CHICAGO – On Sunday, 23 October, Kenya’s
Robert K. Cheruiyot won the 29th Chicago Marathon. No surprise there.
What was notable was that the 28-year-old Kenyan slipped on the sponsor’s
logo at the finish line and cracked his head on the pavement. The
blow caused external and internal bleeding of his head and swelling
of the membrane surrounding his brain.
Mr. Cheruiyot never did break the tape, as they say. But race officials
declared him the winner saying his feet slid across the finish line
and awarded him the $125,000 winner’s prize.
It all started when show host Jonathon Brandmeier saw pictures of
Cheruiyot sprawled out on his back at the finish line on the cover
and page 98 of Monday’s Chicago Sun-Times and noted
that, despite Christmas being just around the corner, Mr. Cheruiyot
didn’t appear to be carrying much of a package.
Adroit listeners called in giving elaborate explanations how the elasticity
of Cheruiyot’s Nike® apparel—or lack thereof—and
gravity may have caused the fallen marathoner’s essentials to
gravitate higher toward his waist.
The wounded but triumphant pipe cleaner of a man had been holed up
in a hospital in a strange city in a foreign land with an egg-sized
bump on his egg-shaped head for 48 hours. Johnny B merely thought
it would be a nice gesture if we called to cheer him up and see if
there was anything we could do to make his stay in our fair city more
enjoyable.
Much to the surprise of everyone at the station, and no doubt to listeners,
when we called Cheruiyot shortly after 6 a.m. in his room at Northwestern
Memorial Hospital, he actually picked up the phone!
After congratulating Cheruiyot and inquiring about the runner’s
health and his impending release, Johnny B asked the pivotal question:
“Robert, do you want something to eat?”
“Something to eat?” quizzed Cheruiyot.
“Do you like donuts?”
“A-mer-i-can donuts?”
“Yeah, you want some American donuts?”
“Yeah.”
“You want some Dunkin’ Donuts?”
“Yes…A-mer-i-ca Run On Dunkin’®.”
“We’ll be over in a little while with some Dunkin’
Donuts, O.K.?”
“O.K.”
You’ve got to admire the savvy Kenyan. He knocked himself out
cold, he was bleeding from the brain, he’s got stitches in his
Q-Tipped dome, and he still has the presence of mind to plug one of
our sponsors.
Next thing I know, Johnny B sends me off to Northwestern with two
dozen Dunkin’ Donuts, a Loop “Brandmeier” hat, two
cell phones and a digital camera.
Northwestern Memorial Hospital
I walk through the main entrance to Feinberg Pavillion at Huron and
Fairbanks and stop at the Starbucks in the lobby to get a cup of coffee.
I barely take a sip of the coffee when the phone rings. My Third World
mission of mercy is underway.
I walk the length of the lobby from east to west to the elevator banks
and push the number of the floor. When I get to the right floor, I
get off and immediately notice that there is nobody in sight and not
a sound to be heard.
Following the placards on the wall that indicate which room numbers
are where, I make a couple of turns around corners and voila!
Peering from the anteroom of his hospital room through the open door
I spy the Marathon champion and greet him warmly on air.
“There’s Robert! Robert, how are you? I’m the fella
who brought you the donuts here. God bless you. Hope you’re
feeling better. Say hello to Johnny--”
“I just talk with you,” he says, pointing to the phone
in his room.
In between cell phone signal drops, Johnny and Robert talk about the
runner’s health, his impending release, his pre-race diet, etc.
Johnny suggests that it would be a wonderful idea if we got a photo
of Robert eating a donut while wearing his Loop “BRANDMEIER”
hat for the website.
I grab the camera and begin taking pictures of Robert who is sitting
on the corner of his bed with the hat on. He quickly devours half
of the deep-fried, Old Fashioned Dunkin’ Donut.
While Johnny and his new friend commiserate on air, a registered nurse
walks in. “What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Oh, I’m just here visiting my friend, Robert. I brought
him some donuts. Would you like one?”
She abruptly leaves the room and within seconds, hospital security
arrives. We’re still on the air. But they’re not amused.
I won’t bore you with the details that have been broadcast live
on air and on replay, but the gist of it is that they accuse me of
breaking the “Federal Privacy Act” and the “HIPPA
Act.”
After assuring them that I was just visiting a friend who invited
me to visit him in the hospital and bring him some donuts, they confiscate
my camera.
“Did you take any pictures?”
“No, not yet. I’m not sure I even know how to work that
camera, frankly.”
“What’s this?” asks the uniformed guy, “Pete,”
pointing to a picture on the viewer.
“That’s what you’re taking now,” I suggest.
“Know it isn’t.”
On air and through my cell phone, Johnny adamantly protests that I
have done nothing wrong. “I have a gentleman here who would
beg to differ with you,” I explain contritely.
The security “suit” closes the door to Robert’s
room and begins, presumably, to question him about who I am, what
I’m doing there, etc. Their primary “defense” is
going to be that I had no right or reason to be on the floor much
less in his room and that his consent—explicit or implicit—is
irrelevant because he doesn’t understand our proposition.
They’ll Never Take Me Alive
After finishing with Robert they escort me to the elevator where we
descend to the bowels of Northwestern Memorial Hospital.
Still in contact with Johnny B on air, I’m taken to a small
briefing/interrogation room. They confiscate the memory card to my
camera, demand that I turn off my cell phone, and tell me to sit down
and wait for the Director of Security and Chicago’s Finest to
arrive.
I have ample time to reflect on my fate. I have no idea why I’m
being detained for delivering goodwill and donuts.
Nearest I can tell, I’m being held on one count of possessing
bad cholesterol and two counts of transporting transfat with intent
to distribute. But I’m confident that Johnny and our “consigliere,”
John Malavetas, are doing everything they can to free me.
The door to the interrogation room is open and amidst the static,
I can hear the manager of security services, Raymond Martinez, out
in the hall whispering into a radio saying things like “They
(Loop) talked to him (Cheruiyot) earlier this morning…He brought
donuts…He took some pictures…”
Martinez steps in and asks if, by chance, I happened to see anyone
manning the security desk in the foyer. “No, not really.”
That’s the crux of the situation right there. An embarrassing
security lapse has occurred and now the cover-your-ass blame game
has begun. And because this security faux pas has been documented
via the airwaves, they can’t just sweep it under the hospital
bed. Somebody’s going to have to pay for this. And that somebody
is me.
“Pistol Pete” is playing hard ass and won’t even
look me in the eye because he’s so disgusted with me for having
the audacity to walk straight through the front door, enter the patient’s
room and offer him donuts.
“What’s the ‘Hippo’ Act?” I ask.
“Look it up on the Internet.”
I haven’t even seen the Paris Hilton video yet. It’ll
be quite a while before I get around to that.
We’re waiting for Daniel Dahmen, the Director of Security Services
to arrive from his office which, unbeknownst to me, is a couple of
blocks south of the Pavillion.
When Mr. Dahmen arrives I reiterate what I told Pistol Pete and Mr.
Martinez. I told him that as far as I was concerned, it was no different
than if I visited my grandmother in the hospital and brought her donuts.
The only difference is, this grandma can run 26 miles in less than
two-and-a-half hours.
I explain that the only concern we had was whether the use of a cell
phone could conceivably interfere with the operation of any of the
medical equipment on the floor.
Sincerely empathetic, I say I can understand how you can’t have
people wandering around the hospital taking pictures of people who
may be incapacitated or in compromising or degrading postures, but
we all know that wasn’t the case here.
This was the case of a young, strong athletic champion whose only
concern was the sanctity of his Nike contract and who was waiting
to be released at any moment into the adoring arms of his agent, one
Mr. Federico Rosa.
“Chin, Danno—Book ‘Em!”
The first of two Chicago Police officers arrives and asks me for my
driver’s license or other picture I.D. He seems irritated to
be preoccupied by a pastry pusher and lectures me.
“You ever been to a hospital, Gino?”
“Yeah, I had my back operated on here in ’92.”
“No, I mean have you ever visited someone in a hospital?”
“Sure, lots of times.”
“Well you had to check in at the front desk, didn’t you?”
“No, not always. Especially when I had the room number.”
This line of questioning is going nowhere.
Shortly thereafter the “good cop,” an Officer Fernandez,
arrives. He asks me the standard “who-what-where-when-why?”
questions.
Then he tells me to stand, empty my pockets, extend my arms out at
90 degrees and searches me. Then he tells me to turn around and put
my arms behind my back and handcuffs me.
It’s the first time I’ve ever been handcuffed. At least
the first time I didn’t have to pay for the privilege.
They don’t read me my Miranda rights, but they inform me that
I will be charged with “trespassing.” The officers discuss
my court date which is tentatively scheduled for 7 December.
“Do you know what day that is?” good cop asks bad cop.
“Pearl Haror day,” I interrupt. “Do I win anything?”
They photograph me for a hospital security database and tell me it
will be used to prohibit me from visiting the hospital. That does
not preclude me, however, from being treated at the hospital. And
it’s beginning to look like I could be treated for an inadvertent
billy club to the forehead at any moment.
We take the elevator from the interrogation room to the first floor
and the four men march me out—in cuffs—to a waiting squad
car on Huron. This is my ‘hood, and yet the people watching
this charade must think that I’ve been caught trying to steal
prescription drugs or taking indecent liberties with a comatose patient.
It’s very difficult for me to get into the back of a squad car,
especially with handcuffs on. And I’m a little bit disappointed
that they don’t shove the top of my head in the car like on
“C.O.P.S.”
Over the police radio, I think I hear them say I’m being taken
to the ninth district lockup, wherever that is. Officer Fernandez
removes a half-eaten gyro sandwich from the driver’s seat and
asks me if I’ve “ever been arrested?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I reply.
“Don’t think so?”
This red-flag response prompts a background check. The officer punches
my social security number into the computer and, fortunately, I come
out clean.
We head west on Huron and turn north on Michigan Avenue when he gets
a call. It appears that lawyers on both sides are evaluating the tape
from our initial conversations with Robert to determine whether or
not we were, in fact, invited to his room. So we return to Northwestern.
Back at the hospital they tell me to continue to wait, handcuffed,
in the back of the car until they decide whether they’re actually
going to charge and incarcerate me.
Finally, after conferring with attorney Malavetas, they inform me
that I am going to be released and remove the shackles from my wrists.
But before I’m actually released, they walk me down to Mr. Dahmen’s
office on Ontario Street where I call back to Johnny B in the studio
and declare my independence.
There is some last-minute jostling over the memory card to the camera
that they refuse to return before erasing. But we agree to disagree
and let the attorneys work it out.
“Gino’s Free! Gino’s Free At Last!”
Johnny B announces to his rapt listeners that I have indeed been released.
And without the threat of even a misdemeanor charge, things go from
surreal to silly when I get back to the Merchandise Mart.
First on tap is a so-called “news conference” in which
listeners ostensibly representing media outlets from the Los Angeles
Times to Juggs magazine ask me about my ordeal.
As if things hadn’t already gotten out of hand, Johnny B informs
me on his way out of the studio en route to a dental appointment that
NBC-TV Channel 5’s Anna Davlantes wants to interview him about
our exclusive “coup.” He asks me to fill in for him which
understandably disappoints Ms. Davlantes.
Mr. Brandmeier’s appointment is in the same building
on the same day that a Lincolnwood dermatologist is murdered
in one of his examination rooms. Curiously, the radio personality
is never questioned. And yet I get busted for dispensing donuts to
a calorically challenged Kenyan.
With cameraman Sylvio’s lights blinding me in the studio, Davlantes
asks me a few questions. I have a difficult time breathing much less
providing a sound bite worthy of a major network news affiliate and,
not surprisingly, it never airs.
“Prosecution’s” Case Based On Faulty Premise
The Northwestern Memorial Hospital Administration’s case was
essentially based on the contention that (A.), Mr. Cheruiyot did not
authorize us to enter his hospital room, provide foodstuffs, or photograph
him wearing Loop paraphernalia. And (B.), even if digital recordings
of our radio broadcast contradicted their contention, the marathoner
did not comprehend what our intentions were and was incapable of expressing
what his desires were regarding our magnanimous gesture.
It is not unreasonable to infer from the broadcast that Mr. Cheruiyot
had an easier time understanding what we were asking than we had in
deciphering what he was answering. Nevertheless, even a cursory examination
of the evidence suggests that Cheruiyot welcomed our visit, conversation
and gifts.
Kenyan Engaging, Verbose Off Air
During my abbreviated stay in Cheruiyot’s hospital room we had
the opportunity to make idle conversation off air when our cell phone
signals were interrupted or we were coming out of a station break.
These exchanges, while brief, are illuminating.
We’re both big fans, it turns out, of Ernie Kovacs and “The
Nairobi Trio.”
We both blurt out in unison, tapping the bedside table with every
beat:
“BA-DUM-BUM-BUM,
BA-DUM-BUM-BUM,
BA-DUM-BUM-BUM-BUM-BA-DA-DA-DA-DUM!”
I ask Cheruiyot about his hometown of Nandi, Kenya and he shakes his
swollen head, “It’s O.K., too many Starbucks.”
He gets animated when we talk about the Cubs, saying he’d like
to see the Cubs run more, bunt more, learn to hit behind the runner,
and find a “bona fide closer.”
Cheruiyot is incredulous that a guy who’s making millions of
dollars a year can get winded running out a triple. And he questions
whether new Cubs manager Lou Piniella will fit in with the Tribune
Co.’s stodgy image declaring, “He hot head.”
I ask Robert if he ever goes deep-sea fishing in the Indian Ocean.
He says he much prefers the pristine waters of Lake Victoria. And
he looks forward to recuperating from his injuries at his “summer
hut” on Ukerewe Island.
Taking a big puff and glancing out the windows of his corner room
overlooking Streeterville and the Magnificent Mile, Cheruiyot says
he wouldn’t be surprised if the Democrats pick up the 15 seats
required to retake the House, but thinks the Republicans will retain
control of the Senate.
He reminds me how difficult it is to get to the polls in his country
and urges me to vote. I promise to do so and we shake on it. The phone
rings, interrupting our convivial visit. It’s Johnny B.
Questions Remain
Nearly two weeks after we met Mr. Cheruiyot, several questions remain
to be answered.
If the wily Kenyan didn’t invite us for a visit, then how did
we know he was being treated at Feinberg Pavillion? More importantly,
how did we get the number to his room if Robert or his agent didn’t
give it to us?
If we were jeopardizing the health and welfare of a recuperating patient,
how is it that Robert was released and boasted about his recovery
at a news conference at the Conrad Hilton Hotel just hours later?
And since we were accused of interfering with his medically supervised
nutritional requirements, how is it that he was seen ingesting a 30-ounce
steak at the Park Grille later that evening? (You know what they call
a “30-ounce steak” in Kenya? A “herd!” DRUMS/RIM
SHOT/CYMBALS.
Whatsmore, whatever happened to the memory card to our camera and
the pictures contained on it?
For that matter, what happened to the Loop BRANDMEIER hat?
Could two Chicago cops really eat a gyro sandwich and two dozen donuts?
And finally, in prison, is the food as bad and the sex as good as
they say it is?
SONGS
WE JUST PLAYED
