A minute of silence ensued, while Phil finished reading my resume. I sat ramrod straight in the chair, legs crossed, hands folded in my lap, poised and ready. Scanning his office for any common ground I could casually bring up in conversation, I came up dry. The walls were bare, the impeccably organized book shelves housed three-inch black binders arranged alphabetically, and the only thing on the huge desk other than three perfectly aligned stacks of papers with color-coded sticky tabs was a carefully arranged rubber band ball. Everything, right down to the carpet, was precise and immaculate. It looked like the meeting place for an OCD support group.
Finally, he spoke. “You have an impressive resume, Mackenzie—top five percent of your class, Associate Editor of the Georgetown Law Journal, pro bono work, and first place in the Moot Court Competition. Impressive.”
I smiled in a way I hoped was modest but confident. “Thank you, Phil, I —”
Before I had a chance to finish my sentence, he waved his hand, cutting me off. “But a lot of impressive resumes walk through my door. Yours is nothing unique. Do you know I interviewed a guy today who won an Olympic gold medal? It was in equestrian, which isn’t really a sport, but that’s beside the point. The point is that everyone is qualified. Everyone has an Olympic gold medal these days now that they’ve added sports like horse jumping. But we don’t need someone working at F&D that expects a horse to do all the work while he gets a gold medal. You get my point?”
I nodded, thankful that my resume did not include an Olympic gold medal.
“But enough about horses. Why should I hire you?”
“As you’ll see from my resume,” I began the little monologue I’d rehearsed all morning—about how I’d worked throughout college and law school, what I’d learned from volunteering at the free legal clinic, why I was excited to work at a firm as prestigious as F&D—but was abruptly interrupted by Phil’s sudden coughing fit.
“Are you … um … are you okay?” I asked as he coughed and sputtered. As if on cue, Phil’s secretary swept into the office, two tall glasses of ice water in hand. Stone faced, she passed one to Phil and one to me.
“Thank you.” I took the glass, grateful for the moment to regroup my thoughts and wipe the sweat from my brow.
Phil gulped down the water, which thankfully put an end to the coughing. “What we’re looking for,” he began distractedly while rooting through his bottom drawer, locating a coaster, and placing it carefully on his desk. “What we’re looking for is something extra.” He placed his water on top of the coaster and stared into it like a crystal ball.
“Yes, of course —” I tried for a second time to get a word in, but was waved away impatiently.
“Do you know how this firm started, Mackenzie?” My heart rate quickened. I hadn’t expected to be quizzed on the history of the firm. I racked my mind for anything I could remember from the website, but Phil didn’t wait for an answer. “This firm first opened its doors in 1948 with a small group of lawyers dedicated to providing advice and expertise on the highest levels.” Relieved, I sat back in my chair and listened.
Fifteen minutes later, he was still droning on in this vein, while I was trying to maintain my most interested expression, despite the sweating water glass still in my hands. I wanted to put it down, but judging from the immaculate condition of Phil’s cherry wood antique desk, he wouldn’t react kindly to a water mark. And with Phil barely pausing between sentences, there was no opportunity to interrupt and request a coaster. Besides, if I did somehow manage to get a word in, I wanted to use what little time I had to sell myself. So, I held onto the glass, surreptitiously drying my hands on the bottom of my skirt.
“And so, for nearly seventy years, we have achieved extraordinary results following the ambitious vision of our founders. Well.” He exhaled a long breath that he had seemingly been holding for the past half hour. “Looks like our time’s up. Nice meeting you …” He glanced down at my resume before adding, “Mackenzie.” He stood abruptly, walked from behind his desk, and rather than shaking my hand, reached for the glass of water. “I’ll take that now.”
“Oh, um … thank you,” I stuttered, handing it to him, confused.
He lifted a pile of papers and slid a coaster out from underneath. As he set down my glass on the coaster, I noticed a tiny grin playing at his lips. “You know, Mackenzie, you could have just asked me for a coaster.”
I could feel my face flush from embarrassment as I silently berated myself for not speaking up.
“But if you had done that,” he continued, “it would mean you expect to be coddled. Or you could’ve put the glass down directly on my desk, but what kind of Neanderthal would put a water glass down on an antique?” He gently patted his desk like a favorite pet. “So you solved the problem yourself.”
I nodded, no longer bothering to try to squeeze a word in edge-wise. At this point I was utterly confused about what was happening, and now was not the time to open my mouth.
“And you had to sacrifice your own comfort level in the process,” he added, emphasizing the word “sacrifice.” By the way he was talking about this glass of water you would think I’d held onto a three hundred pound weight for the duration of the interview. Placing his hand on my shoulder, he burrowed his gaze into mine. “Anyone can come in here and drivel on about how she’ll be willing to work hard and sacrifice for the good of the firm. What sets a person apart, what makes her unique,” he paused dramatically, “is when she shows me.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully before adding a brisk, “Good day, Mackenzie.”
My head was spinning when I walked out of the Death Star. I wasn’t sure if I’d just been a rat in some bizarre psychological experiment that Phil had dreamt up while polishing his desk or how he’d managed to form such a generous opinion of me when I hadn’t strung together more than three words, but it didn’t matter. I knew the job was mine. In that moment, I felt like I’d finally reached the top of the mountain I’d spent years climbing. I’d never been happier.
There’s gotta be an easier way. Unfortunately you’re wrong, Eddie. Hard work and sacrifice is the only way.
I flicked on the light in my bedroom. Jason yanked a pillow across his eyes.
“Sorry!” I whispered. “I thought you were staying at your place tonight.”
“I wanted to see you,” he murmured, lifting the duvet welcomingly. “Eddie let me up.” I climbed in, happy to have my spot already warmed. It was as though he’d known I needed him here tonight even though I hadn’t known it myself. He rolled back over and I could hear his deep rhythmic breathing within minutes.
I envied Jason’s ability to fall asleep so easily. My whole body ached with exhaustion, but my mind was still racing. How many documents are left on the checklist? Is there a more efficient way to divvy up the work load? After multiple attempts to calm my thoughts proved futile, I rubbed my eyes, got out of bed, and padded through the living room into the kitchen. I rooted through my cupboards for my last tea bag, plopped it in a mug full of microwaved hot water and leaned against the counter waiting for the Sleepytime herbal tea to live up to its promise.
My living room was bathed in the glow from my laptop, reminding me I hadn’t emailed Mom in a while. I carried my mug over to my makeshift workspace, cluttered with coffee mugs, sticky notes, and a legal pad containing some Falcon deal notes. A brief nightmare flashed to my mind where Saul suddenly appeared for a surprise clean desk policy inspection, the way a sergeant inspects a soldier’s barracks. I slipped the legal pad in the drawer. Better safe than sorry.
Swiping my finger across the touchpad, I peered at my computer screen in confusion. It was signed on to my work portal, but I hadn’t done any work from home in a few days. It was uncharacteristic of me to leave my laptop powered on, let alone forget to sign out. Definitive proof that I needed a good night’s sleep. I fired off a quick email to Mom, signed off, and shut my laptop, congratulating myself for crossing off one last to-do before the day was done.
I padded b
ack to my bed, climbed in next to Jason, and tried once more to quiet my racing mind, to no avail. Maybe some cleansing yoga breaths would help.
There was a time when I thought yoga was a ridiculous trend—as if breathing, which your body does involuntarily, and twisting yourself into positions your body was never meant to be in would somehow reduce anxiety and be a good workout. But in our freshman year Kim dragged me to a class as part of her “I’m trying new things” kick after her latest break-up. We giggled the whole way through as the Hare Krishna–looking yogi instructed us to breathe and visualize our throats as a garden hose, with each breath passing through like a trickle of water. “That makes me want to pee,” Kim joked, ignoring the glares. But even though we mocked it, we were amazed how good we felt afterward. We’ve been converts ever since, but I hadn’t been to a class in months.
Inhale though your nose. Pull the breath in. I instructed myself. Now hold it. No, wait … am I supposed to hold it? Or breathe it out like a garden hose? I remember something about using my diaphragm. Shit, I really needed a refresher. Does adding “go to yoga class” to my to-do list negate the whole relaxation aspect of it? Sometime around one in the morning, I abandoned my yoga attempts, absentmindedly checked my BlackBerry one last time, curled into Jason, and finally fell asleep. Namaste.
Five glorious hours of sleep later, I rolled over and fumbled around my nightstand for my BlackBerry. Nearly knocking over a glass of water that I was unsure how long had been there, I finally located it and typed in my password. Scanning my inbox, a wave of choking panic suddenly washed over me. Ben had emailed at 2:14 A.M. He needed to see a summary of the supply agreement between Serta Mattresses and Highlander Hotels. ASAP.
Oh, fuckity fuck. It was like someone threw a bucket of ice water on me. “ASAP” was the absolute kiss of death in Biglaw. No matter how quickly you respond, it is never ASAP enough. Judging from the tone of Ben’s email, he fully expected that I should be in the office, able to fill his request immediately.
The large red numbers on my clock—6:35 a.m.—seemed to be screaming at me as I leapt out of bed, bolstered by the huge shot of adrenaline.
“Is everything okay?” Jason croaked, his sleepy eyes squinting at the light.
“Fine, fine, everything’s fine,” I said breathlessly, as I threw on some clothes and ran a brush through my hair.
“Didn’t you just get here?” Eddie called out as I flew through the lobby. I was in a cab, on my way to the office, in seven minutes flat.
The trip to Midtown was pure agony. I leaned forward, peering out the windshield, willing the gridlocked traffic to move faster. How could this many people possibly all be going in the same direction? Wasn’t it the driver’s JOB to know the quickest route? How can I be expected to do my job when this guy can’t do his? I glared at the driver, who was tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel to the beat of a song on the radio looking like he had all the time in the world. My stomach churned with frustration. Come on, buddy, come on, buddy—Drive! Step on it!
Seeing the light turn yellow I subconsciously pressed my foot on an imaginary gas pedal. But instead of speeding up, Mr. Safety did something I’ve never seen a New York taxi driver do—he stopped at a yellow light. Bubbling over with aggravation, I could barely keep still in my seat. “I’ll get out here,” I barked to the driver two blocks away from the F&D offices. The meter read $10.80, but I threw a $20 bill into the front seat and dashed towards the office and into a closing elevator where I manically pounded the buttons in an effort to make the doors close faster. Catching my breath, I pulled my BlackBerry out of my pocket to see if Ben had emailed again. No email. Maybe there was still time.
I located the document in the data room, summarized it, and sent it to Ben by 7:57 A.M. It was the best I could do. Staring at the sent email, I breathed deeply, trying to get my heart rate to return to normal. Good enough, I reassured myself, leaning over to open my snack drawer, searching for a breakfast bar in the mix of empty wrappers. Good enough. It was only then that I looked down and realized the boots I’d put on in my haste didn’t even match. One brown, one black. Not even close.
One hour later, Ben sent me an email asking me to come to his office immediately. The face-to-face was never, ever a good sign. That meant they needed to reassert their authority by reprimanding you and witnessing the look of deference and remorse on your face. Knowing that, I put on a pair of matching shoes from the stack underneath my desk and, like a soldier that straightens his uniform before heading out over the trenches and into the battlefield, I smoothed my hands over my pencil skirt, brushed my hair, and headed down the hall to face my fate.
When I arrived at his office, Ben was sitting behind his desk with his phone pressed to his ear, looking tense. Seeing me standing hesitantly at the door way, he gestured for me to come in and close the door.
Uggg. Not the closed door. An even worse sign. I shut the door and tentatively sat down, bending my head as if readying myself for the guillotine.
I could tell from the tone of his voice it had to be his wife on the line. “Do we really need a six burner oven with a warming tray?” Ben asked, impatiently. The Russian heiress was redecorating apparently. “Okay, you’re right. I could see where that would come in handy.” Pause. “HOW much?” Pause. “I understand, you’re right, quality is expensive.” He gave me a tight smile. “Right, right … okay … love you too … bye, bye.” He hung up the receiver and turned his attention towards me.
“Mackenzie, I’m extremely disappointed in your response time,” he opened with, in a completely different tone than he’d just been using with his wife. “I needed to read that summary before the 8 A.M. conference call. You left me completely unprepared. COMPLETELY unprepared,” he repeated. “I specifically said I needed it ASAP. What the hell happened? Were you asleep?” The tone of his voice and look on his face indicated he couldn’t imagine anything less appropriate to be doing at 2 A.M.
I waited a beat, hoping the question was rhetorical, but he was clearly waiting for a response. The truth was when Sarah told me to go home and sleep, that sounded rational. Wasn’t rational thought what separated us from the animals? But I didn’t think a discussion about anthropology would have gone over too well. I was going to have to come clean and admit my dirty deed—that yes, I was asleep at 2:14 A.M. “Ssssorry, I didn’t realize that you would need anything more last night so I … I … fell asleep.”
The apology slipped out before I could help it. You’ll never find a man saying “I’m sorry” to his boss—it would make him appear weak. But women did it all the time. I once worked with a woman who started all of her sentences with an apology. “Sorry, I have a question.” “Sorry, I’m going for lunch.” “Sorry, do you have the time?” It was really annoying and I was trying to eliminate the word from my professional vocabulary. “Sorry” wasn’t a word spoken in Biglaw.
Ben glared at me as if there could never be enough apologies for the misunderstanding. For him, there was simply no reason for your BlackBerry to go unanswered. Ever. “I had my BlackBerry on vibrate,” I continued, “but I must have slept through it.” Okay, that was a lie, but I was grasping for a life preserver.
“Do you realize what the Highlander deal is? Do you realize what an opportunity it is for this firm? For you?”
“Of course I—”
“When I agreed to let you work on the Saul deal, I thought I made it clear that it could not interfere with your responsibilities on this deal.”
When he agreed to let me? It sounded like Ben was referencing a conversation that never actually occurred. I certainly would never have jockeyed to work with Saul. I had no idea what he was talking about, so I fell back on some advice Sadir had given me on my first day at F&D—when in doubt, nod remorsefully.
“I thought you understood the timeline with this deal, but apparently not, so let me be crystal clear. We require your full commitment in order to get this done. We ALL need to make personal sacrifices. Sometimes that mean
s not sleeping when we want to.”
I felt as if he’d just punched me in the gut. There are a lot of things I wanted to do—go for coffee with a friend, have a meal outside of the office, maybe go to the gym or pick up my dry cleaning, but I hadn’t done any of that because of this deal.
“It won’t happen again,” I said firmly, finally disarming his assault.
“Well, it had better not. Look, you have to be available when I need you. At any time. That doesn’t mean that you need to be in the office all the time,” he added, with a tone that I’m sure he thought was reassuring. “You just need to have your BlackBerry on you.”
“Your wife’s on the phone,” Ben’s secretary called out from her cubicle, thankfully knocking Ben off his soapbox. “She needs your credit card number.” Ben winced and picked up the receiver.
“Yeah,” he said impatiently. I took it as my cue to leave and slunk back to my office, leaving him to negotiate the cost of kitchen appliances.
Painfully aware that I needed to brush up on my relaxation techniques if I was going to survive the next few months, I ducked out of the office at 7 P.M. for a one hour Vinyasa yoga class, leaving my BlackBerry on vibrate, of course.
“Exhale in the mountain pose … inhale stretch up … exhale down into a forward bend … remember your breath …” the yogi purred.
“So it was Sarah who told you to go home for the night?” Kim whispered, moving into her forward bend. We were situated in our favorite spot (back row in the far corner) where the buzz of the heater drowned our whispers out.
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