BOTTOM FEEDERS

I was so engrossed in creating my action plan to get my life back on track that I hadn't noticed a man come into the room until he was standing right in the center. I looked up at him. He stood tall, back straight, he had a strong chin and he was clean shaved. I could tell his was a hundred dollar haircut. The suit was undeniably tailored, and the shoes top of the line Italian leather. He was me and I was him. We occupied the same elite realm of white males who dominate the legal field. The man was looking over at the door way so I followed his line of sight. The paralegal was back. I remembered how she had mocked me about the offices and my hatred for her resurfaced. I felt a knot grow in my throat. There she stood, a lowly paralegal, her wispy white hair looking silly atop her tiny head. I wanted to go up to her and ask, “Do you know who I am?” I seriously considered confronting her but thought better about it. My energies were better spent focusing on getting my life back on track.

The paralegal spoke up. I noted that her mouth was so small it was a wonder she could speak. Her mouth was tiny and pointy like a bird’s beak. She said, “Listen up folks. This is the associate who will be managing this project”. She looked in the associate’s direction. He beamed, making the standard moves; he made eye contact with each one of us. She continued, “He’ll be coming down here from time to time to check on the progress of the project. We have a two week deadline and I’m sure that each one of you will do all that you can to make sure that the firm is successful in meeting it.” The paralegal then joined the associate in the middle of the room. “This is where they keep the bottom feeders.” He said it which such revulsion. Anyone hearing him outside of our circumstances would surely know that he must be speaking about another species. The paralegal replied, “Yep.” She said that we were required to work at least twelve hours each day and they would provide us with lunch. Anyone working over ten hours is entitled to dinner valued at no more than ten dollars. We had to sign in when we got in and each time we left the room we had to sign out. A vision flashed across my mind of a show I sometimes watched on cable TV. The show provided an inside experience of prison life. I almost felt like I had on an orange jumpsuit. Then the pair standing in the middle of the room, as warden and deputy warden, proceeded to provide each of us with a password for our computers and explain to us how to use the soft ware for reviewing the documents for the project.