Petty Esquire

A NEW PROJECT, A NEW BEGINNING

2007-07-16T14:15:00.000-07:00

I felt pretty good when I woke the next morning. I was working with a new agency, going to a new project to a make a new beginning. This time things were going to work my way because I had begged Alexandra to make me the team lead. I told her all about how I had ended up seated in her office from leaving my associate position at a prestigious law firm to losing my fiancee. Of course, I did not tell her that I had cheated and caused my fiance to leave. She didn't need to know that. Instead I told her that my fiance was so wrapped up in her ascent up through the ranks of her accounting firm that she had no time for me. And when I begged her to spend time with me, lavishing her with gifts and tickets to theatre shows and expensive dinners, she still would not prioritize our relationship. My tone was sufficiently sympathetic when I told Alexandra about how I had been taken for granted by my mean old ex-fiancee, making he swoon with empathy for me. She reached across the table and patted my hand, her head tilted, saying "I am so so sorry that happened to you. I would never do something like that to a man." Alexandria's hand felt soft and warm on mine. I lowered my head to show her that I was in the moment with her, feeling comforted by her touching exhibit of empathy. "Thanks for caring Alexandra. It really means a lot to me right now." "You'll get through this Hank. I can tell that you're a tough guy and you'll get through this. I'll try to look out for you as much as I can. And call me Alex," she added as an after thought. "Bingo!" I thought. It was just what I needed. Someone on the inside "looking out for me."

Getting back to the business at hand she said, "tomorrow morning, meet me at the front of the firm and I'll escort you upstairs to the area where you'll be working. You're an addition to an on-going project. Don't tell anyone that this is only your second project because they'll wonder why you've been made Team Lead. I assured her that I would be discreet and we said our good byes.

THE AGENCY

2007-07-10T13:43:00.000-07:00

As I sat in the chilly lobby waiting for Alexandra Madison I thought about what Freddie told me about Employment Agencies and the people who worked there. She emphasized that the agencies were something like a pimping organization with pimps who went out and recruited prostitutes—contract attorneys—to staff projects for law firms. “Make no mistake,” she had said in an almost grave tone, her large brown eyes narrowed so that only a slit of her pupil was visible, “they are playing us. This is a win-win-accept what you get game. How much do you think the firms bill contract attorneys to their clients?” I thought about my billing rate at my old firm and took a guess above that amount. Although there was nothing at stake I wanted to be right. “Two hundred dollars,” I stated in a tone that suggested, “of course”. “No,” she said, firmly planting her palm on the table for emphasis. “Usually they bill us out at around two hundred and fifty dollars” she said, slowly enunciated each word. “Okay,” I said, with a sense of familiarity, trying not to betray my ignorance and surprise. “How much of that do you think the agency gets?” I decided not to play games. “I don’t know.”
“They get a third of that.”
“Wow!” I said, unable to withhold my surprise.
“So, how much do we get?” I knew where she was going with this. “A measly fraction of that,” I snorted with a healthy dose of indignation.
“For a bricklayer or a roofer or a plumber, working for an hourly wage might be acceptable but we are professionals. Have you read the Legal News recently? Firms are now laying off their associates an offering them jobs as contract attorneys while profits for these same law firms are soaring. It makes no sense. Where’s the ABA in all of this? Who’s got our backs?”

For a few minutes I was back at dinner, with Freddie as my guru and me as the student. She took on an almost religious persona as she educated me about Temp Town. Then Alexandra Madison walked into the room, her hand extended downward toward me. She wore a black dress that stopped just above flawless knees, a black jacket and black heels. I felt small under her smiling gaze and quickly rose to my feet where I stood several inches above her despite the inches that her heels added. Her hand shake was firm and her expression and conversation very professional. She introduced herself then said, “Let’s go back into my office.” I followed her down a corridor into an office at the end with large windows overlooking the hot, bustling city below. She indicated toward a chair in front of her desk and I took a seat. Her large black captain’s chair seemed to swallow her when she sat in it. She was a small woman. Not short but very thin. Thin enough for her wrist bones and collar bones to display prominently through porcelain skin. I thought she needed some sun badly.

Alexandra got right down to business. Her spiel was so rapid-fire it had to be rehearsed. I could imagine she had given it to a thousand other aspiring contract attorneys as they sat in the same spot as me. At the end of her introduction she asked me if I had any questions. “Nope. Seems like you covered everything,” I said with a smile. “Great. I’ll get the paperwork. You can fill out the forms and we’ll try to get you on something ASAP.” “Sounds great,” I said, trying to match her upbeat tone. I could never by that peppy. I watched Alexandra walk away enjoying every moment of it. She was so polished, so on top of her game, so sexy. I got the feeling that working with her would be a great experience.

THE PLAYERS

2007-07-06T15:54:00.000-07:00

After we finished a bottle of wine we ordered one big mountain of a chocolate brownie with chocolate sauce poured over it and whipped cream on top of that. The desert was far too much for one person so we requested three spoons and coffee to go with it. The brownie was so rich and moist and the chocolate sauce and whipped cream so sweet that I was done with it after the first mouthful. As we relaxed enjoying each others’ company, Freddie continued to explain Temp Town.

“To be fair, some people in Temp Town never really wanted to practice law or after doing it for a while they figured out that it wasn’t the thing for them. Regardless, we’re all mixed in it together working long hours doing the laborious dirty work for the small percentage of lawyers who have managed to snatch the golden ring that being a lawyer is storied to be all about: being a Real Lawyer. The Real Lawyers that we interact with around here are Associates and rarely, the Partners. They look down their noses at us and shiver at the thought that they could ever be associated with the gutter-dwellers of the legal profession. After they’ve been belittled, emasculated and stripped of all of their dignity by the Senior Associates and Partners who they report to, they come down from the top floors of their firm to the crowded conference room or unfinished basement level where the Contract Attorneys are and take it out on us.

There are two types of lawyers in Temp Town. There are the Lap Dogs who wish they were Real Lawyers and those who are trying to get away from the practice of law to work with whatever their Passion in life is. Which ever category they fall into, everybody’s got a story to tell. Actually, there’s a third type. These people are in Temp Town not because they couldn’t find work as traditional lawyers and not even because they realized that they don’t want to be lawyers but because they don’t have the social skills to survive in any work place for an extended period of time. The Socios need to be able to work short term because it’s just a matter of time before they do something socially unacceptable that gets them fired from a Real Job anyway.

Truth be told, most lawyers, even the successful ones, aren’t happy with their careers at all. But people in Temp Town don’t seem to care about that. They just want to be Real Lawyers.” “What about the agencies?” I asked her, yearning for more information about Temp Town.

THE GAME

2007-07-03T14:26:00.000-07:00

The meal was great. Although Ben offered to cover the bill I still ordered the cheapest thing I could find on the menu; Lamb with mint sauce. It was the best that I had ever had. The service was also excellent. Waiters and waitresses seemed to float between the tables smiling and asking each customer if they were ok or if they needed something. It seemed as if they could read our minds and were available to cater to all of our needs. I fantasized about getting a foot rub and when our beautiful waitress, with her short blonde hair and long, slender finders came to us once again to make sure that we were absolutely comfortable I wished that I could say, “yes, I really need a foot rub.” I smiled at the thought and asked for another glass of wine instead. As she poured the wine I admired her long muscular, yet feminine arms. She seemed pretty fit. I smiled at her and she smiled back, exposing perfect white teeth framed by plump pink lips. An inexplicable energy flowed between us that gave me the feeling that she could sense that I needed my spirits lifted and she was doing her little part in making that happen.

After the meal we relaxed and got into a conversation about our careers. Feeling like I was among friends I related my experience on the project. Ben’s jaw dropped when I told him how I had been treated and work environment that I had endured but Freddie’s face was expressionless as she attentively listed to my story. She was utterly unimpressed by the saga that had stripped me of my dignity and self-respect.

When I finished my story, Freddie said, “It’s a game and if you don’t know how to play it they’ll chew you up and spit you out and you’ll end up just another washed up, drug-addicted, alcoholic used-to-be lawyer.”
“What do you mean?” I said, truly ignorant of what she was trying to make me understand. “Look, doing contract attorney work isn’t the most attractive thing for a professional to do but if you work it right, you can get what you need and move on to bigger and better things. First, you need to be registered with at least five agencies. This way you don’t have to wait long between projects. Totally eliminate the word ‘loyalty’ from your vocabulary in this business. It’s all about you and getting on the best project available. Keep in touch with all the agencies and if something better comes up. You have to go for it. They’ll try to make you feel bad about leaving but the firm and the agency are only looking out for their best interests as you now know, so you need to look out for yours. When you leave a project, make sure its on good terms because you never know when you might need that agency again. But the most important thing that I can tell you is to try to get yourself out of this thing altogether. It’s extremely stressful wondering whether each day is the last day. That can really put a damper on your budget.”

Freddie reached across the table and handed me a card. It was another employment agency and the name of the agency’s director was listed on it. “Call her and tell her that I told you to call. She’ll hook you up on something in no time.” I was relieve and grateful that I had agreed to have dinner with Ben and Freddie.

BEN AND FREDDIE

2007-07-02T11:11:00.000-07:00

I managed to get a decent pair of pants and a shirt together to get my self ready for dinner. As I navigated the potholed downtown roads toward the restaurant where Ben and his friend were meeting me I noticed that I was going deeper and deeper into the city’s most expensive plots of real estate. My pulse sped up. Any restaurant in this area would definitely mean a bill of at least seventy-five dollars per person. I considered backing out but I didn’t have to guts to think up the lie that would be required to get me a pass on the dinner invitation. I’m getting soft, I thought to myself. There was a time when I wouldn’t hesitate to lay a bald-face lie over a commitment like morning dew gently settling on a quiet field of grass.

I pulled up in front of the restaurant and observed people striding happily toward the entrance. As I passed the restaurant looking for a place to park, I peaked inside. It was one of those chic restaurant decorated with panels of brushed metal and blue with exotic light fixtures that dipped down from exposed rafters where everybody was somebody and the appetizers cost as much as a main dish. I truly couldn’t afford a place like that right now. Every space on the street was taken and the closet parking lot was too far. Reluctantly, I pulled up to the valet stand in front of the restaurant. I handed over my keys and paid the valet. Each dollar that left my hand sent pangs of anxiety through me like bolts of lightening. The valet smiled content to do his job and wait for a tip upon my departure. I dropped my keys into his open hand and rushed toward the doors. When Ben saw me he leapt to his feet, all smiles and excitement. I couldn’t help but be buoyed by the energy that he emanated. “Hey Hank. How are you?” “I’m great,” I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster hoping that my feigned happiness would fool him. “It’s really great to see you. Come on over. I want you to meet Freddie.” I thought he was bringing a female friend. I followed him over to where he had been sitting next to a person who was clearly a woman. “Freddie, Hank, Hank Freddie.” I extended my hand toward a beautiful woman with smooth, dark brown skin. She wore her hair in shoulder-length dreadlocks that were styled in an upswept twist, but a few dangled gently on her face partially covering one of her almond shaped eyes. Her eyes were encircled with long lashes that made them look like she was always squinting. We reached for each other’s hand and shook. Her hand shake was firm, professional. We sat down for dinner.

WAKE UP CALL

2007-06-26T13:11:00.000-07:00

Petty Esquire: A fictional account of the extraordinarily petty, six figure, underbelly of the legal world.

I woke up with a start on the first ring of the phone. I jumped almost to full standing position from the triangular position I had taken on the bare floor. My neck and my back both hurt and my head felt heavy because I had it hung between my knees for so long. I was disoriented because the apartment looked so different so I couldn’t immediately identify the phone. Now standing, my head began to throb. The veins in my temples pulsated radiating pain and the shadows of blood vessels across my eyes.

I found the phone in a corner on the floor where an end table once sat and supported a crystal lamp. “Hello?” I mumbled. The person on the other end of the phone kept repeating my name. After a few seconds his persistence jolted me back to reality. “Hank, it’s me, Ben.” “Oh. Hi.” “What’s going on with you?” He asked. I paused and he jumped in sensing that whatever it was, it wasn’t good. “Look, I’m going out to dinner with a friend of mine tonight, you know the one you met at the bar, and I was calling to invite you. Are you up for it?” I wanted to say no. I had to say no. How could I buy dinner when I had no idea where my next dollar would come from? And my head hurt so badly. The pain was becoming tighter and now it radiated down through my neck and settled in my shoulders. I rubbed my shoulder with my free hand while saying, “I can’t. I really need to get some rest for work tomorrow.” “I really want you there, man. It’ll be fun, just like old times—my treat.” I opened my mouth to respond but nothing came out. My thinking was so muddled that I couldn’t make a quick decision. While I was thinking Ben gave me the address of the restaurant and closed the conversation with, “see you in a couple of hours.” Then he hung up the phone.

I walked to my bedroom. I wasn’t sure if I did it to look for something to wear or to check and see if my fiancee had left any of my things behind. It was conceivable that she would take my stuff too just to piss me off. I guess she really wasn’t getting over my cheating on her. I opened my closet and found all of my things there. I was relieved. Basically she left all of my stuff untouched. I thought that was pretty considerate of her.

I sat on the end of the bed, which had been stripped of its linens. I rolled my neck around trying to get the crick out. While I exercised my aching neck, I closed my eyes and breathed slow, even breaths. I felt like the life that had been punched out of me earlier was coming back.

A MAP OF TEMP TOWN

2007-06-25T13:28:00.000-07:00

Petty Esquire: A fictional account of the extraordinarily petty, six figure, underbelly of the legal world.

I have now spent time in a place I’ve come to know as Temp Town. It’s not really a town or any other type of geographical location. It’s certainly no place that a lawyer would or should plan to go. It’s located in basements and office buildings in every big city in America and even a few small cities. It’s a gritty, dirty place where lawyers land when all of their dreams of earning a position at a law firm or holding a respectable post at a government agency or working as counsel in a corporation have withered under the hot light of reality and crumble into short-term contract jobs at the very law firms, corporations and government agencies that wouldn’t have them as associates or regular employees. There are lawyers there who discovered, too late, that they should never have gone to law school at all. Their gifts lie in another profession or field.

Temp Town is a fictional place where organizations pay qualified attorneys to work on a short term, contract basis to do the same jobs as employees but for much less pay and no benefits or job security. This place can be a lay over for those who want to pursue their passions or change careers or it can be a cesspool of dying souls swirling down into a dark hopeless drain where visions of a career as an attorney wash away like sewage.

As for me, I hope to emerge from Temp Town in a better state than I am in now.

GONE

2007-06-22T11:35:00.001-07:00

Petty Esquire: A fictional account of the extraordinarily petty, six figure, underbelly of the legal world.

When I stepped out of the doors of the firm onto the sidewalk I could barely form a coherent thought. I was devastated. I looked up and the sky was a clear, soft blue with a few wispy white clouds floating lazily by. The sun shone soft and warm across downtown, brightening one side of the street while the other side was shaded by the tall buildings that lined the streets. There was a cool breeze wafting over the hot asphalt keeping the temperature just perfect. People walked busily down the side walks—a young couple smiling brightly and looking excitedly into each others’ eyes; a suited man, walking briskly, erect, probably on his way to a meeting; two skinny teens zipping by on skate boards, their very playful behavior equally threatening harm to everyone around as well as to themselves.

But I was crushed. I walked aimlessly, with no plan or destination. About a half an hour later I ended up at my condominium. It had been my idea to buy a condo downtown. Coming from a small trailer park community in a small town that was situated behind God’s back, it had always been my dream to live downtown. All my years of studying were partly inspired by my dream of one day living in a beautiful condominium in a big city.

The doorman opened the door for me and held it. His starched maroon uniform fit his body perfectly like a glove. It represented the type of orderliness that I had always craved. “Mr. Petty,” he said, greeting me. I did not reply. He did not react.

I headed to the elevator bank, oblivious to the people coming and going around me. My feet burned from the long walk on hot sidewalks in shoes that were uncomfortable but my emotions were too numb to react to the pain. I was going to the only place that I had left to go to as automatically as if I were taking a breath. When I made it to my door and put the key in the lock I had the slightest sense of relief. At least I did still have a place to call home.

I was not prepared for what I saw next. The condo was bare. Everything was gone, from the bedroom furniture to the chandelier in the dining room; from the curtains to the flatware; from the towels to the white furniture that my fiancee had to have. It was all gone. I sat on the floor, hung my head between my knees and stared down at the hardwood floors that were bare now that the carpet had been removed.

WELCOME TO TEMP TOWN

2007-06-21T14:01:00.000-07:00

Petty Esquire: A fictional account of the extraordinarily petty, six figure, underbelly of the legal world.

When she grabbed the sign in sheet as we left the room I felt a chill run down my spine. Now I knew it was definitely something bad. We got outside the door and a few feet down the hall and the paralegal said, “I’ve been made aware that you left the room without signing out. That is against our rules. You signed an agreement that you would not do that and now,” she looked back down at the paper for emphasis, “it appears that you have done that. What are we going to do about that?” This was my only chance at earning an income at the time. I had to plead. “I sincerely apologize. I didn’t fully understand the rules,” I lied. “I promise on my mother’s grave, I’ll never do it again. Please, please, please give me another chance.” “You can stop begging. It’s not up to me. It’s up to the team lead.” Oh no! That guy had been watching me and now I knew that it wasn’t because he wanted to give me a gold star for meeting my clicking quota. “I’ll talk to him,” she said as if he had ascended even her in rank. “I’ll let you know what he decides.” Then she turned on her heels and went back into the room heading for the Team Lead’s desk. She leaned in close to him and they held a whispered conversation.

Meanwhile, I went back to my seat and hurried through documents, clicking as fast as I could to catch up barely looking at the words on the pages. I envied the Team Lead. He held just the kind of power that I needed in an environment like this.

Within five minutes the paralegal came over to me. She didn’t bother to lean over and whisper as she had done with the Team Lead. She tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Pack up your things. You’re off the project.” I looked over at the Team Lead and briefly caught his eye before he lowered his gaze back to his computer screen. Coward! What could I do? How much lower could I get as an attorney than to be fired from a contract job where licensed professionals could be called bottom feeders? The paralegal stood next to me as I gathered the few things on the desk that belonged to me. The entire room had heard her fire me and now, with her hovering over me, she kept their attention focused solely on me. I was beyond humiliation. The old guy next to me patted me on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t feel bad. Welcome to Temp Town. It was nice meeting you. Hopefully I’ll see on another project.

THE WALK

2007-06-20T15:42:00.000-07:00

Petty Esquire: A fictional account of the extraordinarily petty, six figure, underbelly of the legal world.

I looked over at the new team lead and just at that moment, he looked in my direction and our eyes locked briefly. “Shit!” I whispered, and looked away. It was like we were in a prison camp and the guard had his eyes on me. I didn’t need that kind of attention. I just wanted to do my time, make my money and move on. I’d done the math. At thirty-five dollars and hour, sixty hours a week, I could earn over $100,000.00 a year doing this. After taxes it was just enough for me to pay my bills and survive until I could find a real job.

Just then the paralegal walked in. Her gait was more confident than before. I looked up when she entered the room then quickly returned to my work. They had given us a quota to review one hundred documents a day and I had a lot of catching up to do since I had sneaked out.

To my shock and surprise, the paralegal ended her confident walk at my little corner of the folding table. I slowly looked up and said, “Hi”. She rolled her eyes and responded, “Hi. I need to talk to you.” She paused for emphasis then added in a nasty tone, “Privately! Come with me.” To the extent that one could in a tiny, hot, room crammed with 42 people, I tried to be discreet, even smiling broadly and panning the room with my head held high looking into each gazing eye to make it appear that indeed I was special to be following the paralegal. There was nothing wrong. You guys are all losers because you’re not making this walk.

STEALING TIME

2007-06-19T12:41:00.000-07:00

I nodded at the guard as I made my way through the lobby past her desk. She looked me up and down, as if that in some way contributed to the security of the building. For the first time, she smiled at me and I barely mustered a stiff smile, still stinging from the gut-punch I had just experienced when I called my old firm. I wondered as I passed the guard if she was happy in her job. I wondered if she could pay all of her bill and whether she was college-educated. I asked myself if I could live on the salary of a building security guard.

As I slipped by the guard desk my thoughts of what her life must be like were left behind in my wake. Then I went down to the basement and having gotten back there in just an hour I felt relieved. In such a crowded room I was confident that no one had missed me.

At the door I stopped briefly to compose myself and look natural. Then I went through the maze of folding tables and chairs and made it back to my spot at the end of the table between the old guy and the former stay-at-home mom. They were both busily clicking, moving from one document to the next and appeared not to notice my return. Then the former stay-at-home mom leaned in toward me and whispered, after looked to her left and then to her right, “The paralegal was looking for you.” She as if she had an interest in whatever the paralegal needed with me. Her face was inexpressive yet conveyed an unspoken message. I couldn’t put my finger on it—pride, sympathy, empathy, apathy, disgust, hatred—something was there but I wasn’t exactly sure what message she was trying to send me. Or was she?

There was a piece of something that looked like doughnut glaze at the corner of her mouth that came into view as she craned her white, fleshy neck across the table to whisper this news to me. I tried to avert my eyes, but I couldn’t help but look at it. I started to tell her but decided against it. The sooner I could end the conversation the better. I looked around and noticed that someone had brought in several boxes of doughnuts. I was glad that I had missed the feeding frenzy.

Then the old guy next to me indicated in the direction of the black guy that I had identified as my only possible rival, two rows away from me. “He’s been designated as the team lead.” “What’s that?” I asked. “Just a middle-man that the firm and the agency use to convey their decisions and enforce their policies on us without having to have the balls to face us themselves. It’s typical corporate crap; always have a snitch among the lowly masses. He’s one of us but Team Leads can make your life hell, so watch your back, buddy. They think they’re something special because among us they’re at the top of the heap and they make a couple of dollars more per hour for being glorified snitches.” The old guy shrugged it off and turned back to his computer screen.

BLACKLISTED

2007-06-18T12:54:00.001-07:00

At 1:30 pm. I went to the rest room, practically wading through all of its grossness. There was toilet paper all over the floors. Two of the three commodes were overflowing. The faucets trickled only a tiny stream of brownish water and there was no soap. I had to hold my breath the entire time that I was in there. I felt like I needed a bath after leaving that bathroom. After that ordeal, I went back to my seat, pretending to continue to click through documents. It was mindless work and the firm didn’t care. From what I heard other contract attorneys saying, they had already worked out a deal for the merger with the government anyway and we were just going through the motions for the benefit of the shareholders and the public. About five minutes later I walked out of the room without signing out, my head held high with a brisk gait as if I was entitled to do so. I walked four blocks to a quiet park with birds and squirrels jumping around and only a few people. I found an unoccupied bench and made the call.

I got through to the partner’s office and his secretary answered as expected. I exercised through the usual niceties, saying hi and asking her how she was doing. She replied with complete lack of recognition of who I am, “I’m fine sir, how can I help you?” Her tone surprised me. I had worked with this woman for a year, covering for her when she had to pick her children up from school or run some errand or another and stepping in when her boss was about to can her ass for some small thing or another and now she acts as if she doesn’t even know me? What a piece of shit! I let out a grunt in disgust, fighting back the tongue lashing that I desperately wanted to give her. I cursed her in my mind instead then I asked for the partner. She responded coldly, “Please hold, I’ll see if he’s available.” I stayed on hold for a few minutes, through the music and intermittent ads for the firm, contemplating all the possible ways this thing could turn out. I had paid my dues, I worked hard, I kissed ass for this firm and made them money, surely that counted for something. Then sleepy music stopped and the receiver went live again. “He’s not available at this time,” she said with an attitude. I couldn’t believe my ears. I knew exactly what this was. My office was right next to his and I had heard him play that game with people a million times before but this time it was me he was doing it to. “I know he’s there,” I insisted. “We both know he’s there. I just need a couple of minutes of his time. You know I’ve been there for you. I’m asking you to please put me through so that I can talk to him.” I paused, quit pathetically. “It’s very, very, important. Please, I just need a minute.” My pleas fell on deaf ears. “I’m sorry sir; he’s not available at this time. He also told me to tell you that you can forget about applying at other top firms because after what you did to him he had a duty to inform his colleagues of the type of behavior that you are capable of.” I could feel an icy wall building up around me. A glacier of outrage and sheer hatred moved slowly but very steadily between the firm and me and I knew that it was over. That chance that I had dreamed of, that I thought was a guarantee based on my history of hard work and dedication, late hours, ass-kissing was all gone, melted away. In an instant I was blacklisted.

I took several deep breaths and flexed my muscles one group at a time starting from my face to my toes just like the occupational therapist had taught me when I was briefly hospitalized in the mental ward after my first year of law school. I felt better but it still didn’t relive me of the trauma that I had just experienced. It did, however, allow me to accept that whatever had just happened I still had my contract attorney job. I sat for a moment after hanging up from the partner’s secretary, taking it all in and preparing myself to move on. Finally I hurried back to the project.

PLANNING AN ESCAPE

2007-06-15T11:17:00.001-07:00

I got to the project at 7:30 am. My plan was to get in early, do my 12 hours and get out early. With a half hour for lunch I could leave at 8:00 pm and still have a couple of hours of free time for myself. When I got in I passed the guard desk and the black lady with braided hair gave me a nod, approving my passage into the holy realm of the firm. I took the elevator down and entered the bowels of the firm, then I signed in as I was required to and promptly reported to my desk. I checked to make sure that all of my shit was there before getting started. The thought of the old guy who sat next to me or the former stay-at-home mom who sat across from me interfering with my stuff just for fun had crossed my mind. That would really piss me off.

There were just a couple of people there when I entered the hot oven of a workspace. I immediately signed on to the computer and got to work. One of the others there was the black guy that I identified as my only viable rival at the beginning of the project. I recalled that whenever I looked up to give my eyes a break from the computer screen or whatever, he was eyeing me. Also, whenever he passed me to go to the bathroom, he glanced over at me as if we had a history or something. It could have all been in my head but I didn’t get it. I wanted to engage him but I was trying to keep a low profile knowing that my time as a contract attorney would be very limited, so why should I give a damn what he thought about me. I was from the world that existed in the clean, cool floors above us but he was part of this hot, dank world.

As the morning droned on, more and more of the contract attorneys who shared our tiny space filed in, taking their seats, turning on their computers and making the hot room even hotter.

At 10:00 a.m. the paralegal and the pompous associate entered the room and took center stage in the middle of the room. Shockingly, they were followed by a seemingly endless procession of about thirty people. I would have bet my life that there were no more available places for any human to comfortably sit in that room but the entourage of new contract attorneys were followed a group of men carrying folding tables, chairs and computers. Within twenty minutes, the group of twelve contract attorneys stuffed into a hot, tiny, unfinished basement room exploded to forty two people. More people, more body heat, more computers, more potential for interpersonal problems. I could not believe it. After briefly closing my eyes and taking a deep breath of the hot stagnant air in the room trying to calm myself I decided it was time to follow through on my dream. I had to get back to my old firm.
From where I sat, I could see the sign in sheet. I had observed that quite often, people actually didn’t sign out when they left the room. Hey, there was no authority figure to watch them and we were paid by the hour so it’s easy to see why they did it. My plan was to walk out of the room and make the phone call to the partner at my old firm creating a win-win situation. I would get myself back in the firm while losing no money on this job. The mortgage and condo fee were due in a couple of days and I was already worried about how I would pay them without my fiancee’s contribution. Then there’s my student loan payment of almost $900.00 due next week. I had about $3,000.00 saved in the bank and about $1,000.00 in my 401k but that could only carry me for another month. Even when I was making one-fifty at the firm, I was living paycheck to paycheck after taxes and paying all my bills. When I added it all up my economic situation was hardly better than the lady at the café who served my coffee every morning for little more than minimum wage. We were both living paycheck to paycheck. That thought both depressed me and motivated me. When I thought about skipping out of the project to call my old firm without signing out I figured there was so little at risk considering what I had to gain.

A NEW DAY

2007-06-14T11:38:00.000-07:00

The combination of multiple beers that I practically inhaled and those good old yellow pills must have knocked me out last night. Out of habit, I woke up at 5:30 am still sprawled across my fiancee’s precious white sofa. Ben was gone. I noticed a quarter-sized brown stain on the pristine white fabric and felt a bubble joyful of revenge inside me. People make mistakes, damn it! I slammed my hand on the sofa. She could have given me a chance.

I opened and closed my mouth, tasting it. It still tasted like beer. I headed for the bathroom to clean up. While brushing my teeth I recalled the dream that I had the night before. I had a strong history of remembering my dreams and it is very important to me since I make many of my most important decisions in my dreams. I dreamed that I had contacted my old firm, talked with my mentor and explained how terribly wrong everything had gone. I begged his forgiveness and pleaded with him to consider that I had a clean record with the firm. I humbly requested that as a tried and true money-maker for the firm, he should give me another chance and that he and the other partners could rest assured on my mother’s grave --unfortunately my mother was alive and well-- I would never let such an act of insubordination and emotional display of lack of control occur. Partners love when their subordinates express their ability to put everything and everyone that means anything to them below the partners. In my dream the partner replied, “We were hoping that you would call. We hated to lose you buddy. When can you come back?” Then I said, “Sir, I’m available to the firm immediately. I am ready, willing and able to serve at your pleasure.” I smiled as I brushed my teeth, remembering the happy dream where everything worked out and things at the firm changed. People were nicer, treated each other with respect and dignity we each deserved as professionals. This, my real life, it was the nightmare and my dream was my reality and I would bring it to fruition sometime today when I got the chance to sneak away from the contract attorney lock-down that I found myself in. It felt kind of stupid even though there was no one else around but I smiled, toothpaste foam lathered around my lips. I had figured it out and things would be back to normal soon.

I got dressed with a song in my heart and pep in my step. Everyone has set backs, I thought. These things make you stronger. Now I can say that I’ve been there and I’ve done that and I can get back on the road to the phenomenal success that is my destiny. Screw my fiancée! I’m still on my way to a great future and I don’t need her ass to get there!

I finished getting dressed, still riding high on my renewed confidence; I looked in the mirror and admired my clean shave and my freshly washed hair. For my day in the dungeon I dressed to fit my attitude. I wore washable slacks, a pair of brown leather loafers, a blue cotton button-down shirt and a universally appreciated blue tie—very toned down and not obviously expensive but classy enough to impress with my keen sense of fashion. My fiancée had taught me that. She told me that half of what makes a professional man is how he looks. She taught me what to wear, when and why. She also advised me the best hair cut that framed my face at it’s most attractive, as she said. She showed me how to stand with a posture that exuded confidence and how to walk into any room and command respect. Ours was a perfect pairing: great genes from me and top notch pedigree from her. Damn! Now I have to do it all for myself. The whole had become half.

FED UP

2007-06-13T12:48:00.000-07:00

The whole experience wore on me and I’m sure that’s why when that partner freaked out on me, instead of doing what I would normally do, which is, suck it up and move on, I got the hell out of there even without a plan.” I looked over at Ben. He was still focused on me; Listening to me. We had been great friends in college but I still couldn’t believe that I was confessing all of this to him. “Without a plan, man. That’s not like me,” I said, looking down at my beer. “Yeah, man but were you happy there?” He asked, always the rational person. “Hell no!” I grunted. Then you did yourself a favor. You’re out. Hopefully you can find a more fulfilling career path.” He took a long slug of his beer and then looked at the label again. “This is good stuff man. Thanks.” “Sure,” I said. I was glad that we had had the exchange. I had dumped my sorrows on him but he seemed glad to be there for me and it helped that I had his favorite beer available.Ben looked around the condo, walking through the living room, the dining room and the kitchen. “How many bedrooms?” “Two.” This place is really nice. I bet it cost you a pretty penny.” “Yeah, it’s great. My fiancée and I put it all together. Mostly her though. Look at the view.”

Ben walked over to the large picture window that spanned almost one entire wall. “Wow! This is awesome.” “I lost my fiancée but I got to keep this great place and the great stuff we put in it. It’s not exactly a great deal but it’s not too bad either.” “Have you heard from her since she left,” Ben asked, still staring out at the glimmering lights dotting the city for as far as they eye could see. “No. She cut me off just like that.” “We’ll you must have expected it. What you did was really foul. Have you called her?” “No way! I know what I did was wrong but we had years together. How could she let one indiscretion just throw that all away? She wouldn’t even listen to my defense. I think we could have gotten past it but she didn’t even listen. She’s so pissed that she hasn’t even claimed her half of all this stuff we bought together. It wasn’t cheap either. She insisted on Teak furniture, this high end white furniture, an antique bedroom set, customized window stuff. It’s what she was used to all her life. She’s always been surrounded by beautiful things. In a way I envy her. She went to all good schools, then college and graduate school with no loans and mommy and daddy right there ready to help whenever she so much as whimpered. People like her are always ahead of the game.”

Ben walked back over to the sofa from the window. He appeared to have shed some stress from taking in the breathtaking view. “Look. It happened and now it’s over. No use getting bitter over it.”After the talk I felt a little better. The little yellow pill opened my mind and the beer made me feel light. It was a perfect combination but I wished that I could function without either of them.

I WISH I KNEW THEN WHAT I KNOW NOW

2007-06-12T12:58:00.001-07:00

Now I understand what he was trying to say. He was really telling us, “you pathetic fools have no chance. The plan has already been made. The people who are the children and the friends of those who hold all of the power will make it to the top and the rest of you will have to lick our boots and hope that you will gain entrance into our fraternity. Even then, you will never really be one of us and we will constantly remind you of this. The die has been cast, the plan set in motion. Save yourself while you can.” I wish on my life that I had understood then what he was trying to tell me. Ben looked at me. He looked me deep into my eyes. It was as if I had said something that he knew deep inside for years but could never face. This was a truth too painful to face after the sacrifice that we had made.“What happened to me man? Really. What happened?”“Life happened,” Ben replied cautiously, not wanting to offend me or kill my high. We looked at each other and laughed feeling there was nothing else more appropriate at that moment. He was sensitive enough to know that this was not a conversation; it was Hank’s therapy. "I did everything that I was supposed to do. I did real well in high school. Got myself, and you know what I mean when I say myself, into a good college then a great law school. I was full of hope for the future. I could only see a golden path free of obstacles ahead of me. Then, when I get there I think I’m just going to follow the rules, get with a good mentor and work hard. I was willing to work as hard as they wanted in exchange for mentoring, training, experience and upward mobility. Man, they sold us a bill. A god damned bill of goods for a big, heaping, steaming pile of bullshit. I did get a good mentor but a few months into my time as a well paid associate…oh, did I tell you that I started at $150?” “No, that’s great man. You’re worth every penny.” Yeah, that’s what I thought. “Hmm,” I grunted, with disgust.
“I had negotiated by playing the firms that were competing for me against each other. I felt pretty good about pulling that off." I looked across at Ben and smiled and then looked back down at my beer. "Anyway, a few months into the associate thing I realized it was all just a game. One big game! I saw the same petty competition as in law school. It was like being hazed. The senior associates looked for every opportunity to humiliate junior associates. The partners preyed on everyone, stomping along the gilded, plush halls looking for someone to pick on. And the thing that sickened me the most was the way that associates seemed to line up for that abuse. I couldn’t understand it. Is this what we went through that entire college and law school struggle for? To be hazed? Privately I was very disappointed but I still wanted to get that gold ring so I started to play along. I ingratiated myself with the most influential senior associates and partners. I could do it more easily than many of the others because doing good work came easy for me and for the most part the partners and senior associates were lazy. They were always on the look out for super talented fresh associate blood to steal work from and call it their own. But the other associates were the worst. Part of their program to kiss ass and ascend the ladder at any cost involved trying to destroy other associates. I once had another associate steal a brief that I had written and claim credit for it. We were at a departmental meeting when it was exposed I was so shocked that I couldn’t even respond. I just sat there and shook my head in disbelief. Anyway, I knew that I would just make things worse by calling him out. So I started looking over my shoulders even more after that. I got in earlier than everyone else and stayed later so that I could work in peace without having to do office battle with the other associates all of the time and lick the asses of the senior associates and partners.

BEER AND CONVERSATION

2007-06-11T13:54:00.000-07:00

LOOKING BACK

I drained the last drops of beer straight down my throat and went to the fridge to get another one. Then I slogged back to the white sofa and dropped myself into it. It was so plush and comfortable that I could see why my fiancée had to have it. I felt like the beer wasn’t clearing my head enough. I wanted to forget everything—losing my job, losing my fiancée and the day at the temp job. The beer needed some help so I reached into my pocket for one of the little yellow pills that my psychiatrist so thankfully and easily provided me with. I held the tiny precious pill up in front of my face. “Thank you,” I whispered to it and stared at it as if it would make conversation me. Then I popped it in my mouth and chased it with mouthful of cold beer. Then I stretched out and leaned back again to let the beer and the yellow pill work their magic. Before my mind had been speeding, jumping from one bad aspect of my life to another, now it began to slow down and it came to a gentle pause on her. I wondered if my fiancée would ever be back. Maybe she would come back for some of the furniture since we bought it together. Then I could make her dinner and buy her flowers and get down on my knees and tell her that I was so, so very sorry about what I had done. She worked in a high stress environment where she was required to work long hours too, just like me. Maybe she would reconsider and then we could plan to make special time to be together so that I would be tempted to have sex with anyone else. Right there in my booze and drug induced haze it sounded like a done deal. I’d arrange for this meeting to happen and we’d work things out. My body still laying limp on the sofa, spread out crucifixion style, I smiled to myself, first softly and then widely. I would get her back and our plans for the future would be on track again.

That problem resolved I wondered when my relationship with the little pills had begun. Oh, I know. I was my last year of law school and I was at the top of everything. I was in the top ten percent of my class, I was the editor of law review, I was the class president and I was sought after by the top law firms in town. All of that added to my cache on campus. Everyone hated me and wanted to be me at the same time. The competition was so stiff that you had to watch your back. Getting into a top firm was the one thing that every student at my law school wanted and they would do anything to get it. There was an incident where a second year student, a girl too, threw a guy’s computer away. She tossed it in the dumpster in the back of the law school. By the time the rumor made the rounds it was too late. He searched everywhere for the computer. He searched the entire law school, his apartment, every coffee house, and store or anywhere he had been at the time that the lap top disappeared. By the time he caught wind of the rumor that it had been thrown in the dumpster it was the next morning. The trash had been collected and the laptop was crushed along with tons of trash in the back of a garbage truck. He could never prove who did it so there was nothing he could do. The offending girl’s clique wasn’t talking because they would benefit from his violent bump several rungs down the law school ladder of competition just as well as she would.

Well I was taking a bus from my small apartment to the law school to finish up an article and then prepare for an interview with a firm that I was scheduled for the next day. Halfway there for no apparent reason I began to feel hot. I started sweating profusely and I struggled to breathe. Suddenly it felt like every cell in my body jumped to life and I instinctively reach for the man sitting next to me. He glared at me and pulled back. My heart was beating so hard that he could hear it. I knew it because even though he had slid as far away from me as he could, he stared down at my chest with a look of puzzlement. My palms were sweating profusely and I continued to struggle to breathe. I felt like the walls of the bus were closing in on me and my vision was dimming. Lacking adequate oxygen I began feeling light heading. I tried to calm myself by telling my self this wasn’t happening; it was nothing; it would pass, put it didn’t. It just intensified. I still had just enough consciousness to press the bell for the bus to stop. I got up and worked my way to the nearest exit. It felt like the bus would never stop. I just kept thinking if this bus doesn’t stop now I’m pushing the doors open and jumping off. I was going crazy. I just knew that it was all over. My brilliant career as an accomplished attorney was slipping away for a reason I couldn’t even understand. Finally the bus stopped and I jumped off. I bent over and pressed my palms against my knees, gasping for air. I didn’t even care who saw me. It was a matter of survival. I was disoriented and although I was very familiar with that part of the city I felt lost. I didn’t know where to start, how to get home. I know that I couldn’t be inside. That was the only thing that I knew. With the few neurons that were still firing in my brain I was able to make a plan. I walked home and called a psychiatrist. I was never one to believe in psychiatry. I thought it was just a bunch of mumbo jumbo where people made money off of weak cry babies. At that moment I had to get past that and get some help. Everything was on the line. The first number I came to was my Middle-Eastern; cold, wrinkled psychiatrist with no personality who I thought could just as easily be sitting across the table from me getting psychiatric care as I did with him every four weeks. I’ve been seeing him since then.

BEER AND CONVERSATION

My bout of reminiscence was interrupted by the phone ringing. I answered. It was the doorman letting me know that Ben was downstairs and whether he could come up. I said yes and went to the door to wait for Ben. Then I thought better, drained my beer and went back to the kitchen for my third and one for Ben. The more I drank the more I wanted. When I got back to the foyer, the door bell was ringing. I opened the door and flung my arms around him. Ben seemed surprised but he was obviously trying to hide it. “Hi man. I am so glad that you came here tonight. I’m telling you. I really wanted some company tonight.” Ben stepped into the condo and closed the door. He could tell that I was hopped up on something and as was his nature, he was evaluating the situation. “Come on in, man. Make yourself comfortable. Mi casa es tu casa.” I threw that old one out there. “Here, this is for you. It’s nice and cold. Don’t nurse it, now, go for it. I’ve had a couple already myself. You know, just like old times. You know, you…you remember.” I stopped because I could hear myself stammering and slurring my words. I was bordering between drunk but functional and spilling over the edge into total inebriation. I knew that Ben wouldn’t take me too seriously. He sat down on the white sofa and I sat next to him, not too close.He took a sip of his beer and looked at the label. “Hey, this is my favorite too.” “Yeah, man. Did you think I forgot? We had good times back then. You’re my guy man. You’re a guy that I can trust you know.” “Yeah, man. Of course.” I told him about how my fiancee left me and then about my day and he listened silently as if he was back in International Political Relations class in college with that great professor who wrapped us in enthralling stories that painted the perfect picture of the subject and lead us like mice under the spell of the pied piper straight to A’s in the course. On that last day when the grades came out we high fived each other in front of the grade board. Everyone knew what that meant. The jocks on campus had done it again. That meant there would be a party at our place that nice. Those were the good days. The innocent day when we still believed that only greatness, prosperity, success and joy lay on the road ahead. You know what it reminds me of?” “What”? He said, knowing it was just a rhetorical question. He too a suck on his beer and then looked back at me. It reminds me of the time after passing the bar when we had to take that mandatory course about, about um, ah,” I stumbled over my words and snapped my fingers. “Oh yeah, professional responsibility. At the end of the day there was a speech from an ‘experienced attorney in the community’ they called him. Ben stared, wondering where my meandering speech was leading. The man looked about 55. He was dressed in all of the best name brand casual clothing and the evidence of old money dripped off of him. It was the simple things like the monogrammed French cuff short with gold cuff links with what looked like a family emblem matched with a pair of khaki pants and well-made loafers to make the top half of his outfit look casual. Still you know that this man had money. And what did he tell the room of eager, attentive, newly admitted lawyers? “Don’t waste your time spending too much time in the office. One thing that I regret is not having spent enough time with my children when they were growing up. Don’t make that mistake. Take time out for yourself and your family and don’t take the profession of law too seriously.” I sat there, smiling a plastic smile while thinking to myself, “you bastard. Now that you’ve made it to the top, a partner of some prestigious, wealthy firm, and you now come here to try to discourage us from taking the same steps that you took. You filthy bastard!” I thought while smiling politely pretending to take his advice to heart.

LONLINESS

2007-06-08T13:25:00.000-07:00

By the end of my 12 hour shift, I was mentally exhausted from sitting in front of the computer for so long. My back ached because I had to distort my posture constantly in an effort to find a comfortable position in the metal folding chair. At my old firm I was used to comfortable aero-designed chairs. This was nothing like that. Since I had decided not to partake in the pizza party I was beyond hungry, I was starving. The room had quieted down a bit as the time got later. People seemed to wind down like wind up toys on the last few turns of their key. For the people who had been doing this for a long time I wondered how someone could subject themselves to this type of torture for any sustained period of time without losing one’s mind. Amazingly, even after having been cramped in room with so many people I felt lonely. It was as if I was a ship that had lost its course.

Almost all at once the contract attorneys started packing our things like a group of school children responding to the third period bell to change classes. At each stage the experience became more and more humiliating. I proceeded slowly, hoping that the old guy next to me and the former stay-at-home mom across from me would leave before I did, allowing me to avoid any interaction with them. This was the one thing that went my way for the entire day. I got up from the metal folding chair and stretched my aching muscles. I groaned in pain as my muscles contorted searching for their normal position after twelve straight hours of sitting in an uncomfortable position. I logged off of the computer, straightened my stack of papers and then reached for my suit jacket on the back of the chair. I lifted the jacket lightly but the hem was stuck to the floor. “Oh my God!” I half yelled. The contract attorneys still remaining in the room turned to see what was happening. I could not believe it. My jacket was ruined. There was carpet glue all along the bottom of my jacket and I was sure the dry cleaners couldn’t get it out. I nice-looking lady who looked like she was also a recent law grad stepped over to me tentatively and asked if I was ok. I didn’t even respond. I just stared at my ruined jacket and eventually, unable to get a response from me she walked away.

When I got home to my condo I was relieved. Home never felt better. Here it’s cool and there are no foul odors and no stupid contract attorneys and pompous associates and paralegals to deal with. The only problem was that for the first time I was alone. My fiancée was gone and I had no one to talk to. I wanted to talk about my day; what I had gone through; ways to get myself out of the muck that I was in but by my own selfish acts I had chased a great woman away. Even the way I handled the situation after she found out was stupid. There was no excuse for what I had done and I shouldn’t have tried to make up any. I was a jerk!

I grabbed a cold beer from the refrigerator and took a gulp. The alcohol went straight to my head since I hadn’t eaten in hours. As I sat on the white sofa that my fiancée insisted that we have, I felt needier than I ever had. I had to; no I needed to talk to someone.

The only person that I could think of to call was Ben. I called him up and asked him if he could come over to watch a game of hockey. It was something we both were passionate about so I figured he wouldn’t say no. I surely couldn’t tell the guy that I wanted him to come over so we could talk. His response was muffled, as if he was eating, but he agreed to come over. I chugged almost half the beer in one long gulp and let it settle into my blood stream. I began to feel better. As the alcohol mellowed me I stretched my arms across the top of the white sofa, beer in one hand and the other hand laid open to the ceiling above. From that vantage point I could see the beautiful chandelier in the dining room that my fiancée and I had picked out. Slowly a feeling of warmth started spreading from my fingertips and my toes up through my arms and legs and then sliding through my organs like a warm massage. I began to miss my fiancée even more then. I wanted sex and there was no one around to make love to.

CLICK, CLICK

2007-06-07T13:08:00.000-07:00

For the next eight hours I sat in my corner, my papers precariously hanging over the edge of the folding table and my hair soaked with sweat reviewing documents on the computer. There wasn’t much to it. Look at the document, determine if it was relevant to the criteria that we were given, click to make a decision then click to move to the next document and do it all over again. There were a couple of guys across the room having a conversation about online porn. They continued talking about websites, meeting prostitutes online and making their girlfriends watch the porn with them. Everyone around them shot sharp looks and hemmed and hawed, clearly indicating they didn’t want to hear the conversation but they just continued. Then a large woman chimed in from two tables away to inform us that she and her husband are swingers. Now we had to hear how she is gay and her husband is bi-sexual and they like to introduce each other to new partners. I couldn’t believe my ears.

Finally at about 8:00 pm, the paralegal and the associate came back both holding a stack of pizza boxes in front of them. They cleared a section of a table, put the boxes down and left. Before they were fully out of the room, people swarmed around the pizza boxes. It was as if they had never eaten before. Just the thought of the old bathroom guy touching pizza and then me following him made me nauseated. I watched my nemesis, the former stay-at-home mom stack three slices of pizza on her plate. She was clearly already two slices away from a heart attack and I bet her husband frequently reminded her of this. That was probably the source of her anger.

While most of the contract attorneys eagerly lined up for their pizza, I continued clicking the mouse, making relevancy calls and going from one page to the next. The case was an interesting one. A merger of the sort I would have worked on at my old firm. I’m pretty sure I read about it on the cover of the Financial Times a few weeks before but here I was doing the dirty work. I hated that. I could imagine the associate upstairs in his plush office working in a comfortable air-conditioned environment with his attention on actual important work. He was probably doing research, preparing pleadings, planning meetings to deal with the important negotiations of the deal.

I thought about calling my old firm back again. I looked at my watch—two more hours and I would have satisfied my 12 hour requirement and I’d be free to go.

BOTTOM FEEDERS

2007-06-06T10:28:00.000-07:00

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.

HOPE SPRINGS

2007-06-04T12:16:00.000-07:00

The day’s developments had left me distraught and despondent. I returned to my small corner at the end of the desk next to the old man. I noticed that he had taken over another five inches of my space. I looked at him with disgust and he stared back as if to dare me to even ask about what he had done. I looked away. It wasn't worth it. I inched my chair a little closer to the edge and slid my papers toward the edge of the table.

The place was so hot. The air was stagnant and it felt as if there was no air-conditioning on. I looked around the room and almost everyone else had abandoned the appearance of professionalism, with some men having removed their ties and unbuttoned their shirts. I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of my folding chair. The chair was so low that the hem of my designer jacket sat crumpled on the glue-streaked floor. People were using their papers to fan themselves but I knew that was a self-defeating effort. All of this and it was just lunch time. I had only had a bagel and cream cheese with a glass of orange juice for breakfast so now my stomach began to growl. The old man had the audacity to sneer at me when my stomach growled. The guy who encroached on my tiny space was offended by my unintended bodily sound. What nerve!

I have always been a self-starter. My excessive confidence was one of my best and most distinguishing attributes. As I continued to read my documents, I began to create a mental plan of action. First I considered going back to my old firm. After a second of consideration I decided to put that idea in the “possibility” category of my mental action plan. Next I thought I should send my resume to other prominent law firms in the city. After all, I had graduated from a top law school in the top of my class and as editor of the law review. And I had been scouted by many of the top firms in my third year of law school and turned down three other top firms to take the associate position at my old firm. That idea was definitely at the top of my list. I began to feel hopeful. The next option was to send my resume to law firms in other cities. That’s a good one too. Then I had to consider the option of continuing to do what I was doing even if temporarily. I put that idea below the option of going back to my old firm. After just half a day, that possibility was painfully sad.

OUT OF THE FRYING PAN…

2007-06-01T12:25:00.000-07:00

My spirit crushed, I decided to find a seat hoping that things would improve somehow. Each time I took a step my shoes stuck to the glue on the floor. I found a spot on the end of the table and put my papers down in the small space in front of the computer. There was no space available on either side. One of the old guys was seated next to me and the recovering stay-at-home mom was across from me. I started to review the documents that the paralegal had given us about the background of the case but shortly thereafter I began to smell a strange scent. I looked all around and couldn’t tell where it was coming from until I noticed that the bathrooms were about six feet behind me. Just then the other old guy walked out of the men’s bathroom with a newspaper folded under his arm. When the door closed behind him the foulest smelling gust of air rushed in my direction. I didn’t want to be rude but I had to cover my nose. The old guy looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. He just proceeded to his seat while the rest of us endured the odor. By lunch time the room had gotten so hot that people were shedding their clothes. Sweat streamed down my face and dripped onto my documents. I needed fresh air but I didn’t want to go outside before someone came back to give us further instructions about the project. After a long argument with myself I decided that I would dare to enter the bathroom. As I swung my feet to get up, I kicked the former stay-at-home mom and she screamed so loud you would have thought that I shot her. I wish I could have. “My foot, my foot,” she repeated as she bent under the table rubbing her injured foot. I started to walk away then thought that would be too cold so since I was the one who had kicked her I went to her aid although there really was nothing that I could do. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said in a low tone trying to contain the matter to our area of the room. The woman jumped out of her seat, showing no further signs of injury. With her face five inches from mine she yelled, “get away from me. You did that on purpose. I saw you looking at me.”
“What are you talking about?” I backed away from the crazed woman hoping she would calm down. She approached me and pushed me against the table. I felt a tight ball of shame materialize in my stomach, which grew into anger and then exploded into rage. I knew that everyone in the room could tell that this moment could change the rest of my life and stay-at-home mom’s life too because a hush fell on the room and all eyes were on us. I had heard about ways to calm oneself in moments of extreme stress but I had never had to exercise them in my carefully ordered education and career. In a split second I realized that if I did what I wanted to do to this woman not only would I lose my job but I might be criminally charged and brought before the bar. She got lucky. I took a long deep breath and counted backward from ten. I lifted myself off of the table while still holding my breath. I walked toward the bathroom taking each step slowly, using the time to calm myself and eliminate thoughts of bashing that woman’s head in. I was getting dizzy from the lack of oxygen but I held my breath until I got into the bathroom and when I finally inhaled I took in a breath of such toxic air that it burned my lungs. All the while she just stood there like a statue. She too realized that she had narrowly escaped death just then.

The bathroom was a mess. The toilets were overflowing and water only trickled from the faucets. There wasn't even any soap. I wondered how many hand I had shaken of people who used the bathroom and didn't or couldn't wash their hands. I looked at my hands, disgusted by the thought.

WHAT THE HELL?

2007-05-31T13:08:00.000-07:00

The paralegal announced that we were moving out of the conference room and into the offices where we would be working. I made my way to the door and stood behind her. I figured if I flirted with her a little I could get a good office. She certainly wasn't the type of woman I would go after. Her face was mousy, with small, dark eyes and her hair was white and wispy although she looked like she couldn't be more than thirty. The only thing that made her worth looking at was her shapely body and the tight dress that she wore to bring attention to it.

We marched down the pristine halls of the firm like a row of elementary school children passing extravagant vases and original wood carvings. The art that lined the walls was stunning and the carpet soft and plush. The corridor walls glowed white as if they had just been painted. Everything was clean, shiny and expensive. I was reminded that I had occupied this world of luxury and sense of pride rose inside me when I thought about the fact that I had managed to reenter this rarefied environment such a short period of time. I basked in the light of my own unmitigated resilience as I thought about how nice my office must be.

At the end of the hall we entered an open area where there was a different bank of elevators than the ones where we entered the firm. I continued to stay close to the paralegal as we boarded an elevator. I was determined not to be cheated out of the best office. We went down to the basement level and exited. I recalled that the supply room at my old firm was in the basement so I began to wonder if perhaps she was taking us to the supply room to collect our supplies before going to our offices but as that thought crossed my mind she said, “Here we are”, with a broad smile. She was happy to have brought us to this dim, musty basement. There were boxes stacked up against all of the walls. The room was set up with rows of folding tables end to end from one side of the room to the other. Computers and keyboards on the tables were two inches apart and for each computer there was a chair at the table. There were computers and chairs on both sides of the rows of table and the hard drives were under the tables in between the small space that separated the chairs. I watched the experienced people immediately fan out scoping for the best seat among bad choices. I was still trying to figure out what exactly was going on when I tried to lift my foot to take a step. That’s when I noticed that the floor was cement and still streaked with glue from the carpet having been pulled up. As I surveyed the place I looked up and couldn't see the ceiling through the pipes, wires and tile frames that blocked it. The place was a dump. I finally asked the paralegal if this would be where we would work. She replied rather rudely, “Yes. Did you think you would actually get an office?” Then she walked away, laughing audibly as she entered the elevator. I hated her from that moment on.

I’M THE ALPHA MALE

2007-05-30T12:07:00.000-07:00

I finished completing and signing my documents first and handed them to the paralegals. The others finished at a much slower pace delaying our training. Once they were done, the paralegal introduced another employee. It was a man who she introduced as an associate. I shot him a confident smile meant to him know that we were comrades and that he could count on me to do excellent work. He smiled back then took his place in front of the conference room. He stood facing us with his back to a huge mirror that overlooked the busy street below. He was dressed in khaki pants, a white shirt and a blue blazer. The look was casual yet, it insinuated confidence and a sense of control. I looked directly at him, paying attention to every word he said. The associate explained that the case was a big anti-trust matter. When he named the parties, I recalled seeing a story about the matter on the front of the Financial Times. I was very impressed. Even at my firm, as a first year associate I never got close to the biggest and best cases. That would have come later had I stayed but they ruined that. At that moment, I felt lucky. Maybe leaving my old firm had been a good move after all. With my credentials and work history, I’m sure I could get this firm to hire me on as an association. I silently thanked Ben for putting me on this track. He was truly a good friend. I was so focused on what the associate’s presentation that I ignored the nudges to my arm by the man sitting next to me. When he called my name, visibly frustrated, I looked over at him. He was passing me a sign in sheet that the paralegal had circulated. I wrote my name on it and passed it to the next person the returned my focus to the associate. He was explaining how to use the document review software. The confident black guy at the other end of the table raised his hand to ask a question. Personally, I thought he should have waited until the associate completed his presentation but he was probably not as familiar with business protocol as I was. While he asked his question, the associate and the paralegal nodded with interest and so did the rest of the group. The associate said, “Good question” and eagerly answered my competition’s question. Forget protocol, I couldn't let that guy get ahead of me. As soon as the paralegal completed his answer I raised my hand. I pulled a competently formulated question out of thin air. They were all impressed. Even more impressed than they had been by the other guy’s question. I displayed a subtle, yet confident smile. They had to understand that this was not a big deal for me. I would make them all understand that I had and could compete with the best and win. The associate answered my question, his eyes focused on me. I scanned the room and the others observed the associate’s interest in me. Frankly, I looked better than all of them in every way. Besides being handsome, I was well dressed, exuded confidence and spoke eloquently. I had learned over the years that in situations like these you must present yourself in a way that convinces your competition to defeat themselves because they believe that they are not in your league. My work was almost done. The two washed up old lawyers were oblivious to my machinations. They probably couldn't retain half of the information that was given to us that day. The black women barely paid any attention, opting instead to continue the conversation that they had started in the lobby even as the associate presented his information. There were two white men who looked about my age. Like me, they were probably in transition and focused on their next move. They lacked the confidence to compete. There was a dowdy white woman whose disposition screamed, stay-at-home mom attempting to re-enter the labor force. She seemed lost with no hope of being found. There were also two younger white women who had began a pattern of staring at me then giggling to each other. They would do better to find a man, get married have a child and follow the path that the former stay-at-home mom had taken. Another group consisted of three black men who seemed to know each other from a prior assignment. One of them was constantly checking his cell phone and sending text messages, while trying not to be noticed. The second one wore a blue bow tie, which really stood out to me. He was probably a militant or a member of the Nation of Islam or something. The third guy was short. What else can I say? How can a short guy compete? He’s totally eliminated as competition.

Find Me

2007-05-25T12:05:00.001-07:00

Technorati Profile

DAY ONE PART TWO

2007-05-25T11:23:00.000-07:00

An employee of the firm arrived at the lobby to eager smiling faces. She and the Staffing Professional huddled near the reception desk and then the Staffing Professional left. The firm employee introduced herself to us and told us that she was a paralegal. Then she explained the agenda for the day. First we would go to a conference room to sign some employment documents and for training. Then we would be taken to our work area to begin working on the case. I was insulted that the firm would send a paralegal to give any kind of instruction to attorneys and I hoped to understand later why they had done that.

The paralegal referred to the matter we would be working on as a project and informed us that the project was expected to last over a month. I was satisfied with that because it gave me a reasonable amount of time to get myself back on track professionally and figure out how to adjust my budget so that I wouldn’t lose my condo. It was a great place in the center of downtown overlooking a beautiful park. It was located at the end of the building and there were large windows that let in lots of sunshine, which I loved. The building was also surrounded by great restaurants, stores and entertainment venues. Although I had little time to spend at any of those places it was nice to know that they were there. Thinking about my condo made me think about my ex-fiancee and the way that things had ended between us. I wondered if she would ever speak to me again. Under the circumstances it is doubtful. I wish she could have seen my point of view. What I was doing with Katia was not interfering with our relationship and all of our plans. Why couldn’t she just let it be? I never found out who told her about my affair with Katia but I think it was my rival at the firm. She would have liked nothing more than to see anything in my life go terribly wrong. She probably thought losing my fiancée would send me in a tailspin and interfere with my ability to produce large amounts of quality work but the opposite was the case. I worked even harder and longer hours and became the darling of the firm. I could do no wrong. Of course, that’s what I thought before I learned that all associates are dispensable.

We followed the paralegal into a large conference room and we each took a seat. Of course I sat at the head of the table. Sizing up the rest of the bunch I could tell that they weren’t law firm material. They all looked like they were losers who had barely made it out of law school or rejects who couldn’t cut it at law firm. Not like me. I had made a choice. If I wanted I could still be an associate at my old firm. I could still be a rising star headed straight for partnership and that great corner office. I had a choice. For me, this was just temporary.

The paralegal made rounds around the huge conference table handing out confidentiality agreements, policies and procedures, internet use policies and a stack of other documents for us to read and sign. While she did that I continued to size up the competition. I smoothed my hair back and feigned tightening the knot on my tie. Then I lifted my jacket sleeve to expose my designer watch. All moves to put the competition on notice that I was the Alpha male in the room. I’m more confident than you, I look better than you and I’m smarter than you. Having clearly established my position of leadership I assessed everyone else. There were about an equal mix of males and females. About three quarters of them were black and the rest were white except one Hispanic. I quickly identified the only other person who appeared confident. He was a black guy around my height, good looking and also well dressed. I wasn’t surprised that he had taken the seat at the other end of the table. He seemed pretty unimpressed by the entire process while the rest of the group pretended to be engrossed in what the paralegal was saying. I knew that before the day was over I had to make it clear to that guy that I was in charge. There could only be one Alpha male, and besides, historically, it should be a white male.

DAY ONE

2007-05-24T14:18:00.000-07:00

I met the Staffing Professional in the lobby of a downtown office building where several other people wearing suits and looking just as anxious as I must have were waiting as well. Some of them seemed to already know each other but others sat in the lobby chairs or leaned against the marble walls that lined the spacious lobby area waiting alone just like me. Near the lobby doors a fairly loud reunion erupted between two black women. One said, “Oh my god, is it you?” Then the other said, “Yes, girl. How have you been?” Then they hugged and chatted continuously about where each of them had been working and their families and a number of other things.

The Staffing Professional showed up and the talking quickly shrunk to whispers. She appeared to be in a better mood. She was dressed much more nicely in a fitted khaki pant suit and attractive high heeled shoes. Thankfully she had her nastily long hair pinned up so I was spared the sight of it. There were about twelve of us. She greeted us pleasantly stating that she was glad to see us. Then she told us to sign in at the guard desk and we dutifully lined up and did so while the uniformed rent-a-cop instructed us where to sign and what other additional information we needed to provide in her log. Finally we followed the Staffing Professional to a bank of elevators. We all squeezed into one elevator and headed to the fifth floor.

When the elevator doors opened I was delighted to see that the firm was just as nice as my old firm. Of course I knew the firm because it was one of the biggest in the city rivaling my old firm in yearly profits, but I had never had any dealings with them. I felt like I was back in a familiar environment. I was so relieved that I breathed a loud sigh that caught the attention of the guy standing next to me. He wore a blue suit too but his looked old and wrinkled.

Our group was greeted at a reception desk by wearing a telephone answering head phone. With buttons blinking and extensions ringing she was able to pleasantly answer the calls that streamed in while instructing us to wait in the lobby area where we would be collected by someone from the firm. I hesitated a bit taking in the receptionist’s beauty. She looked like she should be modeling. Her smooth skin was the color of latte and her features were as perfect as a woman’s could be. Her full lips were inviting and as she spoke I could see her perfect white teeth exposed making her mouth even more sensuous. Her full breasts were bursting out of the tight silk blouse she wore, which was buttoned up just enough to expose her beautiful cleavage. She reminded me of the Brazilian maid that cleaned my office at the firm. The maid in each evening around six thirty and even after she had been cleaning my office for months she would ask permission before she entered. When I first heard her speak I could tell she spoke very little English. One evening I asked her name and she said it was Katia. She seemed embarrassed to be talking to me, as if she were breaking a rule. It was as if she had crossed the line that separated the masses of faceless, nameless people who fanned out across the city each day to do the dirtiest, lowliest jobs and the small, select group of professionals tasked with creating the wealth of the country that trickled down to the pockets of the masses. Even after Katia finished with my office I would watch her go past my door to other offices cleaning, fetching supplies from her cart in the hallway and pushing the vacuum cleaner back and forth across the carpet. As I worked, I watched her work. I was engaged to an accountant at the time but it seemed like I saw the Brazilian maid more than I saw my fiancee since we were both consumed with building our careers and heading toward partnership at our respective firms. My fiancee and I shared a downtown condo but we were rarely able to spend quality time together.

Katia’s skin was soft and tan. She always wore a short skirt under her red cleaning smock exposing smooth, slender legs that seemed to stretch up to her neck. Her thick, black hair hung down to her shoulders and its waves shimmered under the fluorescent office lights. I learned Katia’s cleaning patterns and one evening as she was packing up her supplies to leave for the night I asked her to come into my office. I seduced her and she did not resist. In fact, she gave herself to me as if she had been anxiously waiting for the moment that our bodies would come together. Afterward, there wasn’t the awkward feeling that I expected. Katia and I would have many such encounters in my office. The arrangement worked fine for both of us until one evening when we carelessly left my office door open. By then I had brought in bed linens that we used on the floor and we had gotten into the habit of getting completely naked. We were comfortable because there was never anyone in that area of the office as late as I was. That night we were surprised by another first year associate. She wasn’t satisfied with catching us in the act knowing how embarrassed I was to be sleeping with a maid and letting it alone. Of all the first year associates only she came close to working as hard as me and producing work product as celebrated as mine. She and I were rivals for the partners’ attention as the best in our class.

The next morning my supervising attorney called me into his office and confronted me about my affair with Katia. I admitted it and surprisingly he simply told me that I should be more discreet about such a liaison and we left it at that. However, when I arrived home that evening, my fiancee was packing her bags. Somehow word had gotten to her about my affair with Katia. I tried to explain but there really was no way to defend my behavior. I begged her to stay and promised it would happen again. I thought I loved her and needed her to stay but I was also worried about paying the mortgage and fees on the condo on my salary alone. She didn’t want to hear anything that I had to say. She left and I never saw her again after that night.

THE STAFFING AGENCY

2007-05-23T14:18:00.000-07:00

The employment agency was located on the 17th floor of a modern downtown office building. It occupied a small suite consisting of a reception area and what appeared to be two or three offices and a small conference room. There were lots of windows in the reception area but it looked like a display in Ikea. The plants were all made of silk, there were several magazines spread across the glass and brushed metal coffee table and the receptionist was artificially peppy. She was a slim, attractive woman with an eager smile and wide eyes. She had long legs and wore a tight gray suit that accentuated her curves. “Hi, how can I help you?” she said, her head cocked to one side as she anticipated my response. She acted as if she were expecting to see me and only me that morning. I guessed she had chugged two or three energy drinks for breakfast to get herself to face that kind of job. I wondered how it must feel to be on the bottom rung of the work force and know that you are stuck there with no hope for escalation. The thought gave me the shivers. I told her that I had an appointment, let her know I was late but that I had called earlier. “Oh, right. I remember you. Have a seat right over there and someone will be right with you.” I was glad to be the only person in the waiting room. I didn’t want a repeat of the scene in the doctor’s waiting room. Why can’t people get that not everyone is looking for conversation? I like to be left alone.

The seat that I chose was uncomfortable. It was so uncomfortable that I felt it must have been built to deter people from staying in the waiting room long. I reached for an old People Magazine on the glass coffee table and thumbed through it. Hollywood was full of beautiful people but D.C. is known as Hollywood for ugly people. Everybody thinks that they are somebody and anybody who’s somebody gets attention no matter how old, wrinkled or ugly they are. I’m not sure why that thought crossed my mind.

Since I had never been interviewed by an employment agency before, I didn’t wear my best suit or dress too casual. I wore a plain blue suit, blue tie with gold lines, blue shirt, black belt and black shoes. Standard issue men’s wear. The receptionist offered me water and pointed in the direction of the water cooler. I declined her offer and continued looking at the tanned, perfect bodies of Hollywood’s hotties. After about ten minutes, a short, pudgy, dark-haired woman appeared from a hallway behind the reception area. She wore little make up, just light lipstick and eyeliner around her oval shaped eyes. She was dressed in a plain black skirt and jacket. Her gait indicated nonchalance, neither expressing anticipation nor disinterest. As she got closer I noticed that her hair was long. Not just long, but very, very long. The straight black hair went past her shoulders and her back and her butt. That was a big thing for me. Extra long hair had always represented unkemptness. I decided right then and there that I did not and could not like this woman and I hoped that I would never have to see her again after this meeting.

I rose to meet her outstretched hand with mine and we exchanged introductions. She seemed glum, making an effort to appear professional for the sake of our meeting. She handed me her card. Under her name it said “Staffing Professional”. What was that supposed to mean? We left the waiting room trailed by the receptionist’s eager gaze. We went into a small office and she requested my resume, which I removed from my portfolio and handed to her. The interviewer briefly glanced over my resume, nodding her head in approval. I was encouraged. Maybe she could find me something. Then she looked me in the eye and began a statement that she clearly repeated frequently. It began with, “Let me tell you a little about us…” The speech seemed rehearsed and included everything from the kind of work that I could expect to do, to the health insurance benefits that the agency made available to its contract workers. Throughout her speech, the Staffing Professional stroked her hair and swung it from one side to the other. She twisted it between her fingers in a tight knot then let it float back down to its unkempt length. I felt like I would hurl at any moment. It was clear that she had this exact exchange often and she had memorized all the necessary information to keep the encounter brief. Finally she took a breath, took her hand out of her hair and asked, “Do you have any questions?” I paused, searching for something to ask because I always had questions but this time there were really none. She had covered absolutely everything imaginable. “No,” I said. “Ok. We have a project starting tomorrow. Can you start tomorrow?” I was stunned by the question. I never expected to be offered work at the interview. I gathered my senses and said, “Yes, I can be there.” The interviewer gave me all of the details. Where to meet her, the nature of the assignment, the expected length, the hourly pay (I contemplated the sad reality that I was working for hourly pay) and the benefits.

When I got home I called Ben and gave him the good news. He said we should celebrate. I was feeling so much better about my life and the prospect of getting it back on track. At least I could make some money while I decided what to do next. Go back to law firm life or…Or I don’t know what.

MEETINGS

2007-05-22T08:08:00.000-07:00

This morning as I sat in the waiting room of my doctor’s office at forty-five minutes after my nine o’clock appointment, for which I had arrived fifteen minutes early, I wondered if I would have been happier had I gone to medical school instead of law school. A middle-aged woman was making conversation with the other patients about the host of the television show on the waiting room TV, the latest celebrity gossip, her personal problems and everything else under the sun. She had tried to make eye-contact with me several times but each time I successfully avoided her, instead training my eyes on the blank white wall or the brown carpet on the floor. I looked at my watch every five minutes as if that would make the time speed up or slow down. I had scheduled my interview at the employment agency too close to my monthly doctor’s appointment. When I knew there was absolutely no way that I could finish up the appointment and make it to the interview on time I called the agency to let them know that I was running late. The receptionist pleasantly told me that it would be okay and I could come in when ever I was done. What a relief. As my telephone conversation wound to an end, I could see the chatty woman looking at me, anxiously awaiting the end of my call so that she could pester me with her mindless attempt at conversation. Just as I hung up the phone, the receptionist called my name. I shot up, and looked over at the doctor as he forced the same smile across his face that he had worn for the several patients who had gone into his office before me.

I had been seeing this doctor for six months and after each visit I decided it was the last time I would see him. My psychiatrist is a very old (I can’t tell how old) middle-eastern man. I think he is from Iran or Syria but I’m not sure. He is rotund, robotic and emotionless. His face is ruddy and a pair of reading glasses always rest precariously on the tip of his bulbous nose. I’m not absolutely sure but I think he wears the same gray suit at each of our meetings. His office is not inviting, relaxing or even welcoming. Instead it is cold, bland and uncomfortable with faded light blue walls and a variety of unappealing, cheap framed art reproductions on two of the walls. Another wall displayed his numerous degrees and licenses. At the beginning of each visit, the doctor sits quietly behind his huge oak desk reviewing my file. If I try to speak during this time, he simply raises his hand, palm toward me, to indicate that I must wait until he has finished reviewing my file to talk to him. Each visit I try to hurry him along. I do not want to discuss anything with him. As he reviews my file, he nervously clicks the fingernails of his thumb and forefinger together. Sometimes he taps a foot in quick, short taps. Other times he gnaws at his bottom lip. I wonder if it will bleed someday during my visit. Today he is biting his lip.

I guess I keep going back because he gives me what I want. As long as I say the right words, he keeps me supplied with a monthly prescription for anti depressants. He looks like he needs them more than I do but that’s not my call so I refrain from advising him of this. I always pay my bill in cash because I want no record of my visits to the psychiatrist. That was the unspoken rule amongst attorneys so we could not be identified as “crazy”. The act itself seemed crazy since so many people know the big secret that so many of us are on psych meds.

The first time I decided to seek psychiatric consultation was about six months into my tenure at the firm. I noticed that at least half of the attorneys in the office were on something. You’d see lawyers popping pills whenever the veins in the temples popped from the unreasonably heavy case load or the abusive treatment by their superiors. Pills and drinks--that’s what we were all about. But what was more important was to hold on to the prestige and luxury of being a lawyer. Our secretaries and paralegals waited on us as if we were superior beings. Women threw themselves at the men and men hungered for the women. We ate at the best restaurants in town and the firm paid the tab. When we walked into a stylish bistro, wearing our eight hundred dollar suits and smug, self-confident countenances, all heads turned in our direction. We were ferried to and from work in luxury sedans. We were blessed by the gods with the right to look down upon almost everyone else in society except the judges presiding over our cases only because of the power that they wielded over our fantastical lives. A career could be made or broken based on a judge’s ruling.

That sixth month at the firm I was rotated to a senior associate who had a god complex. This guy had been at the firm for about fifteen years and there was still no partnership in sight, yet he conducted himself as if no one was good enough to be in his presence. He spat orders at his secretary, who dutifully went over and above the call of duty to execute his orders. He could be heard shouting abuses at his wife and investment broker with absolutely no regard for what anyone else thought. This attorney wore a dusty-looking brown toupee that sat on top of his head like a dead ferret. We had a standing ten o’clock meeting every morning and at each meeting for three months I was forced to wonder if he ever looked in the mirror while he was wearing that thing. It was so painfully, obviously fake and it was so completely disgusting that I often considered pointing it out to him. The way I imagined it I’d say, “Sir, do you know there’s a dead rodent on your head?” And he’d reply in great shock, “Oh my God, no! Thanks for letting me know Hank.” Then he’d spare everyone around him further torture by simply removing it and discarding it in the waste basket next to his desk. Then we’d move on with our meeting as if nothing had happened. Surely he’d rather be a balding or bald guy than look idiotic, pathetically trying to hang on to life with a naturally full head of hair by replacing it with a bad, outdated rug. I guess not.

I learned the most about the practice of law from that guy. Despite his vulgar personality and abusive behavior, he was a hard worker, worked long hours and he knew the law inside and out so why hadn’t he made partner? I personally think it was the toupee. When you’re sitting in a meeting with a client and you look that disgraceful it’s hard to be taken seriously.

One morning I went down to his office for our ten o’clock meeting and his secretary told me he was gone and he wouldn’t be back. I guess he finally got it and left the firm. What I couldn’t understand is why he didn’t tell me that he was leaving. There wasn’t even an announcement or a meeting about his leaving. His departure was painfully unceremonious despite the millions of dollars he had made for the firm.

It was as if that incident planted a seed in my subconscious that grew, unnoticed by me, quietly spreading doubt about my chosen profession. Other experiences would fertilize that seed and then at full bloom the doubt would manifest itself as my frustration with the practice of law.

AN INTERVIEW

2007-05-18T12:18:00.000-07:00

At first I thought I was dreaming but when I looked around in my dream environment I couldn’t find the ringing phone. The incessant ringing was like a drill screwing through my head. Finally, out of frustration, I woke to find that it was my cell phone on my night stand ringing. It was Ben. “What time is it?” I asked him, covering my eyes to shield them from the sunlight that streamed through my bedroom window. “Its 9:30 in the morning. Rise and shine. We need to get you back in the saddle.”
“What are you talking about?” I said groggily.
“A job Hank.” Ben’s voice had lowered sounding unsure.
“Oh yeah. Right.” I rubbed my eyes and turned onto my stomach, wrapping my sheet tightly around me. “How much did I drink last night?”
“I’m not exactly sure but if you’re wondering whether it was a lot, it was.” I paused considering whether to tell him that I could hardly remember the events of the night before. “Forget it,” I finally said.

The throbbing in my head that I had first taken notice of when I woke up intensified. The thought of a hangover made me remember college and the parties we had. Ben and I had been college roommates for two years. Our dorm was the party dorm and our room was party central. I think guys liked us because we knew how to throw a good party and girls liked us because we were good looking. Ben and I had a lot in common too. Both of us had evolved from being skinny, plain, nerds, living tortured lives as nobodies to being babe-magnets our first year of college and then we discovered the benefits of being popular. We were both political science majors and we both played hockey. Truth be told, I had never met a black person who played or even liked hockey before Ben.

Ben says, “I’ve got a lead for you. Do you remember my friend Gigi from last night?” “The one with the dreadlocks, right?” “Yes. I hope you don’t mind but I told her about your situation.” What the hell, I thought. Things couldn’t get any worse than they already were. “She was in the same situation a year ago so I thought she might be able to help. She gave me the number of the employment agency that she used to find a job.” That was good news. I opened my eyes for the first time. The throbbing was still there but only enough to be a minor distraction. I felt hopeful. I reached for a pen and notepad on the night stand and wrote down the number. “Call them today,” Ben said. He sounded really concerned and I appreciated it. “Thanks, man.”

I slept for a few more hours before calling the agency. To my surprise they gave me an appointment for an interview the next day. I’d never worked with an employment agency before but I felt like things were going in the right direction for me.

WHAT NOW?

2007-05-15T13:54:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to a bar that I hadn’t been to in a few months. I wanted a drink and the bar environment but I didn’t want to go back to one of the haunts that I frequented with other members of the firm. I took a seat in dark lonely spot at the far end of the bar, did a couple of tequila shots then settled in with a bottle of beer. The roar of a sea of cheering soccer fans blared from a TV above the bar. I tried to get into the game but my thoughts kept returning to not having a job. At some point I heard a group at a table in a far corner of the bar. They sounded like they were having fun and I wished I that I was in the state of mind to have joined them. Then I heard a familiar voice. I couldn’t see any faces through the dim lighting so I got up and went toward the table when someone said my name. “Hank! Oh my God! I can’t believe it’s you!” I immediately recognized the face. It was my old friend from college, Ben. We went to college together and both wanted to be lawyers but he went to law school on one coast and I on the other. We kept in touch in the beginning but eventually other priorities took over and we hadn’t been in touch for a few years since. Ben invited to me join his him and his friends. I was the only white guy in a group of about ten black men and women. I could tell the gathering was a celebration of some sort so I tried to adjust my sad disposition to be more consistent with theirs. I asked Ben what the occasion was and he said it was his birthday.

We drank, ate and laughed for hours until the bar closed. Before we parted ways I asked Ben what he was up to. He’s a public defender. Of course he asked me what I was doing. I hesitated and then sighed. Ben could tell it wasn’t good. I thought about whether I should tell him my bad news. It was embarrassing and humiliating. But Ben had been a good friend back in college so I told him that I had just quit my job as an associate at a law firm. “What now?” he asked, trying to sound positive. I said, “I don’t know yet.” That was when it hit me. The realization that for the first time in my life I didn’t have a plan for my life hit me like a boulder. I had jumped off of the secure path of my successful career into the abyss and now I had been reduced to confessing my foolish act to an old friend.

It was late and we both wanted to go home. Ben handed me his business card and I wrote my cell phone number on the back of my old law firm card and gave it to him. We both promised to keep in touch.

THE LAST STRAW

2007-05-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

I graduated from law school a year ago today. A month before graduation, I landed a job as an associate at a medium-sized firm with a great reputation and a very competitive salary. The competition to get an associate position had been fierce so when I got in it felt awesome. I felt triumphant and that I was where I belonged. I was proud that all of my hard work had paid off but I always knew that it would. I had already known for years that it was my destiny to become a highly successful attorney.

For the past two months I worked with a partner who had just come back from maternity leave when we started working together. She was a decent enough looking woman in her early fifties who had clearly given up everything to work her way up to partner in the firm and then decided to have a child. At our first meeting she told me how she had heard great things about me and was looking forward to working with me and that she thought I was definitely partnership material if I worked hard enough, long enough, etc.

Things were going great until one day she went crazy over a misunderstanding about an assignment. We’d agreed in advance that I needed another day to complete it. At the time it wasn't a big deal but when I didn't turn it in on the earlier date, she came storming into my office yelling about how incompetent I was and how I was such a loser and I’d never make it far at the firm. She wagged her head wildly as she barked words at me, whipping her faded medusa-like blond hair around. Needless to say I was shocked to the point of speechlessness. When I didn’t respond to her, she approached my desk and banged on it with clenched fists and demanded an explanation for why the assignment was late. I reminded her about our agreement but she denied remembering it and called me a liar. She continued to hurl insults and and expletives at me rapid-fire, spraying drops of spittle acriss my face.

Then, when I thought her rant was finally coming to an end she straightened up and very calmly stated, “You’re getting a time-out!” What? Had I heard this woman right? As if she could hear my mental question she repeated, this time louder and more angrily, “Time out!” She stood there hovering over me sneering, her face within inches of mine, an out stretched arm pointing commandingly toward the door. Strangely I couldn’t help but focus on the gelatinous sheet of flesh hanging off of her arm waiving at me as she indicated my fate. She banished me to the library demanding that I stay there until I could understand the importance of timeliness to the proper functioning of the firm.

That was the last straw. I quit the firm. So now I’m unemployed.