I tried not to think about it. It wasn’t easy. I was away from home for the first time, and homesickness had bushwhacked the sense of independence I had expected.

The telephone rang, and I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Martin, is that you?”

“Yes, Mom.” I kept any sound of relief out of my voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“I was worried about you. You hadn’t called me since yesterday.”

“It’s only 4:40, Mom,” I pointed out. “You’re not even home yet.”

She hesitated. I heard road noise in the background, which meant she was probably still on I-270, heading north. I imagined what she was wearing, what her day was like, what she and Dad would have tonight for dinner. In other words, all things I usually never thought about.

More cautiously, she asked: “How did your interview go?”

I didn’t compare her to a nagging Jewish mother as I had intended. Instead, I moderated my tone. “Actually, not bad. The Human Resources guy was kind of cool. He had already seen two dozen people for the position, but no one even near my age. My credentials impressed him.”

“Of course, they did,” she said proudly, which brought back my annoyance. I controlled it, though.

“He pretty much let on that I was ahead of the pack, or at least high up in the running. I agreed to meet him and some other bigwigs for dinner tonight.”

“Oh, Martin!” she caroled. “How wonderful! You wear your blue suit, okay? No, the brown one, maybe with a blue--”

“Mom,” I warned.

“Okay, okay. Wear what you want to, honey. I know you’ll make the right decision.” She sounded slightly wounded. “Just make your best impression, okay?”

“I always make a good impression, Mom. You know that.”

Her sigh was very motherly. “I know. You make me so proud of you, Martin.”

I got her off the phone and unpacked my khaki Dockers and my light blue Ralph Lauren shirt and the blue and gray silk tie. I wanted to make an impression, but of a relaxed and in-command applicant, not an ass-kisser. Everyone at that place, secretaries to the mailroom kid to the Executive VP’s, were a bunch of Class-A super-overachievers with 2x4’s the size of Saturn rockets shoved up their asses. The only cool person I’d met that day was Tim, the Human Resources guy--and he was probably trained that way.

I ironed my clothes, took a shower, put my clothes on, and went downstairs to catch a cab. The hotel was on 55th Street, and the restaurant was on 40th. Maryland-born and bred, I knew as much about the Big Apple as I did Peoria, Illinois.

I let the doorman flag down a taxi for me and gave the driver the name of the restaurant and the address. He got there in ten minutes but made enough turns to baffle a mapmaker.

“Thank you,” I said, getting out. “Will I have much trouble getting a cab back to the hotel later on?”

He laughed--even his laughter had an accent--and he reminded me that I was white, well-dressed, and in the best part of town. “You could fall off into the gutter at three a.m. and two dozen cabbies would try and pick you up.” At least that’s what I think he said. I tipped him five dollars and waved at him when he drove away. I like friendly people with a sense of humor--even foreigners.

Tim was waiting for me in the bar along with a sharply dressed gentleman named Mr. Dyce. Mr. Dyce looked in his early forties and had shiny black hair. He looked Sicilian. I offered my hand, and for exactly one second, he tried to crush it. I couldn’t help but flinch. They both laughed.

“You’ve heard of The New York Minute?” Mr. Dyce said smoothly. “Well, that’s The New York Second.”

I flexed and shook my hand appreciatively. “Don’t tell me about The New York Hour then,” I joked.

Mr. Dyce lifted his hand for the bartender. “Tim tells me you’re from D.C.,” he said. If the speed at which the attractive young lady reacted was any indication, Mr. Dyce came here a lot. Or he owned the place. “You’re old enough to drink?”

Since he asked in a tone not to embarrass me, I answered with deference. “Yes, sir.” To the bartender: “Do you need my I.D.?”

She smiled sweetly and shook her head. “Then a diet Coke,” I said.

She went to pour my soda, and a third man entered the bar and joined us. This was someone I recognized from that afternoon. John, somebody. A fish name. Pike?

“This is John Hake, Martin. You remember him?” Tim asked.

I said I did, and John and I shook hands. He was not a member of The New York Second Club. “John works in your department,” Tim advised.

“He’d be your boss,” Mr. Dyce clarified. “If that’s the eventual outcome.”

The cute bartender returned with my soda. I thanked her and held eyes with her for a New York Second longer than I should have. She smiled at me, however, but hid the smile from my companions.

“I’ll pay for dinner if that nudges the outcome in my direction,” I offered.

“I told you he was a wit,” Tim said.

I had to keep my wit in check. A crack or two might amuse these guys, but they were the makers and the shakers in this town, and they didn’t hire wits. They hired savvy and skill. I said, “The truth is, I understand that I’m very lucky to be here tonight. The fact you asked me is an ego-booster. But I also know that I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have something important to offer the firm.”

Mr. Dyce grinned. Tim beamed. Every tooth in his mouth shone one-hundred watts or brighter. John Hake said to me, “You really developed that Coca-Cola model in two weeks?”

Actually, I had developed the model in one week; the rest of the time, I spent learning Blackjack online. “It wouldn’t work in the real market,” I admitted. “The algorithms were from an old General Dynamics engine donated to the university in 1999. I rewrote the formulas based on the Minnesota expressions developed by Dr. Fletcher’s team in 2002. It was strictly conceptual. It lost money consistently.”