I grabbed a taxi and went back to my apartment. As soon as I arrived, I threw off my clothes, showered, and collapsed on my bed. I checked my phone. Erica and my parents had called repeatedly and left one message each. I listened to my parents’ message first.
“Will, your question took us by surprise, that’s all. Of course, we can help out. There’s no time limit. Please let us know you’re okay.” I sent them an apologetic text, told them I was home, assured them I was fine and that I would call them soon.
I then listened to Erica’s message. “Will, no need to call me back tonight, but please call me tomorrow.”
I fell asleep, and I did not dream.
23
The Golden Cuffs
My phone rang repeatedly. Why didn’t voicemail kick in? I checked the time. Eleven thirty p.m. “I’m fine,” I answered, “I just want to sleep.”
“The deposition must have been exhausting,” I heard Stefan say. I smiled.
“Stefan,” I said. “Stefan, Stefan, Stefan.”
“That sounds so weary,” Stefan said. “The sound of a tired man faltering under the burden of wisdom.”
“Stefan,” I said, “I’m considering leaving the firm.”
“Will, I cannot allow you to do that.”
“That sounds so medieval,” I said.
“Well, maybe I should rephrase, because I recognize, only in a technical sense, the freedom that you have to live your life.”
“God bless those technicalities.”
“So I will rephrase. I will abase myself in ways that are deeply humiliating to me and to my sense of honor. I will abandon all pretense of dignity and do whatever I can possibly do to prevent you from leaving the firm. And therefore, you will stay, because you could not bear to see me descend to the depths of such degradation. You will stay not for yourself but for me, because you love me and would do anything for me.”
“And this is because my work is so critical to the functioning of the firm, right?”
“Will, you are a great lawyer.”
“I’m a good lawyer, but I am not a great lawyer. You, Stefan, are a great lawyer, and you are in the best position to know that my self-assessment is quite accurate.”
Stefan paused. I could sense that he was regrouping, strategizing. “Will, why do you want to leave the firm?”
I collapsed on my bed and lay flat on my back. “I need time and space to . . . to sort things out.”
“So take some time and space. Take a leave of absence. But there is no reason to sever your ties with the firm in a formal sense. I’m sure something could be worked out.”
I sat up. “The firm does not grant leaves of absence, except in the most extraordinary circumstances . . .”
“Well, maybe this would be viewed as an extraordinary circumstance.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “There is no extraordinary circumstance, at least none that I would care to verbalize to the firm.”
“So, don’t verbalize anything, just arrange for a leave of absence.”
“Because I could just ask for it, right? Because of my standing as a competent but undistinguished midlevel associate, I could ask for an extended leave of absence, in a firm that requires extraordinary circumstances, without providing any explanation.”
I heard Stefan breathe in and exhale, like he was smoking a cigarette. “Well,” he said, “there is some truth to that.”
“Truth to what?” I asked.
“Will, the simple truth is, you can do whatever you want, you can ask for pretty much anything, and your request will be granted. Within reason, of course.”
I was no longer confused. “Halter,” I said.
“Do you know that the Lindquist-Halter litigation came to us almost by accident?” Stefan asked. “Almost all of Halter’s legal work is handled by Pierce Morgan. We got this litigation because one of the associates at Pierce Morgan worked briefly for Lindquist, and Lindquist threatened to seek disqualification of Pierce Morgan based on conflict of interest. I think Lindquist would have lost that argument, but Halter did not want to suffer any delays in the case, so he came to us for this one litigation.”
“And now?” I asked.
“And now . . . and now . . . ,” Stefan whispered, “and now Halter is transferring everything to us. And there is more. He is pushing all of his clients and contacts to retain our services. And he is pushing hard. We are a good firm, Will, a pretty well-known firm. We hover just below the top echelon of local firms in New York. But this is a game-changer. We will become a national firm. A player. We will go on a hiring binge. We will merge. We will be huge. We will be feared. And we will be good.”
“Is all of this so important to you?” I asked.
“Will, I suppose I have this image that I project. I am smooth, unruffled, and I am accomplished at cultivating this image . . . but the truth is, this firm is my life. And I like that.”
“I don’t fault you for that,” I said. “You’re rising quickly.”
“May I share a secret with you?” Stefan said. “I am rising quickly, and now, I will treat you to the megalomaniacal side of my personality. Someday, I shall rule all that we survey before us. I shall be the head of this firm. I shall be the ruler, a benevolent one, of course, but not so benevolent that I prevent myself from becoming filthy rich. So there, you see? I am shallow. And my cool, ironic pose is nothing more than a shroud that masks my true self. I am insanely ambitious.”
“I hope all of this happens,” I said.
“Well, it is happening, and while I have not yet solidified my position, people can read the tea leaves. Actually, this path has been noticeable for some time, and there have been the usual politics that have created some bumps along the way. But with Halter, the path is unavoidable.”
“This is all good,” I said. “What does this have to do with me?”
“I will be frank with you, Will, although with due respect, I think you know the answer. But I will spell it out. You and I are close, did you know that? Did you know that you are viewed as my protégé? This has not escaped Halter’s notice. When Halter made the transfer, he came to me— not to the executive committee, to me. And then he instructed me to inform the executive committee about the transfer. Then, he went further. He advised the committee that the only reason he was transferring all of his business to Canaan was his regard for me. Do you have any idea the kind of authority this vests in me?”
“The more, the better,” I said.
“Do I really have to state the obvious?” Stefan said. “This is all because of you. And the members of the executive committee know this, as I have dropped unsubtle hints along the way. And please, do not waste one syllable denying this reality. This is because of you.”
There it was, stated baldly. I had trouble figuring out whether I felt empowered or drained.
“And now the time has arrived for me to be melodramatic,” Stefan continued. “Are you ready? I will do anything, and I mean anything, to make sure that your status is protected in this firm. If you need a onemonth leave of absence, you have it. If you need more, you have it. You have my personal, unalterable, guarantee.”
“I need two months,” I said.
“You should have asked for more. You are a bad negotiator.”
“Okay, I need six months.”
“I will need some time to consider that request.”
“Six months paid.”
“That is an outrageous request, and it will require even more time for processing. Okay, I am now in a position to provide to you the status of your application. Your request is granted.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“I am not. I believe that perhaps you and I have entered into an alternative universe, where wondrous and astonishing things happen. And the rest of the world has followed us. If all of humanity simultaneously departs one reality and enters another, maybe there has been no departure and reentry but just a continuous reaffirmation of the path we were destined to follow.”
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“You’re drunk,” I said.
“I concede the basic fact that I have consumed a fair degree of alcohol this evening, as much of the formal transfer of business has today been finalized, and I am in a celebratory mood. I will leave more inflammatory judgments of my current state to others. By the way . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Stefan?”
“Yes, I am here. One other thing. Did I thank you, Will? Because, well, really, none of this was on the horizon; I did not see any of this coming; you . . . you changed my life, Will, and therefore I will serenade you with one of my favorite Danish folk songs, “Og det var liden Karen . . .”
“I’m hanging up, Stefan.” But I doubt he heard me, as he sang what sounded like a woeful ballad, maybe about a sad fool, fearless and free.
24
The Line Traversed
I called my office and left a message with my secretary that I was on a six-month leave of absence and that she should coordinate with Stefan to reassign my work. I went back to sleep and woke up at 11:00 a.m. the next morning. I turned my phone on. I had one message.
“Will,” I heard Lindquist’s voice say, “the good news first. This will be the last time I try to communicate with you in any manner without your consent. If I do not hear back from you, I will disappear from your radar, and there will be no repercussions. I have two other things I want to say.”
I heard the rustling of paper and found it poignant that this master of the universe had to type out a prepared voicemail message. “The two things consist of an apology and a proposal. The apology almost speaks for itself. I am sorry for my rudeness and peculiar behavior. I am desperate, and I would probably do the same thing over again. However, I have learned that I have one or two shreds of dignity left, because despite my circumstances, I would rather suffer my grim fate than to debase myself again. So if you so choose, you are free of me, and we are done.”
I paused the message. I watched flecks of dust float by, illuminated by streaks of light slipping through the window shades. The flecks had distinct shapes. “Part two of this message is the proposal. I wish to meet with you for a few . . . sessions. How long for each session? Let’s say thirty minutes. And for each thirty-minute session, I will pay you five thousand dollars. This amount is negotiable, but you will be compensated at some level, because I would be taking up your time and because it helps to convince me that I am taking a concrete step toward improvement. We can put this in writing, but you can be sure that even in the absence of a signed document, my word will hold. And let me make this final point, for it is surely the most important point of all.”
He was off script now, his voice more connected and less cadenced. “You would be under no obligation to produce results. There are no promises, no guarantees . . . how many ways can I say this? Imagine that this ‘no guarantee’ language is stated in the most ironclad way ever devised by the minds of attorneys. That would be the scope of this waiver. If I never hear from you again, I wish you well.”
At times, I comforted myself with the conviction that money was of secondary importance to me. In my more self-satisfied moments, I could view the city as a fine-tuned device that soullessly converted cranial gray matter into financial compensation. I had higher aspirations, I would tell myself, although if one’s schedule is one’s life, I would be hard-pressed to support this proposition.
Only a few seconds of introspection were necessary to puncture this pretense. I liked money a great deal, and I thought about money all of the time. I envied those who had it, and I fantasized about its accumulation. Over the years, the local news ran stories about taxi drivers who returned large amounts of cash or other valuable items left in the back seat of their vehicles. My prethought reaction was invariably, Why? They could have gotten away with it.
A certain rote morality would no doubt prevent me from pocketing found money under such circumstances, but I couldn’t deny that my fantasies with money typically involved the sudden undeserved discovery of cash. I suppose I could just as easily imagine that I accumulated wealth by being possessed of superior talent or intellect and harnessing these attributes to earning vast compensation. But that fantasy bored me. Plus, the fantasy had to be realistic. And it was not realistic for me to suppose that I harbored the intensity and ambition to earn vast sums of money.
Math crept in. Combine a paid leave of absence with a rate of $5,000 per thirty minutes, and soon, we were talking real money. Even just a few sessions would result in serious compensation. And this wouldn’t be fraud, right? After all, I had Lindquist’s voicemail expressly absolving me of any requirement to produce results. And he sought my help with his eyes wide open. I engaged in no solicitation and made no representations. This would be compensation without responsibility and—most thrilling of all—without the need to prepare.
And what if I found just a handful of similarly situated clients? Maybe Lindquist could help. I’d have to impose tight restraints, of course. Maybe a nondisclosure agreement. After all, I couldn’t be too open about this. I was still a licensed attorney, and public decorum still held importance. But if I handled this properly, I could earn a substantial income and avoid ridicule at the same time.
I sent a text. “Mr. Lindquist, I will call you tomorrow morning at 11:00 to further discuss.” I sat down at my desk, opened my computer, and began to type:
Retainer Agreement
I started a new paragraph.
Paragraph One: The following terms and conditions will constitute the agreement between Will Alexander (the “Practitioner”) and Mark Lindquist (the “Client”) with respect to the services to be provided.
I stared at the screen. I liked the structure so far.
Paragraph Two: Scope of Services. The Practitioner will endeavor to provide services to and on behalf of the Client in connection with addressing various issues of interest to the Client, including but not limited to matters affecting the well-being and overall contentment of the Client. The Practitioner shall institute whatever protocol and procedures that the Practitioner, in the Practitioner’s sole discretion, believes will most efficaciously accomplish the results sought hereunder.
A disclaimer was needed.
Paragraph Three: Disclaimer. The Practitioner makes no warranties or representations concerning the Practitioner’s ability or talent or skill to accomplish any of the goals set forth in paragraph 2 above. The Practitioner has no history, experience, identifiable skill, or training that would suggest in any manner that the Practitioner can bestow upon or provide any benefit to the Client.
Paragraph Four: Fees. The Client shall be responsible for paying to the Practitioner $5,000.00 for each session. It is anticipated that each session shall last approximately 30 minutes.
The agreement needed more work. For example, what about expenses? Penalties for nonpayment? Maybe an arbitration clause. I closed the computer, got dressed, and headed south toward Crosby Street in lower Manhattan.
It was time.
25
A Question of Sanity
I loved reading biographies, not so much for the educational content, but to track the precise moment when an otherwise obscure figure pivoted to prominence. For example, I was fascinated by the career trajectory of Harry S. Truman, a failed businessman who, in his late thirties, drove his haberdashery into bankruptcy and then, in his forties, was reduced to selling automobile club memberships. Not long thereafter, he became one of the most remarkable figures of the twentieth century. How did this happen? The currents of circumstance, I suppose, but I also believed, with no supporting evidence, that he took one seemingly trivial yet consequential step that redirected his focus, upset his equilibrium, and freed him to consider grander possibilities.
Fortified by these thoughts, I walked into Moto Mania on Crosby Street in Soho and bought a Vespa. I had some experience with scooters, mainly limited to my experience in Bermuda as a fourteen-yearold on vacation with my parents. The speed limit on the island at that time was twenty miles
per hour, which was fortunate, because the flimsy two-wheelers in Hamilton had seemed fastened together by paper clips. Adding to my disorientation was the requirement to ride on the left side of the road. But even so, the experience then had been transforming. I felt like nothing I had accomplished in my life since then, if anything could be reasonably categorized as an accomplishment, compared to the liberating detachment I had experienced as I clunkered along the Bermuda coast.
I entered Moto Mania on a lark, daring myself to string together a consecutive series of goofy steps, with the allowance to withdraw at any point along the way. The first step was so simple. Walking into the showroom. But I had not prepared myself for the hypnotic impact of the candy-colored Vespas and the high-tech architecture of the flip-top, Bluetooth-enabled helmets. Also, I was surrounded by laid-back enablers, salespeople who recognized a sucker when they saw one and who knew just how to recede and then gently readvance to guide the lost soul to the consummation of a purchase.
They let me take out a used 150-cubic-centimeter model for a test drive. Technically, I needed a permit, with a dedicated licensed motorcyclist within a quarter mile of me at all times. But when was the last time this rule was enforced? I flew up Crosby Street and darted between cars and potholes. Then, I sped down Broadway and carved a tight right turn onto Canal Street. I was good, and I was abetted by this nimble machine that intuited my every directional intention.
I purchased a bright green 250 cc Gran Turismo Vespa and two openface helmets. Then, I rode up to Twenty-First Street between Broadway and Park Avenue and waited. At 5:00 p.m., Erica walked out of her office building and headed east. I rode beside her and marveled at her ability to navigate the crowded sidewalk as she sent texts and emails. I beeped the horn and scared the shit out of myself. And Erica.
“That is so unnecessary,” she yelled and continued walking. I followed her conspicuously. She was furious, but she made a determined effort to ignore me.
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