I’m on my way home from work the other day when four youngish professionals get on at Pentagon City and take up residence all around me—two guys and two women.
It takes about five seconds to figure out they’re all lawyers. They exude that familiar mix of cutthroat confidence and ultra paranoia, seemingly through their pores.
The guys immediately start talking of anti-trust cases and counter suits. The tall redhead with the curly locks beside me, meanwhile, is having a rough day. The young lawyer-to-be is on her way to Connecticut to be sworn in after passing the bar. Unfortunately for her, one of her bosses finally gave her some work to do (something apparently she’s been desperate for—a chance to prove herself and earn her spurs) this afternoon, just before she’s due to leave. Canceling her trip was impossible, for obvious reasons, but now she’s worried about her rep: “Will they think I’m lazy?” “Will they give me another chance?” “Will I get blackballed before I’m even sworn in?” Nevermind the fact it doesn’t cross her mind the supervisor was essentially going to swallow her weekend whole.
These four look to be about my age, and they’re a good reminder of exactly what I never want to be. I worked late that day, but I try to make that the exception rather than the rule. This bunch looks grateful to be done on this Friday evening before 7. They have nothing to say to each other except law stuff; the other girl is so wrapped up in this business she doesn’t even realize she’s on the wrong train and has missed her stop by a wide margin (I’m talkin’ four or five stops out of touch, here). None of them look happy.
I should thank God every day for making me a writer and not a lawyer.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment