The plane lands in Teterboro without incident. Seven men, six young, one middle aged, cross to the stretch limo parked nearby on the tarmac. With one eye trained on their electronic devices, the young men climb into the back, while the middle aged man calmly gathers up the stuff cluttering the shotgun seat, moves it to the trunk, then sits beside the driver. As the limo eases onto the highway, the young men pause, unsure if there is something else they should be doing besides attending to their individual tasks. That’s when the middle-aged man raises the privacy glass separating the front of the limo from the back, signaling to the young men that they should get back to work. Amazed that his passenger knows his way around the limo’s control panel, the driver says nothing until the middle aged man asks him where he lives, which leads naturally to a conversation about surviving Super Storm Sandy. The driver can’t recall the last time a passenger sat up front with him, let alone spoke to him save for issuing directions. Feeling like he’s been granted permission to speak freely, the driver asks the middle aged man what’s become of his electronic toys? The middle aged man tilts his head to the back and says, “that’s why I have them”. The two men smile, silently acknowledging the privileges that come with reaching a certain age.