Monday
Rain, rain, go away. The baggage carousel at Logan has claimed another victim. A blockade of raincoat-clad Girl Scouts came between me and my Andiamo Bravo Pullman, and I was unable to snatch it up before it snaked behind the wall of wonder — as in I wonder where my luggage just went. Thirty seconds, one minute, five minutes, 30 minutes — still no Bravo. I vow that I have eaten my last Thin Mint, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a miniature Jack and eight kids in rain gear. He's smaller than I would have guessed, or perhaps the Girl Scouts are well fed. No matter: I maneuver around the Scouting Armada and find myself inches away from Jack Welch, at which time I notice a $20 bill beneath his right foot. I quickly retrieve the bill and present it to Jack, who graciously taps my right shoulder, smiles, and shakes hands with the driver of his car service. I file a missing luggage report and grab a cab.
Tuesday
I arrive in Midtown in time to have a pop with Rolf, the former McKinseyite turned headhunter, who has been trying to convince me to join some strategy concern with a name I can never remember. Rolf wanted to meet at "21," which was fine by me, only I wonder why "21." From what I recall, Rolf has long held court at New York's Harvard Club — a sort of blow-up castle for graying McKinsey alums. At "21," the martinis were flowing along with Rolf's tongue. As we imbibe our third extra-dry Bombay, I find myself exchanging cards with Sandy Elf. Sandy is the managing director of the strategy firm Rolfie is selling me on. (Touch
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