Chicago Blues: Slippin’ Out

(Continued from Chicago Blues: Buddy Struts His Stuff)

Featured Photo: “Hotel View at Night, S. Wabash Ave.”  Chicago, Illinois—2025

A financial misadventure? Perhaps you recall a minor point I mentioned earlier: Omar the bartender was holding my credit card to keep our tab open for the night. Well, that turned out to be a problem. Here’s what happened.

Buddy’s show ended at 11:00 and the bright house lights came on. My friend and I started putting on our coats as the crowd slowly made their way toward the exit. Omar—who’d served our first beers and remained attentive to our needs throughout the evening—promptly set the bill down in front of me. I opened the soft-leatherette folder and looked at the total, then did a quick calculation to be sure it was correct. Let’s see: two jambalayas and six beers between us, plus a couple of lines for whatever city and state sales taxes apply in Chicago. It seemed about right, maybe a bit too much. But I didn’t bother to dig deeper.

I grabbed the pen and started to add a generous tip before signing the bill. But my brows furrowed when I noticed the last four digits of the credit card on the restaurant’s copy. I pulled the plastic card from the case Omar had handed me. My friend noticed my hesitation and asked if something was wrong. “Yes,” I answered. “This is not my credit card!” Panic-stricken, I stood and walked toward the side of the curved bar where the wait staff was already lined up to close-out the checks from the patrons who’d been seated at the tables. It took me a minute to get Omar’s attention. He came over and I told him about the mix-up. He said he’d be right back with my card and the updated bill, but he was gone several minutes.

I saw him flipping through the remaining cards in the small file box behind the bar and began to worry that someone else had been given my card by mistake. He finally pulled out the card, re-ran the bill, and returned the leatherette folder to me. My eyes grew wider and I pushed it back to him. “No, this is still not my card!”

He returned to the file box while my mind started racing. If I had someone else’s card, who had mine? What if their bill was a lot bigger than ours? What if they were already charging first-class airline tickets to Paris and luxury clothes for a free trip on my dime? What if…? I should alert my bank and cancel the credit card!
 
Omar came back with the soft case again and asked, “Is this the right card?” I opened the folder and replied, “Yes! Thank you. I’m glad you found it.” He smiled, “Sorry about the confusion. It was busy tonight. Hope you have a good evening.” I was so relieved! I grabbed my card, calculated a 30% tip—for the good service and for finding my card!—then signed the bill, folded up my copy, and rejoined my friend, saying, “It’s all OK now.”
 
We left the back bar, passed through the SRO section behind the roped off tables, and headed for the front-door exit. A small crowd of fans was gathered around Buddy Guy as he talked and signed autographs. I smiled when I saw our initial acquaintances from Nashville—Matt the Blues lover and his traveling companion Clint—next in line to meet the man. My friend and I quickly agreed we did not need to talk with Buddy ourselves. What does one say to a living legend? “Gee, Mr. Guy. We loved your show?”
 
That January night had gotten colder since we’d first slipped in the door of Buddy Guy’s Legends. We left the warmth of the club and walked briskly back down Wabash Avenue to our hotel, then rode the elevator up to the 25th floor. The curtains were still open, and I went to the widow to capture the nighttime Chicago skyline—today’s Featured Photo—as one last souvenir of that magical night of Blues.
 
With the time zone change, it was half past midnight for us, and we were tired from the long and eventful day. Ready for sleep, I started pulling things out of my pockets and opened up my wallet where I’d tucked my copy of the bill. I knitted my brows again when I noticed something I’d not spotted before. Then I turned to my friend, laughing, and said, “Well, that was unexpected and unintentional!” “What’s that,” he asked; to which I replied, “Our server got a more than generous tip tonight! Right below all the taxes on the bill, there was an additional line showing they’d already added a 20% service charge! That makes 50% gratuity in all.” Still filled with the thrill of the night, my friend—who’d once worked as a waiter himself—laughed along and replied, “That’s OK. You can never over-tip your servers.”
 
The next morning, the  sun rose over Lake Michigan to reveal a beautiful, but chilly day ahead. I took a few photos from the hotel window, seeing the shadows of buildings upon other buildings toward the north-west…

…catching a glimmer of the reflected sun toward the north-east…

…and the bright sunlight directly to the east, across Michigan Avenue, beyond Grant Park, and over the Great Lake—seeming more like an ocean—replete with jet streams in the sky above from early morning flights.

Checking Google, we located an appropriately named breakfast joint just around the corner, offering a variety of egg dishes and avocado toast, with endless refills of hot, strong coffee.

We returned to our hotel, passing another towering skyscraper…

…and inexplicable Spiderman graffiti on an irregular brick canvas…

…then packed our bags to check out. I took one more shot from our 25th floor vantage point, that integrated a nearly-abstract reflection of the prominent Willis/Sears Tower.

Not even 18 hours in Chicago and I was saying goodbye to my friend, who was headed back to the Roosevelt CTA station, en route to Midway to fly back home to Philadelphia. He said he wasn’t too upset to depart so soon. We’d had a remarkable trip, filled with improbable and unforgettable stories. Besides, he knew he would be returning in a few weeks’ time to “shop” for cellos, with an opportunity to play a million-dollar instrument at the famous classical music store, Bein & Fushi. And later that year, he would attend the 40th Anniversary concert of the Stradivari Society, also affiliated with Bein & Fushi, with eleven world-renowned violin virtuosi performing together on their priceless, 300-year-old Stradivarius and Guarneri instruments. Seriously! As I said at the outset: you can’t make this stuff up! Fact truly can be stranger than fiction.

And as for me, on this crisp Friday morning? My adventure in the Windy City would continue. I still had three full days left to enjoy, with an amazing itinerary my younger son and I had worked out, showcasing the superb museums and architecture in Chicago.

(To be continued…)