Chapter 1 #2
We both know that’s a lie. I mind very much.
After all, I’m the one who cultivated the relationship with Dungiven’s CEO, and now my boss has handed that client on a silver platter to my only real competition for partnership.
Melvin, O’Reilly, and Gaines is a medium-sized law firm.
The upside is my ability to move up the ranks faster than at a large firm.
The downside is that the department can only choose one of us to make partner this year.
You’d think I would relish the Gladiator-style experience of pitting associates against each other and turning colleagues into competitors.
After all, it’s the capitalist way. But something about it doesn’t sit right with me.
Maybe because, for the first time in my life, I might actually lose.
Matt seems to read my mind. “What’s the matter, buddy? Worried you won’t clinch the contract for LandStar?” He practically salivates at the prospect. Matt’s out for the same amount of blood, whether it’s a business deal or a ‘friendly’ game of hoops.
“I’ll have the contract wrapped up in a pretty bow soon enough. I’m driving out there tomorrow.”
“Hey, at least you get to bill travel time. That’s at least four hours without any real work.
” Matt grins like his entire goal in life is receiving money for the least amount of effort.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was lazy, but I know it’s all part of his act.
Matt Lyman is fiercely competitive. He wants people to believe his achievements are effortless.
If he weren’t so annoying, I’d find him a fascinating character study.
My assistant and I have crafted lighthearted psychological profiles of most people in our department.
Jeannie is much more skilled at this than I am.
She can read people faster than it takes me to process their names.
I once told her she should’ve been a lawyer, but she said she can’t stand the bullshit that comes with the job.
According to her, it’s much easier to be the administrative assistant in the shadows whose name half the lawyers only remember when they want something, and even then, they sometimes get it wrong.
Bert in litigation calls her Jane, no matter how many times he’s been corrected.
I’d blame a faulty memory, but I’m fairly certain the guy has never called his wife by his mistress’s name, or he’d be divorced by now.
Jeannie waves frantically as I return to my office from Matt’s. I swerve to the right to check in.
“Joel came by your office,” she says in a hushed tone.
I stifle a groan. Joel Niven is the head of my department and my direct boss.
He likes to press people’s buttons and watch how they respond.
He once ordered octopus in a seafood restaurant because he knew another partner had a moral objection to it.
When he refused to change his order, she left the restaurant, leaving him with the new client she’d painstakingly pursued for a year.
His take was that commitment to the client should trump everything else, including the plight of any marine life.
How intelligent can they really be if they end up on a plate in Center City? I believe was his exact quote.
“Joel said he’ll pop back later this afternoon.”
That buys me a little time. The phone rings and Jeannie effortlessly switches to her professional voice. “Charlie Thorpe’s office. Who may I say is calling?” Her expression shifts as she puts the caller on hold. “Your father is on the line. Should I tell him you’re in a meeting?”
“How does he sound?”
“Like he has a silver spoon stuck up his ass.”
I heave a sigh. This day is already ruined. What’s one more challenging personality?
“I’ll take it at my desk. Thanks.” I give myself a quick pep talk before I enter my office and pick up the phone. “Hi, Dad.”
“Charles. Your mother asked me to call. She wants to make sure you save the date on your calendar for our fortieth wedding anniversary. We’re hosting a party at the house.”
Forty years of wedded ... whatever toxic relationship they called a marriage. Congrats, I guess.
“August first. It’s already on the schedule.”
“I hope we can announce your new title by then.”
Ah. Now I understand the real reason for the phone call. “Why?”
The question is unnecessary. I already know why.
They intend to show us off to their guests.
Michael and Elizabeth are easy. My siblings give my parents something new to boast about every month.
I, on the other hand, have only one card to play.
It isn’t enough to make partner. The more important part is to become the youngest partner in the firm’s hundred-year history.
Bragging rights are everything to my parents.
They view Keeping Up With the Joneses as necessary to survival as oxygen or water.
Their three children serve as their primary weapons in the battle of proving their social superiority.
“We have announcements about your brother and sister. We wouldn’t want to leave out our firstborn son.”
You pathetic loser , he forgot to add. “If I hear anything before then, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“I’m sure you’ll come through for us.”
“I’ll do my best. Talk to you later.” I hang up, feeling worse than I did before the call. I could be President of the United States, and my father would still want a list of my recent achievements to send in a press release to the people on their social register.
The LandStar file sits open on my desk. According to the multiple less-than-subtle hints dropped by Joel and a couple other partners, this deal is all that stands between me and partnership.
The rumor mill says that Matt is all flash and no substance, and they would much rather promote me, but they need me to prove I can hold my own at the big kids’ table, which is why they gave me LandStar.
The company’s owner, James Riggieri, is a bully and a tyrant, which happen to be personality traits I am intimately familiar with.
You give me lemons, I’ve got your lemonade ready.
The train ride home is more crowded than usual today and reeks of piss and pot.
I only drive to work on the days I have a client meeting outside the city.
Public transportation and recycling are the extent of my commitment to the climate change crisis; not because I don’t care but because I don’t have time to think about it.
My house is outside Center City in a town on the Main Line.
I was perfectly happy living in an apartment in Old City, but my parents thought it was beneath me (read: beneath them ) as a thirty-five-year-old lawyer to rent an apartment, so they persuaded me to buy a house in the ’burbs in preparation for the life they envisioned for me.
According to their unofficial chart of milestones, I should have a devoted wife and 2. 5 kids by now.
My younger brother Michael is married, and his wife Kayla is pregnant with their first. He’s also a highly regarded surgeon, which my parents remind me at every opportunity.
My sister Elizabeth isn’t married, but she’s in a serious relationship with another professional golfer.
My parents don’t mind as much that she isn’t married because a husband and children would interfere with her golf tournaments.
They could care less about the money; it’s all about collecting those shiny trophies.
I see my neighbor across the street clutching a pile of mail, but he ducks inside before I can lift my arm in greeting.
Strange that my instinct is to wave when I’ve barely exchanged more than ten words with anyone on my street.
For the most part, they park their cars in their massive garages and enter their houses from there.
We all have lawn services and gardeners, so even in the nice weather, there’s no reason to linger outside.
Those who don’t have a home gym have a club membership elsewhere.
People in the city talk about the epidemic of loneliness, but I think it’s far worse in the suburbs where you indulge in the misguided belief that you ought to be interacting with your neighbors. In the city, there’s no such expectation.
I enter the house and immediately check the fridge for leftovers.
Then I remember that I attended a client dinner last night.
No such luck. I’m mildly disappointed. I don’t mind cooking, but I’m tired.
My workload has been piling up, which puts my job at eighty percent of my day, with the remaining twenty percent divided between sleeping and eating.
Not much of a life, but I know some people have it far worse for far less money, so I can’t complain.
I give my set of weights a passing glance.
Not today, Satan. At this point in my life, exercise is a necessary evil.
I wish I enjoyed it, but I’d much rather play a game of 21 with some of the guys and get in a workout that way.
Not many opportunities for shooting hoops these days, though.
Not many friends either. The ones I had got tired of me canceling plans because of work and eventually stopped texting.
I plug in the camp’s address and check the travel time. Ninety minutes without traffic. I mentally add an extra ten minutes for rush hour if I hope to get to the Poconos by midmorning tomorrow.
At 10 p.m., my phone rings on my nightstand and I recognize Riggieri’s personal number. I immediately hit the accept button. “Charlie Thorpe speaking.”
“Charles, it’s James Riggieri. I understand you’re driving out to the Poconos tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. I thought a face-to-face meeting would be better.” I learned from a young age that it’s much harder to say no to someone when they’re standing in front of you.
“She doesn’t know you’re coming, does she? She’ll only lock the door and pretend not to be home.”
I can’t help but smile at that. Her tactic sounds eerily similar to mine when unwanted company darkens my doorstep.
“I haven’t given her a heads up.”
“Good. I don’t need to remind you how badly I want this deal, Charles.”
“I’m aware, sir, and I have every intention of making it happen.” For both of us.
“Call me afterward with a full report.”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
He hangs up. I leave my phone face up and the ringer on in case he calls again, which has been known to happen.
I stare at the whirring ceiling fan for another hour and try to visualize my success.
It’s a practice that’s served me well over the years.
I picture myself placing a contract with two signatures in Joel’s hand.
He slaps me on the back, congratulating me.
I’m pretty sure I’m smiling when I fall asleep.