“Where do you think they got this one?” I asked Kayla, in my moment of naïveté.
“On the Internet,” she said. “It’s fake, Quinn. Like everything else here.”
“Well, at least there’s a charitable aspect,” I said. Donated toys—Barbie dolls, LEGO sets, Rescue Heroes—gathered in symmetrical heaps at its base.
“All part of the act,” she said, pointing out a shiny red bicycle with the name of a senior partner emblazoned on the side. “It’s all about competition.”
“And the music?” I asked, hopeful there was some good old innocent explanation for the string quartet that played in the lobby each afternoon.
“To remind us there’s more to life than mergers and acquisitions,” she said, giggling. What she meant: There’s more to life than sex and money.
Just a couple months later, I see things clearly. The display reeks. Not of pine, but of pretense. Falsity. Irony. Ostensibly it is the embodiment of human goodness and Christmas cheer, but I have a hunch that even this year many of the men and women holed up in the offices above do not spend much time focused on the less fortunate, on the kids without a Santa Claus. I have a hunch because I’m one of them. No, we conjure Christmas lists of our own: summer houses in the Hamptons, the latest line of Louis Vuitton luggage, private school admissions for privileged tykes. For us, Santa no longer wears red and white, boiled wool and snow white fur, but pinstripes and cuff links. And his gifts are not slithered down a chimney, but directly deposited. Yes, I’m among the souls who salivate for the beloved Christmas bonus, that not-so-little “extra” that’s scattered each year at a time when families gather without us and doubts set in.
10:01 A.M. I’m later than usual. I speed through the lobby, my heels clicking away on smooth white marble. My bag slips off my shoulder and dangles on one arm, digging deep into my flesh. I fumble my BlackBerry open in the other, shuffling my feet in fits and starts, slowing down as I check the messages that arrive in clusters of two and three. The blood on my palm has dripped down and around my wrist, making me look either suicidal or like a Kabbalah convert. I can’t decide which would be worse.
Big-shouldered Javier waits at the turnstile, arms crossed in front of his broad chest, and smiles at me. He’s my favorite of the countless guards garbed in maroon polyester who patrol the vast lobby space; security is understandably a lot tighter these days.
“Hey,” I say, managing a discombobulated wave. Did he notice the ring? When I started here, Javier told me I looked far too young to be an attorney. What about a wife? Am I too young for that?
I swipe my law firm ID card and wait for the elevator.
The elevator arrives, and waiting bodies with fisted Starbucks scramble to pile in. It’s too early for eye contact, so we shuffle in, looking down at the medley of sneakers and high heels, the dangling gym bags and just-in-case umbrellas. I press my button and stare at the small TV screen above the buttons. It tells me the alert level du jour, sports scores about which I don’t care, and how the weather will continue to be shitty through the week. The elevator doors are inches from closing when five thin fingers with the palest pink polish reach through the gap.
Kayla.
“Hey, bitch!” she says, breaking the morning code of silence, pushing up against me. Born a redhead, she now has blond hair. In her khaki trench and South Seas pearls, she’s mastered the art of corporate casual. “So,” she says, staring at her BlackBerry, “someone had a good weekend, huh?”
Kayla is a Greenwich girl. She has the pedigree of a champ: All-American swimmer at Hotchkiss, Harvard for college, Harvard for law school. She’d be easy to hate.
“Decent weekend,” I whisper, and smile. “In Paris.”
Kayla grabs my left wrist, jerking my hand up toward her face. “Yeah, I’d say you had a good weekend. And all I get is a butchered BlackBerry message? A ring that size and you guys couldn’t splurge on the international call?”
I pull my hand away and return it to my side, but she grabs it again.
“Oh, Q, marriage isn’t going to be that bad. No need for such extreme measures.” She points to the traces of dried blood on my wrist.
“Umbrella accident,” I say, as if this makes sense.
Two women eye my ring—or wrist—and whisper. A third follows their glances and smiles at me. I think she’s the one who slept with a bankruptcy partner after a summer associate caviar party.
“Congratulations. I must say I’m not too thrilled about the abandonment, though.”
Kayla follows me off the elevator and to my office.
“I can’t believe you are going wife on me, leaving your poor ringless slut of a friend behind.”
The use of profanity is the hallmark of insecurity and low self-esteem, Mom once said. Fuck insecurity. Fuck self-esteem, I said. We both laughed.
“K, I’m twenty-seven. This is what people do. They get married. They have kids.”
“Guess I’m way behind the curve, then. Thank God. The thought of one man, just one, gives me the shivers,” Kayla says.
“Better than herpes.”
Kayla laughs. “So what now? We surf for dresses that make you look like Cinderella?”
“K, I love you, but not now. I’m screwed—Fisher’s on me for this research.” Screwed. On me.
Maybe it is all about sex.
“So calm down and bill a few hours,” she says.
And money.
I boot up my computer. My desk is a disaster. The faux-cedar surface is blanketed in papers, errant paper clips, parched yellow highlighters. Ten almost-finished bottles of Poland Spring stand in a line, transparent soldiers standing guard along the honey-colored corkboard where my desk meets the wall.
“Look at you. What an environmentalist—here with your water conservation efforts,” Kayla says, fiddling with one of the bottles. “When did you get so neat anyway? Practicing to be wifey, huh?”
Kayla helps me in my quest for order, stacking documents, ditching random plastic spoons and empty packets of artificial sweetener. I chuck the Poland Springs into the garbage can under my desk, knowing I should recycle. I feel a violent surge of déjà vu. The dream. I was here in my dream. At this desk, working late. It was all too real.
“You’re on another planet. Is this the little-known effect of diamonds? I must know,” Kayla says, shoving binders into an overhead shelf.
“I’m just exhausted. This is all a little surreal.”
“Whatever you say, but if you ask me, you don’t seem happy.”
Silence.
“His mother helped him pick the ring.”
“Hmm.”
“Am I paranoid to think she has taken the very first opportunity to insert herself into our marriage? I look at this ring and I think of her.”
“Lovely,” she says. “Well, if you’re right, she could ruin everything.”
“Huh?”
“He’s a mama’s boy, Q. You’ve said it yourself. This isn’t an instance of fierce competition. This is an instance of no competition. She’ll win every time.”
“Cheers,” I say, tossing an empty water bottle at her.
Kayla shrugs. “Remind me: How many times has he brought you home?”
“Never,” I say. “But he hardly goes home. Just for holidays and his brother’s birthdays.”
“All excuses, Quinn.” she says. “He’s been trying to keep you two on opposite ends of the ring, but that might not be possible anymore. You know what that little bauble on your finger means?”
“What?”
“Round one,” she says.
I shake my head.
“The past is the past,” I say. Cliché. “It’s time for a fresh start.” Another cliché.
Kayla looks at me, silent for once, worry plastered on her forehead, which is unseasonably tan. She nods and continues stacking Post-its into rainbow towers.
“Well, you’re going to have yourself a fresh start—at another firm if you pull this shit again.”
F
isher stands in my doorway, red in the face, stubby hands resting on love handles no custom shirt could possibly camouflage.
“The client needs an answer this afternoon and you can’t even respond to my goddamned e-mails?”
Profanity is the hallmark of low self-esteem, I remind myself.
Fuck.
Kayla turns, slides by Fisher, and disappears.
“I’m sorry,” I say, softly like a little child who has lost her father and lost her way, not like a professional pushing thirty. The two words are weak and soggy, limp noodles of pseudo-regret. But right now, it’s all I can manage.
Chapter 6
Once upon a time I didn’t fear Fisher, a mere peanut of a man with a pregnant woman’s belly. When I first started at the firm, I learned he would be my partner mentor. The lady from human resources told us mentors were there for support, to field questions. I quickly appreciated the one thing a partner mentor was good for: an outrageous welcome lunch.
So, on my first official day as a big-time lawyer, I had a forty-dollar slab of Chilean sea bass.
“Look at you. First day on the job and ordering the only endangered species on the menu. Bold, very bold. I like that,” Fisher said from across the table at the overpriced four-star restaurant. These were his first words to me. Another partner, Miles Shannon, debatably albino, more rookie, rolled his eyes only slightly at Fisher, but kept quiet. Lisa, the other new associate, probably thanked her lucky stars she’d ordered the chicken.
Fisher, on the other hand, ordered the only red meat on the menu and chuckled with delight when the diminutive waitress, devoid of facial expression, placed it in front of him.
“You’ll learn,” he said, addressing the table in his crackly voice, his astonishingly short arms flailing about, “that we fall into two camps.”
Miles Shannon smiled as he cut his chicken paillard into small bites.
“Yup, two kinds of partners that you will encounter at our firm: the Porters and the Poultry,” Fisher said, sucking a massive piece of steak off his sparkling fork.
I shot a look of confusion at Lisa. Her hair was scraped back into a low bun. She wore too much makeup and terror in her eyes.
“Let me explain,” Fisher said. He was halfway through his steak, but Lisa and I had barely touched our food. “It all started a few years ago with some goddamned summer class that had too much time on their hands. Well, they came up with the names and we caught wind of them and you know what? They were on to something. Confirms that we only hire the brightest, most intuitive souls here at Whalen,” he said, and guffawed.
Lisa and I nodded.
“Anyway, some of us are Porters,” he said, making air quotes, “named for the porterhouse steaks we apparently live on. We’re the frat boys of the firm, schmoozing clients, driving fast cars. The Poultry among us—they’re the clean-living folk, lean and mean. Poultry are often the quiet brilliant ones who fly under the radar. Isn’t that right, Mildy?”
Very appropriately, Miles Shannon flashed a half smile, remained mute, and continued to make his way through his chicken, slicing geometrical pieces, chewing slowly, and checking his watch between every few bites.
“Well, you have a representative from each camp here, girls. Pardon me. Young ladies, I should say. It’s imperative that I brush up on my PC speak. Can you guess which one of us is a Porter and which one a Poultry?”
I laughed. Even petrified little Lisa managed a smile. Miles Shannon’s face pinked.
“What about the women?” I asked. “Can they be Porters or Poultry too?”
It was hardly a ridiculous question. After all, there we were, two rookie female associates being initiated into the ranks, and these men had failed to even mention their female partners.
“No, they’re different. Don’t quite fit the categories,” Fisher said. “Let’s get some wine, shall we?”
I should’ve predicted that life at the firm wouldn’t be all jokes and vintage Cabernet.
Today, when I walk into Fisher’s office, my hands are clammy, my heart is racing, and I have to force myself not to look down. Fisher sits in his throne of a leather chair behind his impossibly large desk. I’m convinced this is intentional; perhaps he believes he can obscure his size behind a well-placed slab of mahogany. His face has returned to its trademark pinky hue. He flips through a stack of envelopes and ignores me. I scan the pictures of his son and daughter that populate each shelf behind him and remind myself that he’s not a monster. No, he’s a father. A decent man.
Today, I get it. I appreciate how right he was on that first day; Fisher is no doubt the quintessential Porter. He has a ruddy complexion and chubby fingers. Swollen skin spills over the edges of a dulling gold wedding band that he wears most of the time. He’s an overgrown boy, like the chubby frat kids in college who somehow landed pretty girls, gut and all. He atones for missing abdominal muscles by sporting extravagant ties and cuff links. Or by flashing his gold Cartier constantly. Presumably, such trinkets remind him and the rest of us that he has made it.
Like the other Porters, Fisher is a faux dieter, alternatively a South Beach or Atkins devotee. But with clients he convinces himself there are no carbohydrates in dirty martinis and creamed spinach.
“I want to apologize about this weekend and today,” I say.
“Then go ahead,” he says. He keeps flipping and does not look up. Under his desk, his shiny chestnut loafers swing back and forth, barely grazing the burgundy carpet.
“Sorry,” I say.
“So, how was Paris?” His eyes remain fastened to his mail pile.
How does he know about Paris? God, they do monitor our every move.
“Good,” I say, ignoring Mom’s perennial admonition against one-word answers.
“For better or worse, this firm’s like a goddamned country club. I heard the secretaries jabbering on and on about a certain someone getting engaged this weekend. Made me feel like a bit of a Scrooge for my angry outburst this morning. God, I need some carbs.”
This is about as close as you get to a partner apology. I’ll take it.
“That’s okay. I should’ve gotten back to you.”
“Yes, you should’ve. Our clients don’t care if you’re going to be a bride.”
“I know,” I say, twirling my BlackBerry.
Our clients, a string of condom companies, are being sued by a class of women, including a bevy of porn stars and prostitutes, who are allergic to the spermicide these companies refuse to eliminate from their products. Fisher, once dubbed Mr. Toxic for successfully defending tampon companies against a legion of toxic shock syndrome sufferers, has a new name in the firm: The Sperminator. Even without the genes of a feminist mother, I think at this point I’d begin to realize this man isn’t the biggest defender of women.
Miles Shannon, the other partner of my fateful first day, sticks his head in the office, sees me, and leaves. And, again, Fisher was right. Shannon’s the anti-Fisher: chiseled, borderline gaunt, a marathon runner in his “spare” time. His office is modest and more organized. He prefers buttons to links. His ties are tattered.
Miles Shannon doesn’t look like a movie star, but, given everything—his position in life, the ungodly number of hours he devotes to his work, the sky-high stress level he endures on a daily basis—he’s attractive and together. He likely has the same waist size he did in high school.
“Morning, Mildy,” Fisher grunts at the now empty doorway.
In the hallways and conference rooms, partners put on a good act. They joke and laugh deeply like good old friends.
This is fake too. All a charade.
Partners are in constant competition. For the most bankable and flashy clients, even for the most extravagant office furniture—leather chairs, antique desks, tropical trees, vintage prints, even the occasional marble desk. There appears to be no limit on the manner in which a partner can decorate his professional lair. Essentially, many of these aging men (and, yes, the occasional woman who’s either enviably
superhuman or has forsaken dreams of marriage or motherhood, or has hired a team to cater to neglected husbands and children) decorate their offices like living rooms—with Oriental carpets, turn-of-the-century prints. My guess is that this is because they are so rarely home.
On my first day at the firm, I was told I’d “share” my secretary, Wanda—admittedly a weird property-esque way of talking about another human being—with David Greenen-berg, a corporate partner, a Porter with terrible hair plugs. This man spends most nights on his mocha ultra-suede office couch. Rumor is his socialite wife, Bunny, finally gave him the boot. One afternoon when he was away on business, Wanda showed me the dark drool stains on his couch pillows.
Vodka stains, Wanda said, and showed me his secret stash of booze under his desk. He asks me to remove them, but every time I try, they get worse. Makes my day.
When talking with the other secretaries, she refers to him as Lady Macbeth, which kind of surprised me because I didn’t know secretaries read Shakespeare. Which is obviously a terrible thought to have and perhaps one I should not admit to having.
As I leave Fisher’s office, I feel a bit better about things, but I’m thankful he’s already written my year-end review.
I return to my office. Time to work. I’m realistic, though: Whatever I hand him will inevitably be miserably sub-par and a lousy start to the week.
But I remember something important: Partners do know a lot of things that associates don’t, but the law isn’t one of them. And yet the myth persists that partners comprise a wholly different breed, that they have a mastery of the law that transcends our spotty understanding of the legal landscape. With the help of time and a permanently cynical best friend, I realized it’s all bullshit. If these questions were easy, the partners would tackle them themselves. Partners invariably know far less than we do. But as their associate minions, we’re the little pawns who keep the blood of a case pumping by researching law, uncovering facts, and attending to the mundane details of any matter.
Life After Yes Page 6