They Can’t All Be Happy Endings

I’m not completely delusional.  I popped my Big Law cherry long enough ago to realize that this job—this life—isn’t for the faint of heart.  I’ve come to expect that on any given day, the Big Law grind will leave me ravaged with exhaustion. It’ll leave me straining to remember the faces of my family and friends.  It’ll leave me ranting at inanimate objects in the middle of the night and craving even just the tiniest hit of sleep, sex, style, sanity.  What I didn’t quite expect, though, was that it would leave me lying naked on a table in the middle of a hotel with some guy’s latex-covered hand crammed halfway down my throat. [Read more]

The Deadliest Sin?

A few things are bound to happen when you spend 76 straight hours closing a bond offering in a windowless office the size of a handicap toilet stall, eating nothing but stale candy corn from a nearby vending machine and fantasizing about unconsciousness.  First, you make peace with the fact that showers are for people far luckier than you.  Second, you start obsessively calculating what your hourly salary might be compared to, say, a teenage babysitter or a shoe-shine guy.  Maybe you start to hallucinate a bit.   Or wonder if it’s possible to slit your wrists with a stack of post-its.  And then, finally, you catch sight of your pale, desperate reflection in the desktop monitor and you realize the pathetic, obvious, predictable truth: You’re wildly jealous of the people your firm recently laid off. [Read more]

Life, Death, and Halter Tops

There have only been a handful of moments in my legal career—nay, in my life—when I’ve felt there was a decent possibility that all the people surrounding me in a particular space were about to collectively crouch down, bare fangs, and storm forward in a sweeping, feral frenzy of rage, ripping out the throat of whichever poor bastard happened to be in charge.  Typically, this feeling has only kicked in while, say, waiting on the tarmac at O’Hare during a blizzard, or sitting in my 1L Property Law class on the day my professor announced that she didn’t believe in teaching black letter law. But last Thursday, it happened in a 6th floor conference room in my tense, hungry little corner of BigLaw. [Read more]

The Layoff Code

You may not be aware of it, but you have the same problem I do: Them.  We see Them every day—in the firm’s dining room, in the hallways, in the elevator banks.  Even if we don’t realize it, They’re all around us.  Hell, some of Them are us.  They’re a constant reminder of our BigLaw mortality, a reminder that no matter how much of a superstar you may think you are at your firm, you’re always just a few billable hours away from joining Their ranks: victims of stealth layoffs.  And no, I can’t figure out how to act around Them, either. [Read more]

Sex, Drugs, and Billable Hours

My first intervention went down pretty much exactly like the ones you see on TV.  Well, except that there were no cameras.  Or tears.  Or therapists.  And it took place in a shoebox office in a law firm instead of, say, in my living room, surrounded by friends and family. Still, the core elements were the same: I had a serious issue and it needed addressing. No, I wasn’t a junkie, or an alcoholic, or addicted to fetish porn.  My issue was far more dangerous.  More destructive.  More worthy, apparently, of the powers that be at the firm stepping in to make sure the situation didn’t get further out of control.

The issue?  My billable hours were too high.  [Read more]

A Genius Like No Other

You know this guy, you do.  Every Big Firm has at least one. You started hearing the lore about him your first week at the firm and you admit that you were part intrigued, part terrified.  You’ve seen him in passing in the halls, usually after most of the firm has emptied out after dark.  Perhaps you’ve even tried to speak to him, only to be met with a distinct lack of eye contact and a half-snort as he scuttled away.  He’s more socially awkward than any mental patient, not fit for human—no less client—interaction.  But, word on the street—and that word’s always mentioned in hushed, reverential tones—is that he’s brilllliant.  Like, crazy genius smart.  That’s why the firm keeps him around.  The brilliance.  He’s the resident Big Firm Savant.  And I’m here to tell you firsthand, the whole “genius” thing is a complete and total fraud. [Read more]

Strike!

Please just tell me, once and for all: Do I have something stamped across my face?  No, really.  Is there some sort of watermark, a scar, a sign that screams “Only Social Deviants and Hostile Nerds Need Apply”?  Because that’s the only thing I can think of to explain why, within minutes of walking into the “Year-End Cocktail Bowling Bash!” for the firm’s corporate department (I know, no words), I’m cornered by a guy who is easily the most aggressively awkward partner at the Firm.  Let’s call him Les Metz.  Les Metz, who’s been divorced twice at 41, who has a sleep apnea mask hanging on the back of his office door, who brought his own bowling ball to this ersatz holiday party, and who’s made it his apparent mission to teach me how to bowl tonight.  Oh, and who just returned to the Firm last week from a month-long leave for a case of shingles.

Jealous already?  Just wait. [Read more]

A Rose by Any Other Name

Even in this crap economy, one heavy with associate layoffs, slashed bonuses, and a general sense of fear leaking through the halls of law firms coast-to-coast, one vestige of BigLaw life still seems to be holding strong.  You’re familiar with it, even if you don’t realize it.  You’ve seen it before, smelled it before, openly admired it before.  Hell, you may even have it on your desk right now.  It’s been around as long as the billable hour and not even a recession can kill it: Whore Flowers. And if my firm’s a decent indicator, they’re not going away anytime soon. [Read more]

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