The man in the gray flannel suit and power tie is striding along Madison Avenue in midtown Manhattan on his way to facilitate a merger of Fortune 500 companies (a meeting which will include two senators, a congressman and a disgraced lobbyist), having left his endangered species leather briefcase in the back seat of the taxi after dropping off his female companion at Saks with two thousand dollars—twenty crisp one-hundred dollar bills—to buy herself something pretty and, yes, he wears contacts not glasses which improves his peripheral vision, making evident the sun glinting off the tops of row after row of muskmelons at the weekly farmer's market, the reflection setting a spark in his left brain signaling he has forgotten his briefcase and doesn't remember the name of the taxi company or his lady friend since he paid them both with cash and has no immediate further use for either, nor for muskmelons.