This Was Not the Plan

by Cristina Alger

  “You don’t want to know. Let’s just say I could stop working tomorrow and I would’ve already billed my full two thousand hours for the year.”

  Moose’s eyes widen. “It’s June, dude. That’s messed up. You need to slow your roll. You’ve been working like a madman this year.”

  “Last two years, really.” Moose bites his lip and looks away. Whoops. I didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable. I might as well have said what we’re both thinking: I’ve been working like a madman ever since Mira died. “Anyway,” I add quickly. “That’s what it takes, right? No rest for the weary.”

  “I don’t know. You’re an animal. They should just make you a partner right now.”

  I shrug. Moose is my best friend and the least competitive guy I know, but it still feels weird to talk about a partnership with him. He and I are both up for it this year. Though we’re in different departments—he’s in International Arbitration while I’m in Litigation—everyone knows there’s a finite number of partnership spots available each year. Maribel Kingsley, a psychotic workaholic in Bankruptcy who happens to be the only woman eligible this year, is an obvious first draft pick. Martin Hamlisch in Intellectual Property was passed over last year, but word on the street is that he’s definitely going to make it this time around. There’re perennial favorites Ken Tanaka and Hunter Pierce in Mergers and Acquisitions, who together successfully pulled off the largest pharma deal in firm history. And then, of course, there’s my litigation department nemesis, Todd Ellison. I’m not sure which bugs me more, the fact that Todd assumes he’s a shoo-in because he went to Princeton and his dad does big business with the firm, or the fact that he might be right.

  Moose and I are both solid workhorses. Moose has Steve Mays in his corner, and Fred treats me like his own son. No one would be shocked if we made partner; in fact, most of the firm expects that both of us will. But when it comes right down to it, there’s nothing truly distinctive about either of us. Given the state of the world these days, with most law firms in a hiring freeze, there’s no real reason for Hardwick to elect more partners than it needs to. Neither of us is going anywhere. Why pay us more than they have to? It’s a question that keeps me up well into the night.

  The truth is, while I’m sure he would very much like to make partner, Moose does not need to make partner. Moose is the only child of the sole heir to the Moore Paper Company. He’s got no kids, no mortgage, and bizarrely monastic tastes in food and clothing. Moose’s mom is on the Forbes Billionaires list, but the guy still wears a plastic Swatch he got for his fourteenth birthday. I, on the other hand, have unpaid law school loans and a hefty mortgage. More importantly, I have dependents: a son who has only one parent to support him; a sister to whom paying work is some kind of anathema; a rescue dog named Norman with an inordinately expensive bladder condition. Some days it feels as though I’ll be in the red for the rest of my working life. I realize that my personal financial situation is not, in and of itself, a reason for me to make partner. And I know that I’m well-off in the grand scheme of things—financially speaking, anyway. But I’ve been busting my balls for years, during which time I’ve skipped countless family dinners and several weddings, and once came dangerously close to missing my own son’s birthday party. Making partner wouldn’t necessarily justify the eighty-hour weeks, but it sure would go a long way in easing their sting.

  Before Moose and I can delve into a partnership discussion, Todd Ellison weasels his way between us.

  “Blocking the bar, friends,” he says.

  He thrusts his empty glass at the bartender. “Fill it up, please. Less tonic this time.”

  “Sorry about that.” Todd turns back to us, as though we were all in the middle of a conversation. “Charlie, thanks for chatting with the summers this afternoon.”

  “Sure, Todd. Anything for you,” I say, swigging my drink.

  “Oh, great. Well, in that case, we’re looking for another speaker on our panel about work-life balance at the firm. No big thing. You speak for fifteen minutes, then open up to Q & A. I’m sure Fred would really appreciate it if you stepped up and represented the Litigation department.”

  “Gosh, thanks, Todd, for telling me what Fred would appreciate.”

  Moose stifles a laugh by coughing loudly. “Listen, Todd, not sure Charlie’s your boy for that. Can’t you ask one of the more junior associates? Or maybe you could do it. You seem to have the work-life balance thing nailed.”

  “I’m organizing the panel, not sitting on it,” Todd says, bristling. Pushback is clearly not something he’s accustomed to. He fixes his glare on me. “Listen, Charlie, if you think you’re too senior to sit on one of our summer associate panels, then don’t worry about it. I’m happy to tell Fred that you weren’t interested in helping out.”

  “Todd, do you know how many hours I’ve billed this year? I’m not sure I’m in a good position to opine on work-life balance right now.”

  Todd shrugs. “Everyone here works long hours, Charlie. Fred works long hours. I work long hours. But you don’t hear either of us complaining.”

  Something in me snaps.

  “Seriously, Todd? You want my thoughts on work-life balance at Hardwick? It doesn’t exist. Period. End stop. You might as well hold a seminar on flying unicorns and the fucking tooth fairy.”

  Admittedly, this comes out a tad more aggressive than I intended. I’m practically yelling, and people are beginning to stare. Even Moose looks a little startled. But I’m fired up and it feels good. I throw back the rest of my drink and signal the bartender for another.

  Todd raises his palms defensively. “No worries. I’ll find someone else for the panel.”

  “Tell Fred I’ll do the panel,” I say, lowering my voice.

  Todd nods. “Okay, man,” he says with the slow, calming cadence of a hostage negotiator. “I’ll tell Fred.”

  “When is it?”

  “Uh, tomorrow at ten a.m. If you can’t do it, seriously, no worries at all. Happy to find someone else.”

  “I told you I’ll do it. So I’ll do it, Todd. Okay?”

  “Cool, man, cool.” Todd pulls out his BlackBerry. “Wow, gotta take this call. See you, Charlie.”

  And with that, Todd Ellison Jr. flees for his life.

  “You doing okay there, buddy?” Moose says, once Todd is out of sight.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, and polish off my drink. “It’s Mira’s birthday.”

  Moose’s eyes widen slightly. “Oh, brother. I’m sorry. I should’ve remembered.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal. I’m just in a shitty mood, that’s all. And I really hate that guy.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Moose says, and nods agreeably, though I can see he’s a little shaken by my momentary freak-out. Truth be told, I’m a little shaken, too. I’ve never had much of a temper. I can’t remember the last time I bit someone’s head off like that. And if anyone had asked me yesterday, I probably would’ve told them that I loved my job and that my hours were tough but manageable and that, yes, I’d be happy to speak on a panel about work-life balance. Perhaps Todd just caught me at a low moment. Or perhaps Todd just rubs me the wrong way and eventually I was bound to ignite. Either way, he seems to have tapped into some dormant reservoir of anger.

  Another drink seems like just the thing. I signal the bartender once again, who gives me a weary look before filling up my empty glass.

  “Maybe you should slow down there, Tiger,” Moose says, and chuckles nervously. “I mean, if you want to get blackout drunk, I totally support that, but not sure this is the best venue.”

  “I think this is the perfect venue,” I say, and grit my teeth. “The drinks are free. I think I’m owed a few drinks on the firm’s tab right now. Don’t you?”

  Moose hesitates. “How about this: we do a lap now, say our good-byes, and then I’ll take you to any bar you want and get you sauced. Sound cool?”

  I know he’s right. For a guy my size, I’m pretty much a total lightweight.
I’m about half a drink away from slurring my words. Maybe less. From across the room I see Fred chatting away with a few other senior partners. He catches my eye and raises his glass. I raise mine back and say a silent prayer that he doesn’t feel inspired to come over and chat.

  “Yeah, cool,” I say, relenting. “But let me finish this drink. And you have to help me work on what to say to these summers about work-life balance. Clearly it’s not a subject I’m well versed in.”

  Moose shrugs. “I don’t know. Why don’t you just tell them the truth? This is a hard job. A brutal job. Sometimes I wish someone had been honest with me when I started working here.”

  “Huh. Honesty. I like it.”

  “Never a bad policy.”

  “You’re a good man, Moose.”

  “I’ll be a better man once I get you out of here. You’re starting to become a liability. Come on. Let’s split.”

  • • •

  We’re almost out the door when Welles clinks a fork against his glass.

  “I just want to thank everyone for coming out tonight,” he announces, as the murmur of the crowd dies down. “Most especially Fred Kellerman and Charlie Goldwyn, who today had a class-action suit against Harrison Brothers dismissed in court. Where are you, Fred and Charlie? Come up here and join me.”

  Suddenly the room is buzzing, and heads are turning back and forth, and everything seems as though it’s spinning like a giant Tilt-A-Whirl at a state fair. I feel Moose’s hand on my back, guiding me into the crowd.

  “You gotta go up there, buddy,” he whispers to me, propelling me forward. “He’s asking for you.”

  As I make my way up to the front through a sea of clapping colleagues, it occurs to me that I’m absolutely, 100 percent wasted. It takes every ounce of concentration to place one foot in front of the other in a straight progression, but still I feel as though I’m zigzagging like a sailboat tacking against a hard wind.

  By the time I reach Welles and Fred, I’ve broken into an obvious sweat. I have to wipe down my brow before shaking Welles’s hand, and he gives me a strange look before turning back to the crowd.

  “The class action lawsuit against Harrison is a terrific example of the complex, challenging work we do here at Hardwick. I thought perhaps Charlie and Fred might take a few minutes now to tell you about the highlights of the case.” He looks back and forth between us, and Fred is nodding his head encouragingly at me, and all of a sudden my drink is in one hand and a microphone is in the other.

  The room grows quiet. The lights are so bright that I have trouble focusing my eyes. After a moment of consideration, I pull open the top button of my shirt. Todd, who is standing at the front of the crowd, holds his phone up like he’s taking my picture. With the other hand he gives me a thumbs-up, so I flash one back at him, causing a few people to titter awkwardly.

  Sensing a mounting tension, I tap the microphone, which lets off a sharp electronic squeal.

  “Hey,” I say quickly, “sorry about that. So, hi, everybody. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Charlie Goldwyn and I work in Litigation.”

  I scan the room, looking for a familiar face. My eyes settle on Sam, the summer associate from this morning. He is leaning against a wall, hands still in his pockets like a kid at a middle school dance. When he sees me looking at him, he gives me a small chin nod like he’s just daring me to say something.

  Suddenly I realize with complete clarity what it is I want to say to him.

  “So today someone asked me how I sleep at night. Given that, you know, I represent schmucky clients like Harrison Brothers.”

  Nervous laughter rises from the crowd. Heads swivel and whisper. I look over at the partners and notice a few of them shifting uncomfortably. A few begin tapping frantically at their BlackBerries, perhaps googling the potential causes of action that might arise from an attorney referring to his own client as “schmucky.” For a split second, Fred and I lock eyes. The pained expression on his face is enough to give me pause, so I look away before I lose my nerve. Sam, at least, is grinning from ear to ear. This is somehow the encouragement I need to plow ahead.

  “To be honest with you, I was a little thrown by his question, so I didn’t give him much of an answer. But now I’ve had several drinks and a few hours to think about it, and here’s what I have to say.

  “The truth is, when I first started working at the firm, I did have trouble sleeping at night. I used to lie awake thinking to myself, ‘How did I get here?’ When I was a kid, I wanted to be a firefighter. You know, someone who saves the world. What kid doesn’t dream of that? I mean, no five-year-old says he wants to be a shill for the financial services industry when they grow up. Am I right?”

  Crickets.

  “Anyway, I went to law school thinking I could make a difference in the world. Become a prosecutor, maybe, or a public defender. But student loans piled up and the next thing I knew, I’m taking a job in Big Law. I told myself it would just be for a couple of years and then I’d jump ship. But that was ten years ago, and I’m still here. Despite all the stress and the nonstop pressure to bill more hours, I’m still fucking here.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Moose shaking his big head at me—No, no, no, for God’s sake, man, stop—but I ignore him. Instead, I stare at Sam and keep on rolling.

  “My advice to the summer associates? Honestly, if you want to get ahead here, you’re going to have to forget about having a family. Do you have a significant other? Dump ’em. Even if you’re able to convince them to stick around once you start working hundred-hour weeks, your relationship is going to turn into one long apology for all the birthday dinners and date nights and weekend getaways you’re inevitably going to have to cancel at the last minute. And who wants that? You’re better off on your own, friends. Single? Great. Stay that way. It’s going to make it a lot easier for you to volunteer for all those extra hours at the office. Don’t spin your wheels going on dates with some girl you met on Match.com or whatever. Trust me, that’s not an effective use of your time.

  “Now, for those of you looking to be inspired by your work, there’s the door. Let’s get real. We’re not doing God’s work here. We’re not saving lives. We’re making fucking money, people, that’s what we’re doing. I don’t know about everyone else, but I accepted the fact that my clients are guilty a long time ago. I mean, really, really, really guilty. Bad, bad people. But you just can’t let that get to you.

  “If you’re going to work here, you gotta see this like a game. All that matters is how you play the game. Are you winning or are you losing? I, for one, like winning. Winning’s fun. Hardwick, Mays & Kellerman is like the fucking Yankees. We always win. And the U.S. Attorney’s Office, well, let’s be honest, it’s kinda like the farm team for the fucking Orioles. They always lose. I’m not sure how well I’d sleep if I lost case after case, day after day, year after year. I mean, that’s gotta be pretty depressing, right? How do I go home every night and tell my kid that I just lost again? I may not be able to drop him off at school in the mornings. I may never get to have dinner with him at night, or hang out on weekends, or watch his own baseball games when he gets old enough to play. But at least, as long as I’m at Hardwick, I can tell him that his dad’s a winner. My son is five. When I was five, I never saw my dad. But I was proud to be his son, and you want to know why? Because he was a big-shot lawyer at a firm in the city. His picture was in the paper. Sure, he wasn’t around much. Actually, he wasn’t around at all. But I still thought he was a superhero. I wanted to be just like him. And all I can say is, I hope my son feels the same way about me.”

  All of a sudden, loud clapping emanates from the floor. At first it’s just Fred, but soon he’s joined by the rest of the firm. Moose lets out a holler or two. My head is starting to spin, so it takes me a minute to realize that I am, in effect, being cut off.

  Fred strides up next to me and offers me a handshake as though he’s accepting an Oscar. As we lock hands, he manages to maneuver
the mic away from me. Then he turns to the crowd, which, by the way, is just about going wild.

  “Thank you, Charlie,” he says, beaming, “for that exhilarating and colorful speech.” He lets out a relaxed chuckle, as though this were all scripted, and everyone follows suit. “I couldn’t agree with you more. We are a winning team here at Hardwick. Even when we take on the most challenging, most complex cases or deals, we rise to the occasion. We really ‘go to bat’ for our clients, so to speak.” He gives me a playful wink. “Nothing illustrates that more clearly than today’s dismissal of the class action against Harrison Brothers. We really batted a thousand on that case, and I couldn’t be prouder.”

  He begins to clap at his own speech, and the crowd dissolves into giddy, enthusiastic cheering. I’m clapping, too, because, hey, you really have to hand it to the guy. He knows how to work a crowd.

  Suddenly I feel Moose’s thick arm descend around my shoulders.

  “Interesting speech, champ,” he says in a low voice. “Let’s hope it doesn’t end up on YouTube.”

  “Why not?” I say, swaying slightly. I fight the urge to rest my head on his arm. “I thought it was pretty damn good myself. And honest. Just like you said.”

  “It was great. Very inspiring. Now let’s get the hell out of here before anyone hands you the mic again.”

  Army of Animals

  It’s past midnight when I finally stumble into the lobby of my building. Hector, the night doorman, is listening to Yankees game highlights on an old-school radio. He looks up when I walk in, mildly surprised to see anyone at this hour. We live in a condo building on Seventy-Fourth Street and Second Avenue that is almost exclusively inhabited by young families or octogenarians—not exactly a stay-out-late kind of crowd. Newly wed or nearly dead, as Moose once said. Sometimes I wonder which camp I fall into.

  “Traveling for work again, Mr. Goldwyn?” Hector asks. Maybe I’m crazy, but he sounds a touch judgmental. Between the smell of booze on my breath and the wild-eyed look on my face, I probably look as though I’m returning from a bender in Vegas. “Been a few days since I’ve seen you.”