Monday
I'm waiting to pass the security detail at Logan and spot innovator he-man Clay Christensen. He's only three people in front of me. Christensen's shoes were placed on the belt one at a time. (The Innovator's Dilemma: The security staff is very small, Christensen's shoes are very large.) Clay and I almost shared a cab from LaGuardia into Manhattan once, but he was headed downtown with his posse from Innosight.
Tuesday
Rolf invites me to lunch at Brasserie 81/2 in NY. I like 81/2. Patrons enter its sunken lobby via a staircase fit for descending pageant beauties. Instead, schools of McKinseyites and IBMers stream in daily to devour and promulgate before returning upstream to fortify and preserve the species. It seems that these trips to New York are spoiling my taste for my favorite McKinseyite turned headhunter. Today, I accidentally mention the name of former Bainie Greg Brenneman, and off Rolf goes about how six years back he was all set to place Brenneman as Compaq's next CEO when Mr. B. nixed it. (I'm not convinced the two ever even had a conversation.) Lately, Rolf has been moving what he calls "nut and bolt" operations people. "Accenture can't get enough of them," he confides.
He continues to yank consultants out of Kearney, which he likes to refer to as his favorite tube of toothpaste. "There's always a bit more in there if you squeeze hard enough," says Rolf. Thankfully we skip dessert, but Rolfie insists that I join him for dinner Thursday night at Luger's in Brooklyn.
Wednesday
I meet with my publisher, Nell Listerbaum. Nell mended nicely after her golf cart went belly up at Trump National. Only her wrist remains in a cast, and the scratches from The Donald's roses are all but hidden by a long swath of pink silk she uses as a sling. I confide that my departure from Bain has provided me with the means to produce the book we've both been waiting for. Nell offers her pleasant but toothy grin, before initiating a volley of questions concerning my future plans. She says, "Rayne, McKinsey should pluck you up, just like they did Michael Wolf" (a former Booz Allen consultant who wrote a book about … who remembers?). I savor her adulation, but begin to get a whiff of alternative motives. Says Nell: "I hear that Booz never quite figured out what to do with all those extra copies of Wolf's book." I nod my head and attempt to divert our attention. But Nell continues to quiz me concerning my future prospects and wags a finger at me — which is when I notice that her cast has been emblazoned with a name that appears to be "Clay Christensen." I peel back her pink sling and read the name "Clay Clausen." Embarrassed, I apologize and share my folly with her, upon which Nell retorts: "Oh, Christensen could never fill your shoes, Rayne." Obviously, Nell has never dined with anyone from Logan's security detail.
Thursday
It begins to rain as Rolf and I leave Campbell's. We grab a cab and head to Brooklyn, where we intend to enjoy a bit of steak and chianti, only we get deposited on a block which has neither. At the end of a row of check-cashing establishments, we find a burger concern, where Rolf asks the girl behind the counter if she can supply directions to Peter Luger's Steak House.
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