All the Beautiful People We Once Knew

by Edward Carlson

  “Hurry up, G.”

  “Yeah, G. Come on, hurry up.”

  They brushed past me on their way outside, disappearing into upturned collars, millennial anthropophagi safe from drizzle and doing little dances on the sidewalk. The elevator doors closed. Money Man on the building’s internal miniscreen recommending diversification into gold, silver, pla-ti-num, mag-knee-ze-um. Also doing a little dance. Yesterday everyone was clever. Today everyone was doing a little dance.

  “The key to sexcess,” Money Man proselytized, clanging a bronze bell knotted around the neck of a golden calf. “Is a high-return approach to private equity secondaries.”

  I entered my office knowing where everything belonged. On the floor. Draped over the back of a chair. Chucked on the windowsill. My computer inbox pinged with fresh emails. A selection of photos of celebrity wardrobe malfunctions. NSFW, yes, but this is Kilgore, so here we have it. Brown and pink areolas in sheer dresses atop red carpets. Miley Cyrus. Halle Berry. Mila Kunis. I flipped papers stacked on my desk, searching for the hatchway to focus, my attention snagged by shocking discoveries for joint relief, how the brain is hardwired to learn a language in ten days, knowing that if I didn’t start at it early, knowing that if I expended too much adrenalin in court, it wouldn’t happen for the rest of the day. The back of my mouth thirsted for beer.

  Papers fell to the floor beyond my reach. I reaccessed the Internet. Kilgorellp.com. No one looks like this anymore, except for maybe Fleeger. Attika with a spazzy, enthusiastic telephone-chord weave. Me with a cheeky smile and fuller hair. Professional portrait photos taken when the lawyers were younger, ambitious, full of promise. Before they metamorphosed with age into exceptional billers by the hour. Steeped in alcohol, mayonnaise, ham, nondairy creamer, tuna fish, spray tan, rugelach, from young and taut, high cheek boned and lean into fermented and soft or gristled and mean, with indelible circles around the eyes, thirty-plus pounds, a few extra chins, and a couple hundred thousand dollars deposited into the annuities of contentment. I commenced typing a memo to file 444-15 RF/SH: In re court conference in re Thomas. Scribbled on the timesheet 3.1 hours: attend conference before J. McKenzie; preparation re same. Debated whether 3.1 was too much. Celeste was there. She would know. I dropped it to a 2.4. Fuck it. Bumped it up to a 3.5. I returned to the empty screen of a Word document and filled it with words spelling out where we went from here, recommending a modicum of payment to Thomas now to keep him from shooting up a kindergarten.

  Lawyering, good lawyering, demanded a specific hubris borne of energy and focus. It required you to take yourself seriously. It required you to take your arguments and your invoices and your memoranda of law as seriously as you took yourself. And it required you to take yourself as a lawyer lawyering seriously. That was the difference between good lawyers and the rest of them. And because you took it seriously you pumped it with urgency and vitality, with a depthless self-respect for the profession because the profession is, was, you. Countless hours contemplating, arguing, strategizing, and writing—writing above all else—facts and arguments that shall be, at their very core, relevant.

  I, instead, focused on what was irrelevant. The geography of the claim. The progeny of the pharmaceuticals. Google Earth images of where the incident occurred. The etymology of strange new nouns contained in new files. I didn’t care about duty and breach of duty and causation and damages and severing same from false allegations in an effort to successfully refute the client’s liability. I didn’t care about the end goal. I cared about what was interesting. Pustules and military helicopters and the Mahdi Army. As a lawyer I was addicted to distraction. If there was something to distract me from lawyering I embraced it. And then faked the rest.

  “We now write to advise you of today’s developments before Judge McKenzie and to provide our thoughts and analysis re future handling.”

  My will crumbled. I relogged on to the Internet. Anthropocene man scratching his digital itch with digital clicks. I needed more eyes. A ring of eyes and two more arms to keep up with the breaking news. Vishnu of digititus. I peeled myself from the computer screen. My corneas felt sticky. I stared into the nothingness of the popcorn ceiling. Outside my office porcelain fingernails—Tic Tac orange, Tic Tac cherry—clicked against the secretary’s plastic keyboard.

  “Hi, Stephen,” Attika said, standing in my office door. Silver pencil skirt and black heels and that conspicuous Jamal.

  “You OK?”

  I told her I was fine.

  “I saw a TED lecture by this gastroenterologist who explained what acid reflux does to your esophagus. Totally gross. I’ll send you the link.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “Oh, do you feel bad again today?” She smiled. “Don’t be a jerk, Stephen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it doesn’t suit you.”

  I shoehorned myself into productivity and spent the next three hours typing discovery demands for Fleeger’s review and comment prior to transmittal to Lazlis, demanding a complete copy of Thomas’s medical and military records. HIPAA authorizations. The names and addresses of all doctors seen and a list of all medications prescribed in the past ten years. Any and all court orders regarding custody, mortgage, marriage, liens, debt. Any and all documents and communications pertaining to Thomas’s employment with and discharge from FreedomQuest. Any and all documents, information, records, notes, etc. etc. etc. relevant to impeach the man’s credibility and tarnish his brass.

  The briny urinals and mouthwash-stained sinks of a law firm bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and finger-combed my thinning hair in the wall-length mirror.

  “Harker. Don’t flip out. I recognize you by your gay Euro shoes.”

  I faced the stalls. Fleeger’s eye watched me through the crack of the metal doorframe.

  “Where were you this morning?” I asked.

  “Throw me a paper towel will you? So I don’t have to waddle out of here like a duck with my pants around my ankles. I don’t want to give Whitey any more nightmares.”

  I lobbed one over the stall door, incredulous that I had just done so. It landed in his hands with a little wet smack.

  “Fire in the hole,” he shouted as he exited the stall in sync with the rushing toilet. Because all that Ivy League rowing made him a whore when it came to scat as well. He watched himself in the long bathroom mirror unclasp mother of pearl cufflinks.

  “How’d it go before the judge?”

  He knew it went fine. Had it not he would have already let me know he knew it hadn’t.

  “OK,” I said.

  “That weird smell happen when you get nervous?”

  “What weird smell?”

  “You emit this odor when you’re stressed. You’re like a skunk.”

  I told him he was an asshole.

  “What did you learn about Thomas?”

  “That he’s sensitive to light.”

  “Handy.”

  “He’s got a boil on his neck.”

  “So he’s stressed. Also handy.”

  “He calls himself the Ice Bear.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “No idea. But according to Lazlis, the Ice Bear cometh.”

  “Just never let Lazlis get you on the ropes. Otherwise he’ll pummel you.” He jabbed me inside and his knuckles nicked my ribs. I grimaced, struggled to push him back. His shoulders were twice the size of my palms. He still hadn’t washed his hands. “Best to avoid him with quick movements.”

  Again I struggled to shove him.

  “Jesus, Robert,” I said.

  “Jesus Cristo, Roberto,” he repeated, like a gay Boriqua, swinging his palms. “Jew listen here you maricón.” He unclasped the second cufflink in the mirror.

  “Where were you this morning?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry about where I was.”

  “Celeste was there.”

  “I know Celeste was there.” He feigned a frown of concern. “WorldScore’s naming me to their Ri
sk Rewards panel this year. And I’m chief presenter at their annual Litigating Disability Insurance Claims conference. Again. This time in Atlanta. Which turns me on just thinking about it. So you really think they’re going to punish me because I sent a seventh-year associate to handle a court conference with Lazlis?”

  “Did you know he filed a motion to compel us to pay?”

  “Yup. You would have too if you filed a notice of appearance.”

  “You never told me to.”

  “Jesus, Harker, can you do anything on your own?”

  I stared at him in the mirror. He pivoted and faced me. We were now in Fleeger world. A universe wherein he was incapable of comprehending the legitimacy of another person’s concerns. It was coming on.

  “Look, Stephen. Kilgore doesn’t suffer pussies. Repetamente.”

  I looked away.

  “No no no, Stephen. You need to understand this. And I’m not letting you leave here until you say it.”

  He blocked the bathroom door.

  “Say it.”

  That miasma reappeared, rendering his face opaque, almost melted. I could no longer see his face. To escape, I capitulated.

  “Kilgore doesn’t suffer pussies.”

  “Good boy. Now, if I had told you I wouldn’t be in court this morning and that you would need to handle Thomas alone you would have curled up in a ball all night worrying and it would have been fucking terrible for you. Because you have a very special habit of making yourself miserable by tricking yourself into thinking you’re having a nervous breakdown when in fact you are just fine. But by doing this thing to yourself you sabotage your ability to get the job done. Which, my man, by the way, you are fully capable of but for this nasty habit of convincing yourself you’re about to have a panic attack whenever you’re stressed, until it reaches a fevered pitch and then it pops and you move on and perform just as well as anyone else in your position. You also wouldn’t have gone drinking last night, and that, mi amigo, was much more important for your professional development than anything that transpired today in court. But by not telling you about the motion, I guaranteed your ability to handle it. I took yourself out of the equation. I risked catastrophe to do that for you. Now, stop expecting apologies about things that don’t warrant them. It was a fucking motion. Don’t guilt me about it. Besides, from what I heard you knocked it out of the park. Give yourself some fucking credit, man. God knows I do so all the time. You should try it too.”

  He reverted to himself, face no longer melted, but for his lips, which resembled two pieces of sashimi.

  “You know WorldScore wants to start automating the claims?” I said.

  “I do.”

  “And you’re not concerned?”

  “Look … Harker. Probably nine times out of ten, probably ninety-nine times out of a hundred, if you think you know something I don’t, there is an incredibly strong possibility that you’re wrong. Remember when the overpriced consultants WorldScore hired recommended scrapping the billable hour? That was five years ago and, well, here we are, still billing time. Which, by the way, you are wholly deficient on again this year. I looked at your time in accounting and you, my brother, are way behind all the other associates. You’re already like three hundred hours behind Attika and we’re not even halfway through the second quarter.”

  He handed me his phone and lathered his hands.

  “I don’t want this.”

  “Watch,” he said. I tapped the screen. A video commenced of Tara bounce-dancing upside-down in black heels wearing only a peach thong, like the plump end of a balloon puppet. Fleeger hoisted his pants around his broad hips, tightened his belt, and re-docked the phone to his waist.

  “One of life’s greatest pleasures,” Fleeger said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Fucking younger women.”

  He rubbed his hands through his badger-brush hair.

  “Who loves you?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Who loves you, man?”

  “You do,” I replied.

  He placed his hands on the back of my head and pulled me forward and kissed my temple. This time I didn’t feel repulsed. This time he felt like my brother.

  “Celeste told me you handled yourself well today,” he said, patting, squeezing, rubbing my shoulder. “That you were clear and organized and convincing and that you didn’t give up anything you didn’t need to and that we’re moving forward according to the plan. That’s how you make it happen, Stephen. All you have to do is make her think you share her concerns. Soothe her worried soul. Besides. We know what will happen. It’s the same thing that always happens. We work up the file, bill the shit out of it, put the screws to Thomas, and settle south of WorldScore’s pain threshold. It’s fucking cake. So start typing up the discovery demands.”

  I told him I already did.

  “Good boy. Just send them to Lazlis.” No need for him to double-check them, he said. He was certain they were sufficient.

  “We also got Thomas’s deposition in a couple weeks.”

  “Have at it, amigo.”

  He opened the bathroom door.

  “What are you doing after work?”

  I hedged. Told him I had no plans. That maybe I would exercise. That I could use a quiet night.

  “Bullshit. You popped a cherry and you didn’t get creamed. Let’s go to one of those trendy spots in the Village you like. Some hipster foodjouise place where the curry always destroys my intestines. We’ll talk about Thomas over beers and bill it to WorldScore. In re office conference Major Bud Asshole.”

  Like a pre-regatta ritual, he slapped the metal doorframe as he exited the bathroom.

  I dropped the discovery demands addressed to Lazlis in the mailroom’s outbox, returned to my office, and watched the river traffic through the heavy German binoculars. The image was crisp and round. No ships. No seafarers. Only the ubiquitous Staten Island ferries, like bath toys for giant toddlers, a flotilla of anchored barges laden with fuel oil, and a yacht named Sudden Impulse motoring south atop the Hudson, flying the red and Union Jack ensign of Bermuda. I wanted to tell her owner this was redundant. That you can’t possess a delayed impulse. Or a planned impulse. That an impulse was by its very nature sudden. Tightening my grip on the binoculars’ leather strap, I surveyed the unlit windows of the prewar apartment building across the street, chipped facade and rusty fire escapes. Hoping to spot someone on a couch, having sex.

  A clerk entered my office walking backward and pulling a silver cart. She was Spanish and smiled and wore a navy-blue Kilgore mailroom smock and said thank you and have a nice day all the time to everyone. I signed the delivery slip and she handed me a yellow interoffice folder stamped confidential. Unspooled its red string and extracted a cover note from Honda, also stamped confidential. A quarter-inch of surveillance reports and a compact disc. This would do for the day, I thought, spying on Thomas, legal voyeurism. The disc downloaded its digital contents to the server, safe and protected by the attorney/client privilege behind the Kilgore firewall.

  “Keep it moving,” Fleeger said as he hurried past my door, clutching a rolled paper baton and barking orders to other associates about other cases that needed attention. Attika behind him writing notes on a legal pad while taking long strides. The surveillance disc completed its download and I clicked play.

  Mid-April. Midmorning. Thomas’s home: split-level, rural-exurban, constructed of yellow bricks and white aluminum siding. Neon and black NO TRESPASSING signs stapled to the trunks of budding trees and an American flag javelined to a wrought-iron porch painted white to match the siding. Deer stand constructed two stories aboveground in a buttonwood tree that towers over the property. Honda swings the camera to a side window, setting Thomas fully in frame on the edge of a king-sized bed and bare chested, moisturizing a serrated scar across his right shoulder and scratching his shoulders, his hairy chest, his scalp with vigor until he stands in frustration and huffs from the window. Honda switches off th
e camera.

  Late June. Midafternoon. Thomas in sunlight atop a Craftsman tractor mowing whorls of dirt and new grass the length of his multi-acre property. He pulls down tight a digital camouflage cap to shield his eyes from the dust. His chubby daughter, pink twelve-ounce cans for arms and a de-collared Misfits T-shirt, chases the tractor, out of control, swinging in pursuit of her smiling father. She stumbles in the tractor’s wake, strikes the shabby yard hard, now a heap of hair, and Thomas dismounts the machine. Runs to comfort her like it’s an emergency. It’s no use. She turns from him and almost composes herself and stomps into the house, rigid, arms stiff at her side, no longer swinging at play. Opting to hide in her room and salve her pride with Glenn Danzig’s mellifluous vocals.

  A tallow-skinned methadone harridan steps onto the pressure-treated deck holding a cocktail glass, gin and tonic, vodka soda, with a lime, and closes the sliding screen door behind her with a finger. She lights a long white cigarette. There is no sound. She points and yells at Thomas. The camera bounces. The camera switches off.

  Mid-September. Late afternoon. Thomas plants a four-pointed cane and stumbles from the door of a burnt sienna GMC Avalanche, picks himself up off the ground and hoists a thirty-pack of Budweiser cans from the truck bed, bumper festooned with American gun-owner defiance. DON’T TREAD ON ME. . TERRORIST HUNTING LICENSE DOI SEPTEMBER 11, 2001. Constantly hyped for war. Thomas enters the house via the open garage door, past the open hood of a vintage Ford, stumbling and swinging his cane and lugging his beer. Moments later, with heavy feet, he exits the rear of the house and descends from the pressure-treated deck onto his property without cane and gripping a Bud. At twilight the sky and the wooded horizon fuse. Red and black, shadows and blue. Thomas lowers himself onto a beach chair, inches above the ground, shakes free and lights a Marlboro, and watches the woods while smoking. The camera switches off.