Waiting for the elevator was a bad idea, again. After 34 seconds of grueling impatience and anguish - "BLING" - I get in and make myself comfortable in the 2"x2" elevator which is reeking of Chanel No 5. Following the mandatory "what up" expression together with the eyebrow raise, I place myself next to the two blokes; their wall street journals hanging out of their Tumis with their thumbs molesting the blackberry scroll ball. "Clowns" I say to myself with a grin, while sheepishly reaching out to my blackberry bold, because...well I am a wall street banker. I hurl down the streets of midtown to get to Grand Central, saving every second I can to beat my VP to the game of "facetime". I enter the terminal at 42nd street, pay my respect to the rather ridiculously armed swat officer in the corner. "How's it going there officer", I say in somewhat a Colbert accent. His ignorance was racist, well atleast that's how I justified my insignificance.
I climb down the stairs, reaching my pocket for the metrocard, and to my not-so-surprise, see a posse of NYPD officials carrying out their "random searches". "I got this baby" I whisper to Inger, my imaginary norwegian groupie while I proceeded with confidence and a slight hunch due to the gravitational pull of my bulge hanging low. At first glance, the thomas pink and ferragamos threw him off, but then he seems to have been contradicted with the color of my skin and yells "Excuse me sir... sir... please step aside...you have been randomly selected for a bag check". "Ofcourse!", I smiled and proceeded to the lady cop behind the desk. By now, my tumi was used to being manhandled, but the winds might be changing.
She proceeds to open my tote bag with plastic gloves on to avoid any, manchowder perhaps. "I see you are carrying a weapon of mass seduction", she says referring to my special edition of NLP techniques by Shlomo Vaknin which I tend to carry to battle my loneliness mostly. "Guilty" I quibbled. Perplexed, although mildly seduced, she zips my bag and tells me I am all set. Just when I am anxious to swipe my metrocard against the turnstile, an officer pulls me aside and requests me to show him a piece of "ID" which apparently is dangling halfway outside my backpocket. "Here you go, Jason" I mumbled. "It's Jose you a******" he screams as he lets go of my card, which is quick to zip back into my back pocket. I high five Inger, take a deep breath and resume my swagger. It's going to be a great day.