Screwed
Page 27
“What’s your anti-Larry strategy for this trip?” I ask. My joking tone rings a little hollow, even to my own ears. “Bestow your hallowed secrets upon me, mighty Pervert Whisperer.”
She shrugs with a smile that’s half amused and half pitying. “I wasn’t invited, so I don’t have to deal with him at all. The perks of being a lowly paper monkey.”
I chew and swallow an extra-smelly bite of my pita. My breath is going to be horrendous after this. Perfect . “You know, I still don’t get it. You should be a rising star at some firm by now. I don’t understand why you’re a legal secretary in the first place, and paralegal seems like kind of a low bar to aim for. You’re smarter and more diligent than half the associates here.”
Trina snorts, not unkindly. “What, you think people only take assistant-type jobs because they’re too stupid for law school? I’ve spent two years watching everyone at this firm run around like chickens with their heads cut off. No thanks, I’ll pass.”
“So you don’t like law? Then why work in the field at all?”
“I didn’t say that. I think law is interesting. But it’s just my living, not my life, you know? Maybe I could hack it as a lawyer. If I did, I’d sure make more money. But the ulcers and marathon hours aren’t worth it to me. Walker and Price probably see me more often than they see their own wives, and I think that’s fucking sad.”
I ponder as I slowly chew my latest mouthful. So . . . which is it? Does she like law or not? I can’t quite wrap my head around what she’s saying. If law interests her, then why not go whole hog? And if she doesn’t want to go whole hog, then why bother at all? Why work in a career that doesn’t fully capture your heart? Either you love something or you can live without it.
Mistaking my furrowed brow for hurt feelings, Trina hurries to add, “I mean . . . if you want the prestige, or the money, or you just love sweating over contracts from dawn ’til dusk, more power to you. But I guess I’m just not an ambitious type. I’m not interested in climbing any corporate ladders. All I care about is having enough money to do what I want in the other fifteen hours of the day.” She pauses to glance around in case Mr. Pratt is lurking nearby. “And finding another job with a normal boss. So I’m making myself more marketable.”
I make a thoughtful noise; even if my mouth weren’t full of falafel, I wouldn’t be sure how to respond. I guess I can see where she’s coming from. She’s satisfied with her life as it stands now, so she goes with its flow. It’s still hard to imagine life from her perspective, though. I have so much to do before I reach that point of contented stability: pass the bar exam, officially join a firm, get promoted until I earn enough for both Mom and myself.
And even then, I don’t think anything could ever come before my career. I’m the opposite of Trina—law is my life, not just my living. It’s part of who I am. You could bury me in work and I’d beg for more. Sick, I know.
Neither of us is right or wrong; we’re just different people with different priorities. Still, that tiny insight into Trina’s mind makes me think. She was talking about work, not relationships, but maybe I can apply a little of her attitude toward my situation with Hayden. Heh . . . talk about people who take life one step at a time.
Maybe I don’t need a master plan for every single thing. Maybe it’s okay to play our friendship by ear and stop sweating the small stuff. I want Hayden’s help, so I’ll ask him for it. Boom. Simple as that. The worst that can happen is he says no and I have to figure out another solution to deal with Mr. Grabby Hands on my own.
But it will probably still help if I butter him up first. I should at least pay a visit to his place—asking favors usually goes over better in person. Especially if I bring some good beer. And there’s no possibility of him ignoring me and pretending he just didn’t see my text.
• • •
That night after work, I knock on Hayden’s door with a six-pack of chilled microbrew. He lets me in, making a comment about how I’m turning out to be the perfect friend, bringing cold beer to his place and all.
I wander inside, glancing around with curiosity while he puts the beer in the fridge. Hayden’s condo looks like a typical rich-boy bachelor pad with lots of sleek gadgets, black leather furniture, and pop-art prints on the walls. But it’s cleaner and neater than I expected.
When an older lady bustles out of his bedroom carrying a basket heaping with dirty laundry, I realize why the place looks so nice. This flower-aproned woman must be Hayden’s housekeeper. She looks around Mom’s age and she’s just as energetic, but that’s where the similarities end. Where my mother is short and stout—“built like a brick shithouse,” as she would put it—the housekeeper is almost as wispy as her cloud of dyed black hair.
Hayden turns to follow my gaze. “Oh my God, Dottie, don’t lift that heavy crap. I can wash my own clothes when I’m home.”
“But you have a guest,” she protests. Her voice is strident and reedy, with what may be a faint Southern twang—another point of contrast to Mom’s low, drawling tones. “You can’t run ’round with chores and leave your lady friend to sit. It’s rude.”
I try to say that I don’t mind, but neither of them pay any attention.
“Then I’ll do laundry after she leaves,” Hayden replies. “Why don’t you take a break and put your feet up? You’ve been here working all day.” He points to the kitchen. “You want to have a beer with us?”
She shrugs with a smile that’s half amused and half pitying. “I wasn’t invited, so I don’t have to deal with him at all. The perks of being a lowly paper monkey.”
I chew and swallow an extra-smelly bite of my pita. My breath is going to be horrendous after this. Perfect . “You know, I still don’t get it. You should be a rising star at some firm by now. I don’t understand why you’re a legal secretary in the first place, and paralegal seems like kind of a low bar to aim for. You’re smarter and more diligent than half the associates here.”
Trina snorts, not unkindly. “What, you think people only take assistant-type jobs because they’re too stupid for law school? I’ve spent two years watching everyone at this firm run around like chickens with their heads cut off. No thanks, I’ll pass.”
“So you don’t like law? Then why work in the field at all?”
“I didn’t say that. I think law is interesting. But it’s just my living, not my life, you know? Maybe I could hack it as a lawyer. If I did, I’d sure make more money. But the ulcers and marathon hours aren’t worth it to me. Walker and Price probably see me more often than they see their own wives, and I think that’s fucking sad.”
I ponder as I slowly chew my latest mouthful. So . . . which is it? Does she like law or not? I can’t quite wrap my head around what she’s saying. If law interests her, then why not go whole hog? And if she doesn’t want to go whole hog, then why bother at all? Why work in a career that doesn’t fully capture your heart? Either you love something or you can live without it.
Mistaking my furrowed brow for hurt feelings, Trina hurries to add, “I mean . . . if you want the prestige, or the money, or you just love sweating over contracts from dawn ’til dusk, more power to you. But I guess I’m just not an ambitious type. I’m not interested in climbing any corporate ladders. All I care about is having enough money to do what I want in the other fifteen hours of the day.” She pauses to glance around in case Mr. Pratt is lurking nearby. “And finding another job with a normal boss. So I’m making myself more marketable.”
I make a thoughtful noise; even if my mouth weren’t full of falafel, I wouldn’t be sure how to respond. I guess I can see where she’s coming from. She’s satisfied with her life as it stands now, so she goes with its flow. It’s still hard to imagine life from her perspective, though. I have so much to do before I reach that point of contented stability: pass the bar exam, officially join a firm, get promoted until I earn enough for both Mom and myself.
And even then, I don’t think anything could ever come before my career. I’m the opposite of Trina—law is my life, not just my living. It’s part of who I am. You could bury me in work and I’d beg for more. Sick, I know.
Neither of us is right or wrong; we’re just different people with different priorities. Still, that tiny insight into Trina’s mind makes me think. She was talking about work, not relationships, but maybe I can apply a little of her attitude toward my situation with Hayden. Heh . . . talk about people who take life one step at a time.
Maybe I don’t need a master plan for every single thing. Maybe it’s okay to play our friendship by ear and stop sweating the small stuff. I want Hayden’s help, so I’ll ask him for it. Boom. Simple as that. The worst that can happen is he says no and I have to figure out another solution to deal with Mr. Grabby Hands on my own.
But it will probably still help if I butter him up first. I should at least pay a visit to his place—asking favors usually goes over better in person. Especially if I bring some good beer. And there’s no possibility of him ignoring me and pretending he just didn’t see my text.
• • •
That night after work, I knock on Hayden’s door with a six-pack of chilled microbrew. He lets me in, making a comment about how I’m turning out to be the perfect friend, bringing cold beer to his place and all.
I wander inside, glancing around with curiosity while he puts the beer in the fridge. Hayden’s condo looks like a typical rich-boy bachelor pad with lots of sleek gadgets, black leather furniture, and pop-art prints on the walls. But it’s cleaner and neater than I expected.
When an older lady bustles out of his bedroom carrying a basket heaping with dirty laundry, I realize why the place looks so nice. This flower-aproned woman must be Hayden’s housekeeper. She looks around Mom’s age and she’s just as energetic, but that’s where the similarities end. Where my mother is short and stout—“built like a brick shithouse,” as she would put it—the housekeeper is almost as wispy as her cloud of dyed black hair.
Hayden turns to follow my gaze. “Oh my God, Dottie, don’t lift that heavy crap. I can wash my own clothes when I’m home.”
“But you have a guest,” she protests. Her voice is strident and reedy, with what may be a faint Southern twang—another point of contrast to Mom’s low, drawling tones. “You can’t run ’round with chores and leave your lady friend to sit. It’s rude.”
I try to say that I don’t mind, but neither of them pay any attention.
“Then I’ll do laundry after she leaves,” Hayden replies. “Why don’t you take a break and put your feet up? You’ve been here working all day.” He points to the kitchen. “You want to have a beer with us?”
