Smoothie

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Chicago. It’s a beautiful city, with beautiful buildings, food, and people. Well, most people.

I was taking a Segue Scooter tour - those things are so cool! and we were at the Buckingham Fountain when it happened. I wanted to get as close to the fountain as possible, but it’s kind of blocked off by funky bars as to discourage you from diving in despite the fact that the bars are ridiculously short.

I was not the only one who wanted to get so close to the fountain. There was a pregnant woman in a wheelchair next to me, maybe in her thirties, who looked like she could give birth at any second. It’s not like she was just really fat, she was pregnant, ok? I’m not a mean person. So we were both just looking at the fountain - her with her fetus, me with my Jamba Juice smoothie - when my stupid tour guide came up to me.

“Do you know what time it is?” he asked.

I could have said, ‘Why don’t you know? You’re the tour guide!’, but no, as I said, I am not a mean person. I looked at my watch and casually answered that the time was around four o’clock.

But alas, I did not think. The wrist which held my watch was connected to the hand that held my smoothie; the contents of my smoothie were now spread on the skirt of the woman next to me.

In my mind, I thought, Stupid cheap plastic Jamba Juice capitalist containers! But externally, I was giving abundant apologies to the lady next to me.

As a man came running up next to her, I glanced at the damage. It appeared that I had ruined her skirt’s appearance, despite its pleasantly fruity scent.

“That was Chanel,” the woman said to me. “It was a gift from my mother.”

Smartly, I did not offer to pay for the skirt – in retrospect, it might have helped to say it, but I never could have acted up on it because Chanel is expensive – but I did continue my abundant apologies. It actually didn’t really look like Chanel, but I’m not Chanel expert, so I had to take her word.

“We’re sorry, ma’am,” said the tour guide, and he swept me along as the woman fumed over her skirt.

“Like hell you are!” she said.

Oh, lucky me that she had one of those electronic wheelchairs, because forthwith after cursing at me, she began to chase me.

Where could I go? I didn’t know the city that well, but I knew I could lose her. I went as fast as I could in my Segue, and she went as fast as she could in her wheelchair. Now, neither of our mobile units were going very fast, but it felt like a high speed chase.

I was at a stoplight – I forget which street, but it was just by Millennium Park. I knew Millennium Park would be my salvation it always is, so our race continued there.

Both of us were being followed by scooter-goers. It appeared that my sister was on one scooter, and the woman’s male companion brother? Husband? Shopping partner? I didn’t know was on a scooter as well. It appeared that he hijacked the scooter of the tour guide. The chase continued – through the Lurie Garden, near the big pavilion thing made by Frank Ghery, and on the funky bridge that’s shiny and uber-modern.

I looked behind me. The guy was still chasing me, but my sister and the pregnant woman were long gone. Even more worried now, I ditched the scooter and started running. After I realized that I couldn’t outrun technology, I ran back to my scooter and began making my way back to Buckingham Fountain.

I wasn’t quick enough; the man caught up with me.

“Dude, this really doesn’t need to end up violent,” I said as he loomed over me. He pulled out a harpoon I don’t know where he got a harpoon. Maybe he picked it up off the ground. For those of you who do not know, stray harpoons are abundant on the streets of downtown Chicago.

This guy then told me he was going to harpoon me. He positioned himself, but was stopped when we both heard an electronically muffled version of that stupid song about milkshakes, yards and teaching.

The guy dropped the harpoon and reached for something by his belt - his pager. He looked at me, but then with a glum glance at the hijacked scooter, he got on it and rode away, leaving the harpoon behind.

Shocked, I only watched as he scootered away. My absentmindedness was interrupted by my cell phone ringing.

It was my sister. “Get back here, dude! The tour guide’s pissed!”

I heard muffled shouting. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“That woman is giving birth!” my sister said. “She’s yelling for that guy to come back!”

Assured that I would not be harpooned, I rode the scooter back to Buckingham Fountain.

“Where’s my scooter?” the tour guide asked.

“Oh, whoops,” I said. “That one guy left it over by some tennis courts.”

“Really?” said the tour guide. “My guess is that someone probably stole it by now. That’s going to come out of my meager paycheck.”

With that bitter remarked, the tour guide picked up a harpoon and stabbed me.

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A/N: I have never been harpooned.