I am on a business trip with a Partner in an unfamiliar city. We have a week of investigation at the client’s headquarters. On the first day, Partner asks to borrow my cell phone to call and berate his wife for allowing him to forget his Blackberry, and he continues to use it extensively throughout the day. At the end of the day, well past business hours, we grab a taxi to go back to our hotel.
Partner makes another call from my phone during this taxi ride and decides he must immediately depart for some other location. He tells the taxi driver to head to the airport and tells me I have to get out.
The driver pulls over in a deserted industrial park, well past 9 p.m. and leaves me standing in a median strewn with broken beer bottles and hypodermic needles—in a skirt suit and heels, no less. Partner hands me my cell phone, “recharge battery” flashing urgently on the screen. I have no idea where I am and didn’t think soon enough to look for a number on the cab. I have $22 in cash on me. I’m not even sure where my hotel is—it’s a Sheraton somewhere in the city—because the Partner’s office handled the travel arrangements and the cab when we arrived earlier that morning at the airport.
I don’t know information on any cab companies, and with my nearly dead cell, dare I risk a call for information? Can a cab get a GPS ping from my cell phone? Because I don’t even know where to tell the cab pick me up. I seriously consider using what’s left of my battery life to call my mom, cry and say goodbye.
I begin to walk through what looks like Beirut, hoping to find a pay phone (and at least one street sign). Finally, a massive FedEx truck passes, and so moved with relief to see something as familiar as a major corporate logo, I manage to flag him down. Miraculously, he does not abduct or rape me, but instead radios to have dispatch call me a cab, calling me a “stranded woman who’s lost and pretty shaken up” to the woman on the other end. Truer words were never spoken. He even insists on waiting with me till they show.
Two hours, three Sheratons and $60 later, I finally arrive back in my room. And, sadly, inconsiderate partners could learn a few lessons in respect and human decency from truck drivers.
[Ed. Note @ 12:30 PM PST: Something we forgot to mention is that today’s post is a second submission from the same female associate who submitted “Legal Mean Streets” back in September of last year. And it is confirmed that the partner in both pieces is the same. Which bring up a great point, we love well-written abuse submissions—even multiple submissions—so don’t be afraid to yours. We have requested a comment from the submitter as to how one partner was able to strand her in the urban jungle twice in one career. We’ll keep you posted.]