CHAPTER TWO


On the first day of law school a professor asked the class, “Who wants to work at a great, big, law firm when they grow up?” 95% of the students raised their hand. He went on to explain that guys who worked at big firms made a shitload of money. 100% of the students salivated.

“Oh, you’ll have the big house,” he said, “a beautiful wife, a maid, a pool, a gardener to take care of the grounds and a nice car.” Yelps of joy erupted from the students, the likes of which I had not heard before or since.

I was sitting in the back row of the lecture hall. My strategy was to always sit as far away from the action as possible. That way you can hide. But I soon discovered that hiding was going to be a bit of challenge. There were only three rows of seating, and the professor had a seating chart with your name on it in bold letters.

From the back row I heard, Dimitri Ananyev, who told us to call him “Fonzi” when he was introduced to the class - the product of learning English from bad 70’s and 80’s sitcoms - say, in a really bad accent, “When I get one of those jobs, I’m buying a mansion.”

Meanwhile, the professor was staring at the class, dead silent, waiting for something. He held his hands up in front of himself, palms facing the ceiling like a television evangelist about to ask the Lord for forgiveness.

Then he started speaking again, “And you know what?” - now he was leading up to the big finish - “your wife, she’s going to love the house; the kids, they’re going to love the pool. And your maid, and your gardener? They are going to love you because they’re getting paid to hang out there. But you’re never going to see your wife, or the house, or the pool, or your kids, or the maid, or the gardener. You’re never going to be at home because you wanted to work at a big firm and make a lot of money. Have fun. Now, open to Pennoyer v. Neff!”

He was right. I didn’t need to work at a big firm to be happy. For God sakes, man, I wanted to come home at night! I’m not very good about sleep deprivation. I had to find an alternative to getting my ass kicked on a daily basis by some stuffy, bow tie-wearing partner. That meant studying really hard for three years, sacrificing my social life, giving up good TV, and getting an A in every class I took. I thought I could do it. There were people who did that all the time. I’d heard about them on television. Summa Cum this, Magma that. I could be that guy.

Turns out, I wasn’t that guy. Not only did I blow every chance I had at law review, journal writing, and getting an A in any class, but when I graduated I had amassed a stellar 2.4 GPA. I was guaranteed one thing for sure. I would never work in a giant law firm. But would it also prevent me from working at any law firm?

So when reality set in - and when you are living with your parents reality sets in very quickly - I was off to find my first job. I knew it wouldn’t be at one of New York’s premier law firms, but I figured a law degree could get me a job somewhere. What that job might be, and where it would be, was a different story altogether. And with my student loan money completely depleted I needed a plan of action.

I was hoping to avoid the whole law office thing since I really wanted to be a writer. But staring at my seafoam green walls, writing in journals and plotting ways out of corporate America, wasn’t helping very much. If this year was going to have any silver lining, I had no choice. I needed a job.

I picked up The New York News, newspaper, flipped right over to the “Help Wanted” section and found an ad:

 

Recent Grad wanted for work at PI firm.

Will train. Fax Resume: 212.221.1357

 

I walked downstairs to my dad’s home office. His old, oak desk with the leather chair was perfect for a nice, relaxing day of work. Contrary to my way of thinking, my dad was never at his home office because he loved going into the main office for work. I had never, in my entire life, met another person who loved an office so much. In the most hazardous conditions, my father would get in his car and head off to work to be berated by his boss in person. There were times when the entire city - and thus his office – had been shut down, but he would trudge forward. Twenty-three inches of snow wasn’t going to slow him down, even if the rest of the world stayed behind at home. After all, there was work to be done and abuse to be collected.

Fax resume, huh? I guess people still fax. I sat down in the leather chair and dialed up the number from the paper. I was nervous as hell, almost too scared to talk. I tried to channel my father’s one-track work mentality to guide me through this process, but I still almost puked. No one should be this nervous this early in the morning. Then I remembered that I did not have to talk to anyone and felt like a moron. I managed to fax over my resume to the mystery firm. After I sent the first fax, I sent out fifteen more. I was on a roll. Everything from ambulance chasing to document review, nothing was too menial for me. I needed to get out of my parents’ house. This was going to be the start of my legal career one way or another. I could think of nothing worse.

A few days later, it got a lot worse. A mystery lawyer called.

“Can I speak with David, please?” He bellowed.

“This is,” I said.

“This is Michael H. Goldberg, attorney. I received your resume the other day and would like you to come in for an interview.”

Michael “H”. What a fucking tool this guy was.

“Sure. I’d love to come in.” This was my ticket out of here.

“How about first thing tomorrow morning? Say eight o’clock? I’m located at 21 Park Row, Manhattan.”

“OK. Great, I’ll see you at eight.”

“OK,” and with that Michael H. Goldberg hung up the phone.

Now I had to actually meet him. I was living at home, had no money, and quite frankly, I could see my hair was thinning. And when I ran my hands through it, my hair didn’t feel right. That made me very nervous. I had a sneaking suspicion I would be bald before age 30. Since I had moved back home, I’ve been finding clumps of my precious hair in my shower drain. Why would you want to leave me now, precious hair? I love you so.

My thinning hair made me realize that I didn’t have very much time left. I had to get a job, move into my own place in the city, get a girlfriend to marry me pronto, and make it all happen before I went bald. If not, I feared I’d still be living with my parents at 40. No one wants to be that guy. I had to make Mr. Michael H. Goldberg love me.

At dinner that night, I announced my good news to the whole family.

“Well, Mom and Dad, I have some good news. I have an interview tomorrow in Manhattan,” I said, as vomit was welling up in my throat.

Dad was the first to congratulate me. “It’s about time. All you’ve been doing for the past two months is sitting around that room of yours writing in that book.” Obviously, Dad was excited for me.

“So what firm is it with?” My Mom asked, actually curious.

“Well, it’s not exactly with a firm. It’s with one guy.” It sounded kind of weird to say that out loud.

“One guy? People really work for one guy? Well, one guy is better than no guy. Doesn’t really matter to me as long as you go to work and he pays you. He is going to pay you right?” Yep, Dad was brimming with excitement.

That’s the odd thing about my Dad. It didn’t matter where you went to work as long as you went to work. I could have told him I was going to be spinning a sign on the corner in front of the mattress store, begging potential customers to stop in for the big sale, and he would be happy. Writing at home was not work, that was a dream job that paid nothing.

“We’ll see what happens,” I said. “I didn’t even get the job yet.”.

I better get this fucking job.