Scot on the Rocks (25 page)

I
t’s amazing how similar a job interview is to a date. As I hobbled on my crutches across town to each of the small law firms where Michelle had secured me an interview, I couldn’t help but notice that all of the same benchmarks were there: you worry about your outfit; you stress out over what you will talk about; and everyone is trying to put his or her best face forward. There is little to no room for error; the slightest faux pas and you could be back at square one, jobless, or worse yet, single.

The screening interview is like a date over drinks or coffee — the other party hasn’t committed yet to the idea of giving you more than thirty minutes of their time. If said other party deems you good enough, then you get to the real interview, where you meet four or five members of the firm, and you curse the fact that you wore your best suit for the screening interview and told all of your best anecdotes. But still, it’s a second date.

All of the parties smile a lot and highlight their most positive attributes and leave out any negative ones. Everyone laughs at everyone else’s jokes and keeps their elbows off the table. I tried hard to remember how to fold my hands in the ladylike way my aunt Myrna taught me to when I was younger. The same topics are taboo — no one discusses politics or sex — except in the job interview, you are encouraged to immediately express how much you love the firm and how you want to stay there until your dying day.

In both the job interview and dating, you hope and pray for the Holy Grail — the job offer/marriage proposal — and then soon learn that the courting was actually the fun and easy part.

Michelle had set me up on six screening interviews/first dates, which I then parlayed into three second-round interviews/ second dates.

After interviewing at all three firms that had invited me back, I had secured offers from two of them.

I agonized over my decision for days, in striking contrast to the on-campus recruitment season when I was in law school. Back then, Vanessa and I sat in the Law Review office in the height of interview season and discussed our options:

“Which firm did you like the best?” Vanessa said.

“I was so busy trying to get them to like me that I wasn’t really paying attention to them….” I said as I leafed through
The American Lawyer
midlevel associate survey. “Which did you like the best?”

“Gilson Hecht is on Park Avenue, is only three blocks away from Saks and has the most attractive lawyers,” Vanessa said. “Probably because they’re close to Saks and can get really cute work outfits.”

“But,” I asked as the managing editor of the Law Review walked into the office, “where do they rank on the
Law Journal
list? How much experience do junior associates get early on? Number of female partners?”

“Good questions, Brooke,” Vanessa said, practically biting a hole in the side of her cheek as she tried not to laugh. We had decided early on in the on-campus interview process that all of the big firms were practically identical, so we were best off finding a place where we would just fit in and get along with the other associates. “I’m also curious to know the partner-to-associate ratio.”

The managing editor nodded at both of us as she grabbed the mail from her mailbox and left the office. We both fell into hysterical laughter the second she walked out of the office.

This time around was different, though. I actually cared about things like level of responsibility given to associates and the partner-to-associate ratio. I paid attention when I was at each firm, to every person, every word uttered, the subtext in what they said to me, the way they interacted with those around them, their body language. Because this time, I would not make a mistake. This time, I would not make an important life decision for the wrong reasons.

My first offer came from Anderton Frommer, another Park Avenue law firm like Gilson Hecht, with a similarly long and illustrious history. Much smaller than Gilson Hecht, it was a small intellectual property “boutique” firm with about fifty attorneys. I felt immediately at home when I walked into its offices. Michelle told me that it was the sort of place that attorneys who want to leave big firm life gravitate to; it still had the creature comforts you were used to at your old big firm, and you still would get the same thrill out of telling people where you worked.

My other offer was from Smith, Goldberg and Reede. I’d never heard of them before, but Michelle told me that they were a relatively young up-and-coming firm whose reputation in intellectual property work was growing due to their excellent work product and high ethical standards. Lawyers who worked with them and litigated against them routinely praised them for the way they did business.

Their offices on Third Avenue weren’t nearly as posh as Gilson Hecht’s offices, or even Anderton Frommer’s, for that matter, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter anymore once I began to meet the people who worked there. There was no mahogany, no imported marble, and no room dedicated solely to supplies. More importantly, though, there was also no cafeteria — SGR attorneys weren’t expected to work through dinner.

I met two associates whom I really liked. One was junior to me and the other would be senior, and I could see myself working with both of them. I also met one of the founding members of the firm, Noah Goldberg, and was immediately impressed that he would take the time out of his schedule to meet a prospective new associate. He wasn’t as old as I expected him to be. None of the named partners were even still alive at Gilson Hecht, nor were they at most of the city’s large firms.

As Noah talked about his vision for the firm and the type of lawyer he was looking to hire, I began to remember why I’d wanted to be a lawyer in the first place — I loved to write and I loved to work with people. He talked about helping clients and being creative and working with good people. Hearing him talk about intellectual property law and why he chose the field got me excited about the law in a way I hadn’t been since my second-year Trademarks class. The work was what was important, not whether or not your case got into the paper. Having a life outside of work made you happy, not merely having the ability to tell people that you worked at a prestigious firm. As we talked about intellectual property law, I realized that I’d truly gotten excellent training at Gilson Hecht and that I was very much prepared for more responsibility and a new opportunity, which was what SGR was offering me.

Noah introduced me to my last interviewer of the day, a partner named Rosalyn Ford. Introducing the female candidates to a successful female partner was a trick the big firms used that I remembered from interviewing the first time around (“This firm is great for women, we’ll prove it to you by dangling a female partner in front of you!”), but I still appreciated the effort.

“Brooke Miller,” Rosalyn said as we shook hands and she helped me set my crutches next to my seat. “It can’t be easy running around Manhattan with these.”

“No, it’s not,” I said with a smile, noticing a picture on her desk of her and two toddlers.

“Now that I work here I actually get to
see
those little guys,” she said, catching me looking at the photo. I smiled back at her. “But then again, my kids stay up until midnight.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to formulate a response.

“I’m kidding,” she said. “Only kidding.” She told me a bit about herself and her family and how different her life had become since leaving big-firm life. We both agreed that the big-firm lifestyle could be punishing, though I was cautious in my answers to let her know that I was not opposed to working hard when circumstances called for it.

“So, what attracted you to Gilson Hecht?” she asked. “Actually, no, that’s a stupid question. I was seduced by the big-firm thing, too, right out of law school. It’s hard not to be, isn’t it? The offices are beautiful and state of the art, your clients are all famous and world-renowned brands, your cases are always in the paper, you have unlimited resources at your fingertips, and they pay you more than you really deserve your first year out of law school.” I couldn’t help but smile in response. She put it so succinctly, but she was right. Rosalyn reminded me of the sort of person I’d grown up with, down-to-earth and without airs, and I found her easy to be around. “And don’t you love saying that you work at Gilson Hecht?” she asked. I was slightly embarrassed by the question because the fact was that I
had
loved saying that I worked there, and somehow that now seemed silly.

Rosalyn and I talked a lot about why I wanted to leave Gilson Hecht and her own decision to leave a big firm. She told me about the types of cases she was working on and the types of cases that I could hope to work on. As the interview wound down, she summed it up for me: “Offices aren’t as fancy and the cases aren’t as sexy, but you’ll get better hours, and better experience. I’m happy I came here and I think that you will be, too.”

I was sold. Within weeks, I was on my way to SGR. They didn’t offer the big firm salary, but they did offer more substance, which seemed like an excellent trade-off.

I was off crutches by the time I gave my notice at Gilson Hecht and then spent the following two weeks wrapping things up on all of my active cases. The Healthy Foods case was wrapping itself up, actually, thanks to a successful survey Jack had crafted that showed that real consumers were not actually confused into thinking that Healthy Foods coffee was healthy, as the lawsuit claimed. The case would be disappearing in no time, due to Jack’s good work.

It took me most of the two weeks just to clean out my office, throwing out some things and giving away others. It was a long-standing Gilson Hecht tradition that as an associate left, that associate would give away most of his or her things to those he or she left behind. A changing of the guards of sorts. I had quite a few things on my own desk that had been handed down to me from more senior associates whom I’d looked up to before they’d left themselves.

I had Stephanie Paul’s old Gilson Hecht mug from before Trattner had become a named partner — a collector’s item for sure. I also had Bernard Mitnick’s old Etch A Sketch that he used to keep on top of his computer, still with the poorly drawn picture of a bird (a “free” bird) that he’d drawn for me on his way out. I took those with me.

I gave away my own Gilson Hecht mug that I’d received the first day I came to the firm as a summer associate and the stress ball that used to sit at the edge of my desk. I hoped that I wouldn’t need a stress ball at my new firm. I put my take-out menu collection into a legal folder and gave it to the first-year associate I was assigned to advise. I told her who to ask for at each place, along with what to order and what to avoid.

Vanessa came in and took all of my office supplies, from the desk calendar down to the paper clips, which she claimed were in much better condition than her own (something about my not using my stapler as much as she did — I was pretty sure it was a not-so-subtle dig at my work ethic, but I let it slide). She also dragged out my two visitor’s chairs. They were chocolate-brown distressed leather, whereas most of the associates all had the same standard fabric run-of-the-mill doctor’s waiting-room chairs in their offices. I had gotten them when I was a first-year associate — stolen them really — from the office of a recently disbarred partner. I’d felt it only fair that I have first dibs on his office furniture — I’d been working on a case for him at the time, and had been the first to know of his impending disbarment. I felt Gilson Hecht owed me something for the pain and suffering I endured from having watched a partner being taken out of the office in handcuffs right in the middle of a meeting.

I shuffled through my top desk drawer for more things to throw away or give away when I came upon the faux engagement ring Jack had bought me. It still shone brightly with its tiny fake baguettes and fake platinum band. I picked it up and looked at it for a moment just as Sherry Lee, one of my favorite first-year associates, came into my office.

“I knew it was true!” she said, walking into my office and sitting down on my empty credenza. She crossed her slim legs and I remembered how Vanessa and I used to get dressed up and wear skirts when we were first years.

“What was true?” I asked.

“That you got engaged to Douglas in L.A.! It’s why you quit, isn’t it? Let me see the ring!” Sherry said, leaning over my desk.

“This isn’t the ring,” I explained. “I didn’t get engaged to Douglas. We’re not together anymore.”

“Then what’s that in your hand?” she asked me.

“This?” I asked, looking at the ring. “This is nothing.”

“Oh,” she said. “Sorry. Well, then, I’ll see you at your going-away party tomorrow night.”

I smiled at her as she walked out. I turned the ring over and over in my hands, unsure of what to do with it. I couldn’t throw it out and I most certainly couldn’t give it away. I turned it over and over again, remembering how much fun Jack and I had had together on the day that he’d bought it for me.

I put the ring into an interoffice envelope and put it in my
Out
box.

I
didn’t even know I was going to do it when I walked into the place, but the moment I got there, something overcame me and I just knew that the time was right. Something was different — somehow I was different — and I decided all at once.

“I usually don’t recommend doing this after you’ve had a traumatic situation,” Starleen said.

“I haven’t had a traumatic situation,” I said simply.

“Let’s see,” she said, “Douglas broke up with you and threw you out of your apartment after proposing to some bimbo, which left you dateless for Trip’s wedding. Then, you realized you were in love with your best friend, but Douglas came back and ruined that, too. And now, you’re about to start a new job. You’re right, Brooke, that’s no stress at all.”

“Do it,” I said, looking at myself in the mirror. “I’m ready.”

“After you do this,” she said, “you can’t just go back, you know.”

Actually, you could. As I walked into the hair salon that day, there was a huge sign advertising a summer special on hair extensions. You could cut all of your hair off one day, and then return to the salon the very next day and have extensions put in that would make your hair the exact same length that it had been. But that didn’t matter. I wouldn’t need to go back.

“Cut it all off,” I said to Starleen, who had been my hairstylist for the last ten years. When I’d first started seeing her, she’d been a mere assistant to the namesake of the salon (read: charged really cheap rates), but she had worked her way up to become a senior stylist (read: so expensive that I’m actually embarrassed to admit the price). She’d seen me through Trip and Douglas and about a million other bad dates in between. So, I could understand her apprehension to change my style so drastically after such a long time.

“Here goes,” she said, running a comb through my long wet locks and making the first cut.

I watched the first piece fall to the ground and felt a tear come to my eye. It wasn’t so much that I was sad — I cried often enough to know the difference between cries — it was just a recognition of how hard it was to cut away a piece of yourself. A piece of yourself that has been there since you were just a kid. Something that’s been
with
you for more of your life than it hasn’t.

But maybe change is good. It certainly felt good to go out and get a new job, and I was excited about my new opportunity and the thought that it was up to me to make something of it. By letting go of what I thought I’d wanted, I had found an even better job than the one that I’d had, just as I’d recently found a new apartment that was even better than the one in which I’d lived with Douglas. I just knew that the new job was only the beginning of more new good things to come for me.

“I can stop right now,” Starleen said, watching me looking down at my locks of hair in the mirror.

“No, I said, “I don’t want you to stop.”

So she didn’t.

When all was said and done, Starleen had taken twelve and a half inches off — I knew exactly how much it was since she’d had to measure it before sending it on to Locks of Love, the charity that collects hair to make wigs for children with cancer.

Even with that much taken off, it was still shoulder length because Starleen said that she still wanted it to look like me, but just a better me. And it did. Most people would still consider it long (or medium length if you didn’t want to be generous about it), and the cut made it look much healthier. It
was
healthier, lighter. The style had more movement, but it still knew exactly where it was supposed to go.

When she was finished with the cut, Starleen began to blow it out straight on autopilot. I told her that maybe we should keep some of the natural curl in it and she gave me bunches of subtle waves.

“Fabulous,” Starleen said when she was done and I wasn’t sure if she meant me or her own handiwork. Either way, I felt great as I walked back to my office to get ready for my official Gilson Hecht going-away party.

“Are you ready?” Vanessa asked me as she burst into my office.

“Yeah,” I said, still sitting behind my empty desk, applying blush. I was excited about my new haircut and even though I knew that it was a more professional look for my new job and the next phase of my life, I was still making up for the resultant “naked” feeling by doubling up on blush.

“I told you to be ready at 5:00 p.m.! Let’s rock and roll!” she said, brushing the ends of my hair as she walked past me. Vanessa had changed out of her tailored pantsuit and into tight black pants and a tan Nanette Lepore top that was bordering on being a bit too low cut for an office party.

“Shut the door,” I said. “I haven’t changed yet.”

“Why aren’t you ready?” she asked.

“Most of the people attending tonight aren’t going to be able to get out of here until seven o’clock, the earliest, and even that’s pushing it, so what’s the rush?” I asked her, grabbing the outfit that was hanging on the back of my office door.

“I know!” she said. “We barely have any time! We need to get to the place and make sure that we have a little area sectioned off for just our group. Then we need to eat something and freshen up our makeup so that we look like we’re just coming from the office, too.”

“Do you think Jack’s coming?” I asked, pulling down on the ends of my hair.

“It looks fantastic,” Vanessa said, “stop touching it.”

“Thanks,” I said, as I began to put on my own black pants and pink little top that was definitely too low cut for an office party. Vanessa picked up my telephone and started dialing. With just a bra and one pant leg on, I dove for the phone. “Do
not
call him!” I screamed, slamming my hand over the phone. “I was just checking to see if you knew.”

“I’ll know once I call him,” she said.

“If he wants to come, he will come,” I said, my hand still firmly planted on the phone.

“But you want him to come. That’s why I was calling him. Do you really care how he gets there?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. We haven’t spoken for weeks. The last time we did speak he made it clear that he hates me. Anyway, he knows why I quit,” I said, putting my other leg into my pants.

“Why did you quit?” she asked me, pulling up a chair to listen as if she were Dr. Phil.

“Now the ball is in his court,” I said, putting on my top.

“No,” she said, “I think that you’re giving him way too much credit for having ESP and reading your mind. He probably just thinks that you were miserable here like everyone else.”

“Let’s go,” I said, pulling Vanessa out of the office.

Seconds later, we were barreling in the door to Sammy J’s, a dive bar around the corner from the office. Every Gilson Hecht associate since 1997 has had his or her going-away party at Sammy J’s for sentimental reasons. Sammy J was a Gilson Hecht associate himself, toiling his nights away at the firm like most young associates do, dreaming about one day owning a bar. On the odd night that Sammy J wasn’t working until midnight (and some that he was), you could find Sammy J at Fat Joe’s, the dive bar that was then in the space that Sammy J’s now occupies. He was there so often that the local pizza place used to deliver pizzas for him right to the bar. He was so close with Fat Joe, having spent so many late nights at the bar, that Fat Joe let him do it. Sometime into Sammy J’s fourth year at the firm, rumors started flying around the firm about Fat Joe filing for bankruptcy and the next thing everyone knew, Sammy J was giving his two weeks notice and buying Fat Joe’s place for pennies in foreclosure. It’s considered good luck to have your going-away party there. And Sammy J will even order in the pizza for you himself.

We sat at the bar eating pizza with Sammy J when, just as I’d predicted, at 7:00 p.m., the crowd started rolling in. Vanessa and I had commandeered the best tables in the place — far enough back to be somewhat private, but positioned just right so that we could see the front door every time it opened.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off that door. Every time it opened, I prayed it would be Jack coming in. But it never was. I wondered if Vanessa was doing the same thing, hoping that Marcus would show up. I asked her.

“Why on earth would I think that?” she answered.

“Not necessarily think it, but hope it,” I explained.

“No,” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Marcus is not coming,” she said simply. And at that moment, I knew that Jack wasn’t coming, either. I would just have to accept the situation, much as Vanessa had. She and Marcus were separated, so he would not be coming. Jack and I were not together anymore — weren’t ever, really, so he would not be coming, either.

Even though it wouldn’t kill him to show his face at an office goodbye party. I mean, the man
does
want to make partner at this firm, doesn’t he? My God, he could show a bit more office spirit, don’t you think?

Vanessa went to the jukebox, dollar bills in hand, and began to select the soundtrack for the evening. “Born to Run” began to blast over the ball game Sammy J had up on the television screen and I couldn’t help but smile. I knew that Vanessa thought she was being clever. I walked up to the jukebox and checked what other songs she had selected. Equal parts Tom Petty, The Pretenders and Liz Phair, I couldn’t have picked a more sexy, kick-ass mix myself. She even had a few of my favorite eighties songs thrown in for good measure.

We greeted the other associates as they came in and talked about my plans for the future. None of the girls could believe I’d chopped off my hair. I heard some of the third-year guys talking about which way they liked it better, but I decided not to listen because I’d decided that
I
liked it better this way and that was all that really mattered.

I spoke to all of the associates who were there and told them all about the new firm, but even as I was talking, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the door. Still hoping, praying, that with each swish of the door, it would be Jack walking in to see me. But it never was. I drank beer after beer, shot after shot, in the hopes that I would just start to relax and enjoy myself at my own going-away party.

“Okay, Brooke,” one of the second-year associates told me, “now that you’re leaving, you have to play one of my favorite games with me. It’s called ‘Death is not an option.’” A few other second years began to gather and sat me down at the back table. They lined up beers and shots of tequila and explained the rules to me. They would name two different people that we knew and I would have to decide which of the two I would sleep with.

“Dennis in the mail room or Tony in duplicating?” she began.

“Dennis weighs over three hundred pounds,” I said.

“Do I hear a Tony?” one of the other girls asked.

“I’d rather kill myself,” I said.

“Death is not an option!” they all cried out in unison.

“Then I guess it’s Tony,” I said. The other second years all nodded their heads in agreement. “That was a tough one,” one of them said.

“Okay, Rich Harper in tax or that dude in the cafeteria whose hair net is always on crooked?”

“Rich Harper is a partner,” I said. The girls all nodded, anxious for my response, “who wears a really bad toupee.” The girls nodded again, practically falling off their seats, they were leaning in so close to hear. “I guess I’d have to take the dude in the cafeteria.”

“Ewww!” one of the second years said. “Hair nets! I think that I got the cooties just from hearing you say that!”

“Yeah, at least Harper would buy you jewelry,” another chimed in.

“Yeah, Brooke, that’s kind of gross,” the ringleader said. “Okay, Emmett in word processing or Jordan Levy in corporate?”

“Jordan’s a girl,” I said. The girls all nodded.

“Yeah, but Emmett has a mullet,” the ringleader said. “And really bad acne.”

“Good point,” I said. “I guess I’d have to go with Jordan, then. At least we could share clothing and stuff.” The girls all nodded along.

“And shoes,” one added.

“Okay, here’s a tough one — Jack, or…”

“Which Jack?” I asked.

“You know which Jack,” the ringleader said.

“Jack in litigation or Jack in real estate?” I asked.

“You don’t know Jack!” said the second-year to her left, giggling as she downed another shot from the glasses lined up in front of us.

“Is that what this whole game is about?” I asked. “If you wanted gossip, all you had to do was ask.”

The Doors came on and all at once I felt suffocated. “Break on Through” blasted through the bar and I couldn’t catch my breath. I had to get out of there.

“Oh, my God, I looove this song!” one of the second years called out and they all got up to dance around the bar. I got up, too, and started heading for the door. I grabbed a strand of hair to twirl and felt my eyes tear up as I remembered that I’d cut it all off.

I tried to grab Vanessa to tell her that I was leaving, but she was far too busy dancing on a table to pay me any mind. Yes, she was dancing on a table. She was dancing with Sammy J, though, so I was pretty sure that it was okay and that he wouldn’t try to charge us extra for destroying his bar. Turns out, the single life agreed with Vanessa much more than I expected it to. Who would have thought? Either way, you’ve gotta hand it to that girl for making up for lost time, I suppose.

I walked outside just as a cab was approaching the bar. I put my hand out to hail it and it stopped for me right in front of Sammy J’s. The door opened and out walked — well, isn’t it obvious? Out walked Jack. Typical — the first second that I stop thinking, hoping, praying and dreaming that he will show, he shows.

“Am I too late for the party?” he asked. I couldn’t tell by the look on his face if he was here to see me, or if he was simply here to make sure that I was really leaving.

“No, the party’s still raging. You actually got here just in time,” I said, pointing to the bar. The sound of the music and the laughter was pouring out into the street.

“Then, where are you going?” he asked.

“I think I’ve had enough. Goodbyes aren’t really my thing,” I said.

“I noticed,” he said. “You didn’t even stop by to say goodbye to me on your last day.”