The cop stared at the highway again. "You don't know shit about cars."

"Is it a Turbo?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said 'Is it a Turbo?'"

I've been told that among Porsche junkies, the Turbo separates the men from the boys. To a casual buyer who picks up a 911 for fun, it means nothing - useless excess power, a .44 for a person barely able to fire a .38. But to a hardcore speed junkie, or the sort of person buying the car for its Statement Value, the $125,000 Porsche Turbo shits down the throat of all other models. This cop was no speed junkie.

"I looked at the Turbo, but ehhh... well, uh, they're awfully temperamental in this climate."

"Oh, you haven't driven a Porsche till you've driven a Turbo. The Turbo's the shit."

"Well, I-- They're so much, uh, maintenance."

I smiled. "Yes, of course, the maintenance." The officer grinned back. Enjoy those cuffs, kid; I'm in no hurry. I'd seen that look many times before. Three different partners I've worked for have dragged me into meetings about my "attitude problem." The first time it happened, I figured it was me, so I developed a Casper Milquetoast persona around that partner and listened doe eyed to everything he said. It worked, but I couldn't shower enough at the end of each day. I left after I got my bonus, my self respect all but terminally cancered. The second time, the partner and I got into a shouting match, and I switched firms within the year. The third time, I consulted with "Leslie," a paralegal, for advice.

"How can I have attitude issues? I'm polite and civil with everyone."

"You never act impressed. You're not giving them their 'tribute'."

"You just used air quotes."

"Ewww... Sorry."

"Tribute? I'm not in the fucking mob."

"You have to cheerlead, act like they're your heroes, people you want to be. When 'Larry' tells you about his case, he expects you to get excited."

"I listen. I say 'congrats'."

"That's like saying 'I think you're neat, too' when a woman says she loves you."

"I'm not his wife."

"You're dealing with the male ego here. When Larry tells you how awesome he was in some case, tell him you wish your dick was as big as his."

"I don't have an ego."

Leslie laughed in my face. "Oh, for fuck's sake! Are you kidding me? Look a yourself. Listen to yourself."

"Whatever. I just want the money."

"And all Larry wants is respect. Look at the guy. You think he was quarterback in high school? Kiss his ass. Make him feel like a man."

"What's that quote from Doc Holliday in 'Tombstone'? 'Even my hypocrisy has its limits'?"

"You wanted my advice, you got it." Leslie began walking away.

"Wait. So the bargain is, I help Larry get over not banging a cheerleader and in return he gives me money?"

"Inartful, but not inaccurate."

"So I'm somewhere on a continuum with Waylon Smithers, a therapist and a whore."

"You should try living with your kind."

Leslie was right. Law's one of many transparent microcosms of the universal male beauty pageant that runs the world. The reason the cop was talking to me about his portfolio; the reason the partner was telling me his war stories; the reason so many perfect deals and settlements blow up and senseless disputes wind up in trial - the eggshell male ego. Gatsby was showing me his shirts, and I was responding with "Swell, where's the shitter in this joint?" I'd misjudged my role. On paper I was just a co-worker - "associate," "employee," "functionary," "human capital," interchangeable with an office machine, save the proverbial ghost. Workers don't validate their superiors' egos. A professional's secure enough to give himself all the reinforcement he needs. I just work with them...

...Theoretically.

Being an associate in any professional job's never just about your job performance. It's about what's branded 'commitment' but in practice is total subjugation to the field and its artificial hierarchies. And it's about making a lot of people who, stripped of their degree, outside the four walls of the firm, are non-existent feel pretty goddamned important.

I viewed my job as a Means, which blinded to me to even a cursory understanding of those who viewed it as the End - the people who saw what I'd call in a three vodka slur on Friday at 5:45 "the daily annoyance" as something a person would want to do with his entire life. All I had to do was kiss their asses, and all I was doing was looking past them, the way so many captains of schoolyard kickball teams, women and just about everyone outside the firm had for so many years before. I'd been as clueless in the way I handled these people and their egos as the theoretically-minded lawyers around me were in crafting arguments and agreements that'd never work on the street. The only question was why.

You could say I was bitter. I've been called a prima donna. It could be argued my talents are misplaced in a law firm - that I belonged in sales, entertainment, business - a broker, writer, line cook, blackjack dealer, newscaster, plumber, preacher... The list is endless. But the explanation's much easier than that.

We must, however, acknowledge, as it seems to me, that man with all his noble qualities... still bears in his bodily frame the indelible stamp of his lowly origin.

- Charles Darwin

Imagine yourself standing in a fairly upscale bar full of lawyers - the sort of happy hour haunt I used to find myself in on Friday nights. You lean in to the bar, between the sardine stacked bodies, and wave your hand to get the bartender's attention. As you d this, you notice a short man with a deep tan for November staring at you left hand. He's wearing a fairly expensive suit, what's left of his hair is perfectly coiffed and the thick furry fingers grasping his drink - a drink still ¾ full, but with all of its ice melted - is manicured. You assume he's looking at your hand because you've still got notes written on the space of skin between your thumb and index finger. People around the office laugh about you doing that, but it's the only way you can remember important tasks that pop up during the day. You check your hand - there's nothing on it. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the man opening his mouth. He says something ending in what sounds like "any." "Excuse me?" You can barely hear, your senses dulled by tankards of Johnny Walker, the chatter of hundreds of suits and hearing loss that comes with a decade of Black Sabbath at 11. "Are those Tiffany?" "What?" "Are those Tiffany?" He's asking about your cufflinks. And he's not gay.

You turn from the bar with a handful of drinks and spy at 3:00 a perfectly button-nosed brunette in a blue business suit smiling nervously. A pie-faced man in a horizontally striped, white-collared shirt is barking a joke in her face. She leans back politely, bumping into a skinny kid in a grey suit and rep tie standing next to her, staring at her hands. He touches her shoulder as if to stop her from falling, then yanks his hand away as though she were radioactive. A doughy man in thick rectangular glasses appears with a wine glass in his hand, shoving it in the brunette's direction, eclipsing her from your view. You scan the room for another piece of eye candy. In the corner of the bar, a dazzling redhead's in the middle of a near identical scene. The pie faced man to her left is wearing a pink shirt.

As you walk back to where your buddy, Frampton, was standing, you pass several 45 to 55ish men with their salt and pepper hair slicked straight back, ala Gordon Gekko, holding court. "He didn't even bring the right documents to the hearing. The judge had no choice but to grant our motion!" Thinner versions of them stand around in a semi circle, each laughing loudly, eyes scanning the others in the circle to make sure the laugh is noticed, but stopped as soon as the other lieutenants stop theirs. They stare at you as you pass. You're nothing special - they "process" everyone who passes. The gears between their ears grind; their conversational game of musical chairs rolls along. They fiddle with their drinks and clear their throats to laugh at their Gordon's next bit.

Between you and Frampton is a gauntlet of paralegals, first year associates, headhunters and women in chrome-shiny lip gloss, tanning powder and ambitious push-up bras. Every five or so feet a tan man with shiny hard hair and a gym rat physique bursting out of a bold striped suit crosses your path, stalking one of them.

When you finally make it to Frampton, he introduces you to Miriam and Ellen, law school classmates, and Michael and Steven, their friends. Miriam barely says hello, staring into the crowd, occasionally sipping a white wine. She leaves after the wine, after which Ellen explains that Miriam's got nothing to say because she's recently divorced and has been in Missouri for a month looking through a warehouse full of documents. Frampton explains Miriam's back story to you later. You didn't catch it when Ellen told it because Ellen's got a bizarre speech affectation - in a church, her words slur together into a stream of nervous gibberish. In a crowded bar, she folds into the white noise, indistinguishable from the low background hum of a bus passing outside. She also likes to talk about sexual harassment law a lot, an odd topic given her certain inexperience. You don't want to fight with Ellen or translate her. You just nod at everything she says. She runs out of words and starts fiddling with the red straw in her drink.

Michael's about 5'9, in a fine patterned sportcoat and tassel loafers, with a prominent brow and recessed chin. He's "Michael," not "Mike," and he wears a broad, misplaced smile. Michael works for ____________, defending Fortune 100 companies in products liability cases. His cases are "multidistrict," and his group is national lead counsel on them. He was in San Francisco last week. He used the firm's car service to go to and from the airport. Steven's about 6'2, and talks low and close. His frame suggests power forward, but the overall droop of his carriage suggests otherwise. He leans in when he talks, advertising what he had for lunch, but even when he's not close-talking, his posture gives the appearance he's listing forward, about to fall into the center of the group. Steven's in a golf shirt and pleated tan slacks. The thin fabric of the shirt teases us with glimpses of his handful-sized man breasts. During an awkward pause, I ask Steven how he likes his job. He has a new laptop, and he's going to use it this weekend for the first time. The firm's putting new carpeting on his floor. It's dark beige. He voted for slate grey.

Steven works in the banking and finance group of ______________, Michael's competitor. The two begin comparing their workplaces, and discussing management strategies. Steven tells Michael he's joining a local Chamber of Commerce, to get connected to build a book of business. Michael tells Steven law is not like any other business, and that rainmaking isn't everything - "true" lawyers who focus on their work will always be needed. Steven's going to take up squash and join the local gym where all the lawyers and political types work out. Michael will be in the office all weekend, preparing for a trial. He says "trying" and "try" a lot - four times during my last Scotch alone. Steven and Michael disagree bitterly on everything, except that the price fixe lunch buffet at the Four Seasons is the best bargain in town. I prefer the poached salmon and French onion soup. I keep that to myself.

Now, if you're like Frampton and I, you probably had as many drinks as we had during the time we were at this particular bar, which would be six. When you've had six, you're on the cusp between Hemingway perceptive and Keith Moon imbecilic. For a brief period, the mind leaves the body and everything's viewed from the third person, as though you were a narrator in a movie of your life. In those fleeting moments of intense clarity all the posturing of the people around you is perfectly translated. You suddenly see through their body language, words, smiles, frowns - all of the tics that make up their "personas." Their facades fall and you see them exactly as they are, what they'd be in a foxhole, the jungle... standing across from you in a boxing ring. Some you respect and fear, because in that clarity, you realize they're every bit the badass they present. Some surprise you, because you see them in a different light. These are usually the decent guys you work with - the friendly, no-nonsense bastards who work hard, have no time for the office politics and just want to get home to see their kids. If you have drinks with a guy like that, you'll usually find he's made of granite.

But the standard striving uber-lawyer, well... Seen with Hemingway eyes, they're not much. They're the breathing construct of everything Salinger injected into the concept of "phony." That's hardly unique or alone sanctionable. We're all phonies in some regard. Commerce is separating people from their money, and that can't be done without being phony. No, what makes the clawing counselors who Live The Job so unworthy of respect and the deserved butt of so many jokes is simple Social Darwinism. The majority of them are odd, awkward, unlikable people. They are what they are, and nothing they do will ever undo that. Deep down, in some primordial recess, jammed into the vestigial circuits in the base of the brain, we size up the whole of them and think "No, no 'tribute' for this one."

But all that said... a gun and cuffs makes up for a whole lot of native insignificance. The cop had my respect whether he deserved it or not. As I stood there chaffing in the cuffs, I thought back to Leslie's comments. I bit my lip and did what had to be done. "You know, I've heard Turbos are awfully temperamental cars. You made a good decision." Pathetic, obsequious, but it greased my hands out of the cuffs. Given the opening, the officer rambled about all the problems his friends had with absurdly expensive cars, and which ones he nevertheless intended to buy when he retired... along with a beachfront home and all the other West Egg fixings. A nod, a smile, an acknowledgement that he was Someone was all it took. He harangued the dispatchers at the station to demand an explanation from the rental car agency. I was cut loose in a half an hour with a smile, a handshake and a business card scribbled with lousy stock tips. No apology; he was doing his job.

Lisa and I drove on to Haulover. The beach was freezing. The sky was grey. Standard issue perverts littered the sand. The first person we encountered was a 6'3 near translucent white redheaded man with a huge pink surgery scar running the length of his torso, sauntering past us wearing nothing but a paperback novel in his hand. This Shmoo stared up from the book and smiled broadly as he passed, his thick lips exposing a mouthful of massive horse teeth he desperately wanted to use.

"I can't take this. Never. Never again." Lisa broke for the parking lot. "We've wasted an entire day so I could stand on a freezing beach looking at naked losers." I was in the shithouse with her; it took a tankard of screwdrivers and a bottle of wine at the Riverside Hotel to get her back on speaking terms with me. "It sounds sexy, it even looks sexy in those pictures of beaches in St.Martin. It should be sexy...

But it's not.

I mean, think about it. What kind of person would run around showing off their goods like that? Not a normal person who gets any."

It took two hours of hiking to a desolate stretch of sand in Long Beach Island last year, but I finally got the nude shots of Lisa I wanted. I keep them in a private email account, so I can look at them whenever I need to. When the early morning email stream builds to its inevitable waterfall of annoyances, I shut my work email down and open Lisa's picture slide show. I'm not sure I know the signs of love, but I know the signs of luck, and when you find yourself wondering if you could sneak into a stall on another floor and masturbate to photos of the woman you live with, you're lucky. When she can stand her own against Veronica Zemanova, Monica Bellucci, Shauna Sand, Carla Pivonski, Brooke Burke or whatever else you can find on Luciano's Centerfold Links, Voyeurweb or Tommy's Bookmarks, you might even declare Victory. I listen to the nasal bleatings of the suits around me discussing their latest connivance, clever argument or negotiation and cough the default response anyone paying my checks would get - "Congrats. Good argument. Excellent result." But what I'm seeing is the silhouette of Lisa's breasts against an orange sun... the wisp of white sand clinging to the curve of her ass. And what I'm thinking is "Shit, I already won." It's not my fault I can't act impressed for the little suits. Perhaps if they used better cuffs...

Posted by PhilaLawyer at 3:56 PM

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