might be called a tolerant state. We were among the many thousands every year who find themselves stranded at Chicago's O'Hare: too late for connections, facing a night in a less than luxurious motel, collecting for our respective memoirs yet another episode of outrage.But Wilma turned out to be our therapist. We managed to squeeze her entire life story from her with the intense question, "How are you?" But, you know, it was swell, and boy did we need it. She told us, on the way to the roach house, about her father, a lifelong fan of the Chicago Cubs, who still takes her to many games every years -- she mourns the loss of Sammy Sosa, juiced or not.. She adores the Cubs and Chicago, even when the weather is onerous, even when, as the night before, she had to work until 1 in the morning because the airport was a mess. People like me had avoided sage advice: Never fly through Chicago. And they were paying the price.
By the time Wilma dropped us off, we were, much to our great dismay, in a cheery mood.
Posted by:Lary Bloom at 8:01 AM
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