Law firm interviews are double album length lies, forced sales pitches for a thing nobody really wants. I mean, people want the salary. They want the benefits and the opportunity to make more money. But all the talk about "firm culture," "goals," and "how [insert firm here] is 'different' or 'better'" is white noise - a candidate and an interviewee ping-ponging polite bullshit back and forth over a cherry wood table. I used to have anxiety attacks during them. Not the usual variety people relate. My heart didn't race. I didn't need to breathe into a paper bag or rub double vision out of my eyes. Mine were battles to keep control of my mouth. I'd breathe deep and stare at the lawyer talking, nod, smile, scratch my chin - give off any pantomime of interest to hide the urge to stand up, call "time out" and get to the meat of it...
Enough with the 'fit' and 'attitude' and 'where the firm will be in five years.' I only asked questions about those things because it's common sense one should pretend to give a damn about his employer's future. But the truth is, I'm just like everybody else. I don't want to be here and neither do you. I want as much money as I can get and you want to pay me as little as possible. So what's the number? What are you going to cough and what's the bonus structure? The rest of this fucking charade is irrelevant.
I haven't been anxious during an interview in long time. After a dozen or so, you learn to say Nothing with authority, which is exactly what you want to do. Nothing's ideal; Something's problematic; Anything's death. Nothing offends nobody and there's no follow up. Something's got substance and begs a question, which eventually leads to you admitting you don't know what you're talking about. Anything's what a fool spouts in a pregnant pause - fragments of phrases he thinks better of speaking a couple words in, canned questions from career guides or Dale Carnegie sales lingo... All of them are doom. Anything sits in the air like a fresh wet fart. Nobody can even look its speaker in the eye. It takes a few years of experience, but once you've given up trying to say Something and learned to avoid the impulse to say Anything, you can get through any interview. I try to smile and nod as much as possible. When I think I've got a point to make, I remember what a girl told me in a bar years ago - "It's a shame you can talk."
* * *
"How has your experience at your current firm been?"
Excellent. I love it, which is why I'm here interviewing with you.
"Your writing looks good. Do you enjoy the research part?"
Yes, I also enjoy surgery and dental appointments.
"We're very meticulous here. Can you handle that?"
That depends on the size of the check you're giving me.
It's hard dancing for suits. The process wears out the saccharine glands in your tongue. Saying things like "Law school was grueling at times, but rewarding" almost trips the gag reflex and by the time you're done coughing pap like "I really get a charge out of researching cases" you feel creepy, soiled, like your grandmother just caught you jacking off. And no matter how many different ways you try to gloss it over, it's obvious - no sane person wants any of these positions. The only honest answer - "It's a job, and it sucks, but if you pay me a load I'll deliver" - would have gotten me black balled as soon as the syllables left my tongue. ...Even though that's exactly the bargain under which almost every decent, normal person in a law firm is operating.
* * *
What do I really want out of a legal job?
Knowing what I know now... Well, if I had to do again, I'd be on the other side, bringing the suits, and I'd be looking to get that one monster claim. A chemical company dumping Dioxin next to a kindergarten... A drunken hedge fund manager pitching his cigarette boat through a sloop full of Jesus Freaks on a church retreat... Maybe a huge food company allowing ergot fungus to seep into industrial sugar shipments, causing thousands of people to hallucinate after eating Twinkies. I'd find a claim I could pimp to twelve unemployed Jerry Springer addicts for a barrel of dollar bills big enough to buy myself a compound near a beach and never have to walk into an office or sit through one of these bullshit sessions again for as long as I live.You know who David Crosby is, right? Well, I read a story once, set in the peak of the late '60s, in some artist community in California. Marin County, I think. Or maybe Los Angeles... Anyway, it was about Crosby waking up, fixing breakfast for himself, eating, leaving his home, filling his car with gas, driving to Joan Baez's place a few miles away and walking into her house for a recording session before realizing he hadn't put on a stitch of clothing... That's kind of where I'd like to be.
That's what we all want. We just can't say it.
Posted by PhilaLawyer at 8:51 PM