One day, not so many years ago, I was coming back from a client meeting with a group of my agency colleagues.
Because there were a lot of us, or maybe because someone there with us was sufficiently far-removed from the work and, therefore, senior-enough to warrant it, the account guy had ordered a Black Car, a Chevy Suburban to take us uptown.
Usually, typically a la mode for agency-life today, we were left to our own cab-hailing prowess to get back to the agency.
Cabs are less-expensive than Black Cars, and the likelihood of you going through 20 minutes of Concur-expensing for a $14 reimbursement, slimmer. But today, because some member of the agency cognoscenti was with us, we were riding in style.
Of course, I was the last one getting in the car. At that particular time, at that particular agency, with that particular account, I was always being asked to stay behind and proffer a scintilla of what passes for wisdom in our increasingly vapid world. That is to say, the client hung on my every word.
In any event, when I finally extricated myself from the 98th floor, I was fairly jogging for the SUV. I reached for the door handle and tugged at it assertively, not knowing the door was locked.
I tugged hard.
The door handle, the two-pound chrome door handle of a late-model $65K Chevy Suburban came off in my hand.
This is all to say, and to remind people:
Don't fuck with me.