75 hours after our last Subaru literally combusted in my high school's parking lot, I picked up this beauty, with 22,000 miles for 15K. It's purchase is a true Chicago Story. Friday night, I responded to a Craigslist ad. A guy named Mario, with a thick Slavic accent said, "Ya. You come to Chicago. We meet tomorrow night." How about 9:00AM? "Ya. 9, 10, 11. Whatever." At 9:25 Saturday morning I find myself rolling over the copious speedbumps of a cozy 1930s brick bungalow neighborhood. And there she is. A 2016 Impreza with very low mileage, sitting in the driveway of a modest but handsome home. A middle aged guy that looks like he could be a truck driver stands bundled up against the cold, smoking on the stoop by which the car sits. Are you Mario? "No. But I call him. He be here in 10 minutes." Mario, who looks like he could also be a truck driver - both guys appear about my age - rolls up in a black Lexus. He gets out, nods, walks toward my car of interest, starts her up, opens the hood, and speaks his first words. "Have a look. I have Carfax here. One minor accident, Very clean." Indeed she appears to be. We take her for a test drive. I remark that the neighborhood looks very Eastern European. "I am Polish." Really? I used to take high school kids to Krakow. I've been there three times. His eyebrows raise and there is a smile. "I live 60 kilometers from Krakow." I comment on how beautiful that part of Poland is. A pause. "I don't speak much English. All my business is with Polish people speaking Polish." Indeed, Chicago can do that. So many cultures, who can keep this new city their old. "Yes, many cultures... too many." I change the subject. This is a nice car. Would you take $15,000?... If so, I'll buy it today. The asking price is $16K, in a market where I am seeing these for 20. "Ya. If you pay in cash. You have cash? No check." A yellow light starts to flash in my head. Cause, you know, I roll with thousands of dollar bills on the daily. Is this guy in the mafia?... As if reading my mind, he says, "Follow me. I have friend. He car dealer. He move money from your bank to mine." With no other words I climb into my rental, he climbs into the Impreza, and I follow him for several blocks. I call my credit union, give them the car's VIN, and share my story. "Well," says my bank agent, "the title appears clean and just one minor accident. Keep us posted..." As the community rolls by my windows, Free Ukraine signs in sky blue and wheat gold begin to blend with the jalepeño green and tomato red of Mexican taquerias. Deeper and deeper into the bowles of Chicago we go, turning down an ally lined with the back doors of a cacophony of family owned businesses, threading around busy trucks that are the markers of a buzzing economy. Then a tight turn through a razor wire gate into a sea of parked black and white luxury Audis, Acuras, and BMWs. Up to an auto dealer office that is the size of a shoebox. Out pops a young Mexican American guy in pegged jeans, leather designer boots, and hipster shave cut. "I'm Carlos. My friend here says you need to move money electronically to buy his car. We're a car dealer, so we can do that, working with your bank, for a fee - 300 bucks." Again, that yellow light starts flashing. Have I just stepped deep inside an episode of the Sopranoes?... I call my credit union agent again, and hand the phone over to Carlos so they can speak. My agent then tells me, "Yup. This guys a legit dealer. The title's clean. Go buy yourself a car." First, I ask Carlos if I can use a restroom. It's been two hours since I left Milwaukee. "Sure" he says as he guides me outside, across the lot, through a tear in the barbed wire fence, through the backdoor of an auto garage, to an industrial hued bathroom, where from within, I can hear hearty exchanges of Polish and banging metal tools through the walls beyond. There is a firm knock on the door. I respond, occupied, but when I step out a minute later there is no one to be seen between the bathroom and the back door. Well, save for the smiling blonde on a wall poster, scantily clad in a tool company's 80s era logo, wrench in hand. I thread my way back through that fence to the shoebox. Inside is a Vietnamese family, two cute kids, chatting with a Polish salesman. Carlos hands me the paperwork. "You are good to go Ross. Your taxes and fees will be paid to Wisconsin. Here are the keys to your car." I inquire about a nearby Enterprise lot to drop off my rental. "There's one a hundred yards that way." Seriously, Universe, what are you telling me? I return the rental then ask Carlos, como se dice gracias en polaco? Without missing a beat he says, "dziekuje." I step outside with Mario and thank him in his native tongue. He very methodically helps me back out of the tightly knit lot. I roll down the window and leave him with a hearty "nostrovia!" as I pull away in my shiny new steed.
And that folks, is Chicago. A hundred immigrant pockets, reaching across the aisle dozens of times a day, to keep commerce humming in a hundred different ways.
Our beloved Segundo - our 2nd Subaru
