First Ave’s deserted. The van driver’s holding three fingers out the window for 30mph, and I’m not letting go because I need a signature in the next few minutes or I don’t get paid for this schlep. Four fingers. Five. He closes his fist to go to six and — yep — the pothole accordions both me and the bike. Two days later Mom asks “What’s it gonna take?” I explain that Ogilvy had promised me more freelance “soon” but I know I’m competing with all these Portfolio Center kids. Pack your bags, she said, I’m paying to keep you alive.