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"The Mark of Trust" is story about a business trip, an unexpected intersections of duty and delight. It asks the reader to reconsider the meaning of success: Is it reaching your flight on time, or is it allowing yourself to be swept up in an Oktoberfest polka dedicated to you by name?

The story elevates a business anecdote into a reflection on serendipity, community, and the layered texture of human experience.

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The Mark of Trust

By Harry Arabian

Five days felt like five weeks inside the towering walls of Underwriters Laboratories. The hum of test rigs, the sharp crackle of fire chambers, the rhythmic ticking of timers—all of it blended into a relentless soundtrack of scrutiny. For nearly a week, Steve and I had lived in that cycle, watching our fire safety product pushed beyond its limits. Flames seared, alarms blared, and data poured into monitors until the numbers either proved us right—or sent us back to the drawing board.

By Friday morning, exhaustion clung to us like soot. Still, there was a quiet electricity in the air. When the UL engineer finally walked in, clipboard under his arm and the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, we held our breath.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “congratulations. You’ve earned it.”

It was more than a certification. It was validation—that our work wasn’t just theory, but something the world could trust. The right to bear the UL mark meant consumers, retailers, and regulators alike would see the emblem and know: this product had been proven in the harshest of conditions, and it would not fail them.

At 2 p.m. sharp, Steve and I packed up the battered test gear—scarred cases, scorched samples, stacks of notes—and loaded them into the rental car. Chicago’s Midway Airport was waiting, and with it, the pull of home. As we rolled onto the freeway, the skyline hovered against the late summer haze, its steel and glass towers catching the sun. For the first time in days, I let my shoulders fall back against the seat.

The tests were over. The mark was ours. And the long journey back had just begun.

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The Long Road to Midway

Leaving the UL campus, we thought the hardest part of our week was behind us. But Chicago, in its own stubborn way, had other plans.

Almost as soon as we merged onto the expressway, the brake lights flared red ahead of us. A wall of cars stretched to the horizon—barely moving, horns already impatient. Steve let out a low groan and tapped the steering wheel.

“Gridlock,” he muttered. “Welcome to Chicago.”

The city had us captive, inch by inch. But if there was one silver lining, it was the view along the roadside. Billboards and signs for restaurants passed slowly, like a rolling menu. One promised the familiar comfort of Americano in Lincoln Park, bold letters advertising steaks, sandwiches, and strong coffee. Another teased the artisanal side of town—Little Lark in Avondale, known for Roman and Neapolitan pizzas paired with words like “quality” and “ambiance.”

A little further down, a sign caught both our attention—Ithaki Estiatorio in Greektown. The bold blue and white colors spoke of islands and coastlines far away. It wasn’t just a restaurant; it was a promise of authentic Greek fare and a revival of the neighborhood’s culinary soul.

We laughed at the idea of turning the traffic jam into a food tour, hopping from one place to the next. Instead, we stayed put, creeping forward by feet instead of miles, the skyline of Chicago just barely shifting against the afternoon haze.

By the time Midway’s control tower finally came into view, we felt as if we’d already traveled halfway across the country. The gridlock had slowed our escape, but it had also painted the ride with flavors and stories of a city that thrived on them.

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The Detour

The brake lights led us past the Ohio Street exit, and that’s when I spotted it—lit in red neon like a beacon against the gray afternoon.

Ed Debevic’s – A Chicago Classic Diner.

The sign shouted about its retro spirit, the chrome-and-neon interior, and its claim to be Chicago’s most well-known diner since 1984. Beneath it, the fine print: “Operated by Rich Melman of Lettuce Entertain You Enterprises.”

Before I could even comment, Steve jerked the wheel toward the exit ramp.

“Burgers and beer,” he declared, his South Boston accent sharpening with hunger.

I didn’t object. I’d read about the place in the NWI Times—how it had earned a cult status not just for its food, but for its waitstaff’s tongue-in-cheek rudeness. Chrome counters, jukebox corners, neon everywhere—it was the kind of joint that felt more like theater than dining.

The parking lot was half full when we rolled in. We stretched our legs, grateful for the pause in traffic, and walked up to the door. But our hopes were quickly checked by a handwritten sign taped to the glass:

“Closed for Private Event – Lenny Gomulka & Chicago Push Polka Band Oktoberfest Party.”

Steve stopped dead, muttered a string of explicit words, and smacked the door with the flat of his hand. His Boston accent made the curses sound twice as colorful.

That’s when a man in a red shirt, standing just inside the entrance, cocked his head and grinned.

“You’re from Massachusetts, huh?” he said, clearly amused. “I’d recognize that accent anywhere.”

Steve blinked, caught mid-grumble.

“Well then,” the man continued, opening the door wider, “why don’t you and your friend join us? You’re officially invited to our Oktoberfest party. Burgers, beer, and polka—it’s all inside.”

Traffic forgotten. Dinner plans rewritten. And just like that, we were stepping into a world of neon, brass instruments, and Chicago hospitality with a twist of unexpected luck.

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The Polka Surprise

The moment we stepped inside, the world shifted. The chrome-and-neon diner had been transformed into an Oktoberfest hall—long tables lined with pitchers of beer, paper plates stacked with bratwurst and sauerkraut, and a dance floor alive with motion. Folks whirled in pairs, stomping in time to music that was rich, layered, and impossibly joyful. The accordion, clarinet, trumpet, and drums blended in a sound that felt both old-world and evergreen.

Steve and I found ourselves pulled toward the small stage, two empty seats waiting in the very front row. From there, the whole party unfolded just a few feet away—the dancers, the laughter, the music rolling like a current through the room.

The man in the red shirt climbed onto the stage, an accordion strapped snug across his chest. He leaned into the microphone, his voice carrying above the chatter and clinking glasses.

“This next song,” he said with a grin, “is dedicated to our visitors seated right here in the first row.” He pointed directly at Steve and me. A wave of friendly cheers and applause rippled in our direction.

He continued, squeezing out a bright chord on the accordion. “A traditional yet vibrant polka that’ll make you smile—and maybe even tip your hat. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s ‘Say Hello to Someone in Massachusetts!’”

The band kicked in, horns and drums snapping to life, and the melody leapt into the air with an infectious energy. Steve chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. Me? I couldn’t stop smiling. Somehow, in the middle of Chicago gridlock, we had landed in the front row of a private Oktoberfest concert—serenaded with a song that carried us right back to New England.

For a moment, time dissolved. The fire tests, the traffic jams, even the flight ahead—all of it faded under the spell of polka, beer, and the unexpected kindness of strangers.

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Final – The Missed Flight

The welcome we received melted away every thought of timetables and boarding gates. Someone slid two frosty mugs of beer into our hands, plates piled high with sausages and pretzels appeared as if by magic, and the music kept us anchored to the moment. We clapped along, laughed with strangers who felt like old friends, and even let ourselves be pulled onto the dance floor once or twice.

Hours vanished in the whirl of accordion runs and brass harmonies. Steve, usually restless and sharp-edged, leaned back in his chair grinning like a schoolboy. I felt the same—swept up in a celebration we never expected, in a city that seemed determined to surprise us at every turn.

When the final song faded and the last notes of the accordion dissolved into applause, we glanced at the clock. Midnight. The Oktoberfest was over.

And so was our chance of making that 7 p.m. flight.

For a long moment, we just sat there, the quiet after the music ringing in our ears, both of us too full of laughter and bratwurst to care. Maybe Chicago traffic had conspired against us. Maybe fate just wanted us to have a story worth telling. Either way, we left Ed Debevic’s with lighter hearts, knowing the UL mark wasn’t the only badge of honor we’d carry home.

Sometimes, the real reward comes not from the tests you pass, but from the detours you never planned.