Today was one of those days. The day where I wasn't that busy, where the office was eerily quiet in a post-holiday-weekend kind of way and I felt it. I felt this sad ache, where I missed the buzz of litigation. I missed the (crazy) client phone calls, the buzz in the office, the scanning of the schedule to make sure that I'd taken care of what needed to be done for the next court call, the next motion argument, the next trial. I missed working in an office filled with my friends, the type of people who enjoyed the same stressful, hectic, but highly rewarding kind of work. Which isn't to say my new job doesn't have its own set of benefits and nice people, but today was a day where I could acutely feel the difference between what I used to do and what I do now.
As I made my way home, trying out the train for the first time, I fell back into my thoughts & before I knew it I was off the train and making my way onto public transit in the city for my last portion of the ride home. It was my first time on this particular bus route, and as I hopped on board my breath was taken away- in one simultaneous glance I could see the building I took my Bar/Bri courses in, and the top of the skyscraper I worked in when I was "let go" in December. Funny, but all I could think of was how hot and muggy it was studying for the bar, and how cold and gray that day was when I stood on a street corner with no job and a bag of belongings.
As if by magic this bus pulled up to the corner I'd stood on with that bag- and in a blinding instant, as I looked at the scurrying rush hour commuters crossing the street I was taken back to when I last stood on the corner- the only bag I'd had in my office that morning was from Nordstrom's, woefully small for the amount of personal belongings I'd so proudly brought to my very first office. It had begun to sleet, I'd begun to cry down the front of a new dress I'd gotten for Christmas. Scattered on the street corner, spilling out of the broken bag that exploded a mere block from my old office was an engraved clock with the scales of justice, a photo of BISMOW and I at a law school formal, a German beer stein my Dad had brought me from Munich, some books, a thermos, my dog-eared Bluebook, a pair of flip flops, some files of personal papers, blowing down the street. I looked at all of it and sobbed and it snowed on me and some lady stopped and collected it all, awkwardly packing it in a shopping bag she had tucked in her purse. I recalled how I found that bag when I was moving, with a broken picture frame still in it. I threw it away, I couldn't even salvage the photo, I couldn't bear to re-use the frame. I could tell that everyone passing me that morning knew I had just lost my job, I could tell from the pity and how someone offered me their cell phone. I shook my head, mouthing that I was ok, and eventually BISMOW came and picked me up and took me home and put that horrible bag in a corner for me to deal with later.
The bus left the corner as quickly as the million jagged thoughts and memories had run through my mind I found myself just a few blocks down the street, passing the corner where the office of BPLF sat. I looked at the crosswalk and thought of how many times I'd run through it in heels and a suit, sprinting, panting, making it just in time to the court house to hand a partner a deposition transcript during his lunch break, to file a motion, to take a judge a courtesy copy. This of course meant that I was passing the courthouse only a moment later. An ugly, odd looking building with horrible lighting and bad climate control I wanted to get off the bus that moment and wander the halls, as if to prove to myself that I still knew which judge was in which courtroom and how the funky elevators worked, to see if the creepy security guard still recognized me and nodded, waving at me as I hurried through the line. I'm sure he'd seen a million law clerks come and go, and deep down I know I was no different than the million before me and the million after. Just another face in the crowd, a lawyer in training, hurrying, rushing, deadlines to meet and people to please, all in an effort to get a job, to win a trial, to be selected for the first chair, to make partner, to hold equity in a firm.
Of course I wasn't home yet and it seemed this trip down memory lane wasn't over. I passed the building where PAG used to work at another BPLF, a contemporary of my Big Prestigious Law Firm. I thought back to when she got that job, how excited she was, how happy she was for me months later when I landed my slot a few blocks away. We used to meet for lunch, the clerks of BPLF One and BPLF Two and we'd eat quickly, swapping thoughts on cases and headlines as though they were important, and then we'd rush back to churn out another motion, another brief. We had plans and in a few years we'd be sitting in the gallery watching our best friend's opening statements.
By now the bus ride was coming closer to the end, but not before passing the street my law school sat on, and I gave a small sigh and again, oddly, the only memory I had was of the temperature- in law school I was always hot. I blame the poor ventilation system, the overworked boiler, the lack of thermostats, but to me law school is synonymous with being a little flushed, sweaty, overheated. I don't know why my memories all seem to come back to a temperature, but they do. Maybe one day I'll know why.
I finally, eventually made my way home, somehow hot and sweaty and sad. I look at my friends- bright, intelligent, articulate people who can make you laugh and drink you under the table and most likely, even as young'uns, whip you court, and I think of their similar plights. We have all taken a different path yet we are all a bit bewildered and blown away- we have stories of being fired, not hired, our paychecks bouncing, our spotty contract work, of being told we were the "second" choice candidate, of sending out another resume, receiving another rejection letter, of making hourly wages as attorneys, of struggling to pay the bills, of birthdays celebrated with cheap beer, of rejection letters arriving six months after the fact, with the wrong name, the wrong job title, the wrong message of "try again next time."
Try again next time. I suppose that is all we can do.
* * * *
(I am in fact very grateful for my job and the benefits it provides. This rant/rave/woe is me tale is based solely on my frustrations of today and I hope tomorrow to be in a better place mentally. In the meantime, if you know of anyone hiring smart, brilliant and gorgeous attorneys, a few of my friends have a fresh copy of their resume. As for me, I'll be back in the office tomorrow after a good night's sleep and a perhaps a sticky note in my day-planner reminding me of why I don't miss litigation & why I appreciate my benefits. )
