White Man's Problems (12 page)

Starting Out

O
n a Monday morning in November 1988, Oscar Rothbart pointed at a yellow Post-it note stuck to my faux-leather, semi reclining, office-grade chair on the twenty-first floor of the Citibank Tower in downtown Los Angeles. I was unfocused. It was 10:13 a.m., and I was just getting into my office. Or I was getting into “our office,” since this particular eight-by-ten-foot “junior executive exterior” was also occupied by Rothbart, a French Canadian who started at the firm with me on the same day.

For the first time anyone could remember, through some mistake in planning, some HR fuckup, the twenty-odd new lawyers were paired together in offices. It was April, and we had been sharing since we'd started in the fall. Beginning work at a major law firm seemed strikingly similar to other education cycles: the randomly assigned roommate, the orientation meetings, the new class of people, and the older guys who talked about how great everything used to be. It was like school in these ways but different. This was the mystical real world we'd all been warned about, and, bit-by-bit, it sunk in that the fun of college and the dress rehearsal of law school were done. Some embraced it, and some recoiled. The ones who had been forty years old their whole lives settled in; the eight-year-olds panicked. Playtime was over.

Rothbart looked up. “Hank came here
himself
looking for you.” He had been named after Oscar Wilde by anthropologist parents in Montreal. “And your phone rang twice.”

Our crowded office struck a contrast to the venerable solitude of the firm. Green carpets and dark walnut trim defined the corridors and lobbies, along with brass lamps, framed clipper ships, and old-time
Vanity Fair
portraits of solicitors. Rothbart's side was minimalist, as he was extremely anticlutter. He had a glass desk, and it smelled of antiseptic, which smelled to me like work. The only thing on it was draft interrogatory responses he'd been marking up since he arrived, as he did on all days, at seven. By the time I stumbled in, he'd done as much as I would do in a week. He was a machine, cranking out the mindless work product of a first-year associate. Rumor had it he was already doing footnotes on one of Dave Van Wyck's appellate briefs. He was, by all accounts, going places.

He was postmodern and sarcastic, and he liked right angles. He was one of those people always chewing gum but not a full piece—just a tiny speck of gray momentarily visible between his molars. He looked the part: average height, good looks, striking designer eyewear. His body was in great shape, as befits the disciplined barrister on the ladder of success. He was natty, treading the line between downtown boring and Westside stylish. He knew to get one-inch cuffs on his pants. His shirts were crisp, he had good ties, and, following a maxim he'd read in
Vogue
(“If you want to know if a man is well dressed…look down”), he had great shoes.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Busy night?”

“Nothing special,” I said, which was true. This was my first nonhourly job, and I was drunk with the power of being on my own time. I had stayed out till the bars were almost closed and then ran to the convenience store in time to get a six-pack and cigarettes, which I finished off on the patio of my place in west LA. I liked to drink and read late. It was 9:08 when I woke, and, like all days, I rushed to take a shower and made it downtown by quarter after ten, which I thought was the latest I could arrive without making someone in a position of power notice.

“What do you think Hank wants?” asked Rothbart.

“I don't know, Oscar. He wants to see me, as you know from reading my note. You tell me what he wants.”

“I think he's going to fire your ass.”

This was typical shit for Oscar. It is amazing how well you get to know a roommate, even in a few months and even if he's just an officemate in the Torts, Insurance, and Business Litigation Group at the LA office of a 2,100-lawyer global powerhouse. But I had the same thought. The yellow Post-it note was a death warrant. Rothbart knew instinctively I was scared well beyond the usual yips of a low-grade beer-vodka, rocks-cigarette hangover. He spun in his semi reclining, office-grade chair and took aim between my eyes.

“You know, Yates, you really need to bring some maturity to bear. We make one hundred seventy-five thousand dollars a year, and they're not going to put up with it much longer.” He paused and then smirked. “And frankly, I don't think they should. Hank and Rusty are pulling a discovery team together for TCE, and it's going to change from there. It's being fast-tracked, and I'm hearing we are going with a way, way scaled-back approach. It's smart: this way Anderson and the other plaintiffs' lawyers can't jam Hank and TCE's general counsel on fees. Rusty told me we'll be doing three simultaneous depo tiers in Sacramento, and they have a deal on corporate housing—three apartments in a nice complex. Should be all summer. Totally sweet billables.”

“Did you just say ‘totally sweet billables'?” I said.

“Laugh all you want, chief.” He said “chief” like a regular Canadian, but it was affected. Then, not being able to help himself, he continued, “By the way, in case you didn't know, I have this complete piece of ass from Newport who's up there doing an internship, so I will be getting fucked, too.” He was proud of himself for this; he talked about his prowess with girls a little too much. “What about you? You're out in the cold. Doesn't that scare you?”

“I have the Lifetime Fund case with Amy and Andy,” I said, referring to two young partners who had me on a case so big they couldn't keep tabs on what I was doing.

“Ha,” he snorted. “Take it from me: Amy and Andy are getting canned any day.”

“How the fuck do you know that?”

“Because I get information, fuck face. Because I get here at seven and do whatever anyone tells me to do. Because I don't get drunk every night and read novels till three in the morning.” He squinted and lifted his palms. “Do you ever get, like, past anything? You're so
stuck
.”

Perhaps the only thing that made our relationship interesting is that we were both English majors in college and would kill time talking about books and movies and art and music. He went to Yale and Yale Law School, facts that solidified my disposition toward him. He did his college thesis on Phillip Glass and abstract art and his law-review comment on critical legal studies. I really didn't like anything about him, but I ended up spending so much time in his presence I felt like I was stuck to him. He annoyed me and made me feel insufficient, but I sat there and took it. He told me once I was banal, putting the accent on the second syllable. I'd never heard it pronounced that way before. When I fought back, defending the inherent truth of a movie or novel or record, he'd mock me for so much “pathos.” I usually just gave in to his confidence.

After I pretended to work for a while, I tried to change the subject. “I watched
The Last Waltz
the other day. What do you think of Rick Danko? You know, from The Band.”

“The one who was always so drunk?”

“They were all kind of drunk.”

“True.” I watched him mull it over. “I know who you're talking about. He sang ‘It Makes No Difference.'” Rothbart zeroed in. “He was a drug addict. Killed himself, right?”

“No, that was one of the other guys.”

“Well, he's a minor figure, and they were overrated.” Now he made air quotes and said, in a mocking voice, “‘The Band. Ooooh. They're so great.' Give me a break.” He paused. “Dylan was probably at his worst with those guys.”

“Perfect.”

“Why? What do you think of him? You're going to tell me there's any
other
thing to think?”

“Well, yeah…I watch that movie and think, like…he was too sweet to live in this world.”

He looked at me for a second and then jumped out of his chair. “That's it!”

“That's
what
?”

“That's your problem. You actually
think
that.” He sat down and settled in for a speech with all the melodrama that office politics can offer. “Let me tell you something. We've been in this office awhile, but I don't
really
give a rat's ass about you. I'm not your friend, I'm not your buddy, and, candidly, I think you have behavioral issues. But since I don't think I will be stuck with you much longer, I will give you one piece of sorely needed advice. Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Sentimentality is dead. It's for losers. Everything—art, politics, whatever—has moved past it. Look around you. You're in
business
. You should have learned this by now.”

***

Some girls remind you of songs, and some girls remind you of bands. Joyce had straight blue and black hair with creamy brown eyes and a raspy voice from smoking cigarettes, all of which killed me dead. I'd had a crush on Joyce for nine years by now. We lived in the same dorm at Cornell and then ended up in the same class at law school at NYU. She had been on the law review and got a job with a federal judge in LA, which caused her, too, to be stuck downtown. We were East Coasters who had been through a lot together, from Western civ to con law and from keg parties and bongathons to doing bumps of coke in the bathrooms of Greenwich Village bars.

I met her a little past noon in the elevator lobby, and we descended into the bowels of the Citibank center to the food court, a circle of fast-food emporiums with names like Hunan Pride, Soup N Salad, Thai Dishes, and Uno Pizzeria. We rode the elevator with two highly accessorized black girls who threw their shoulders back as they walked. I said hi, and they smiled.

“Black girls in offices are always shitty until you talk to them,” I told Joyce as we walked. “Then they're nice.”

“Shut up,” she said. “Someone might hear you.”

We sat on white plastic chairs at a white plastic table made yellow in a few spots by cigarettes. We were surrounded by receptionists, people from IT departments, accounts-payable reps, and secretaries. The other guys at the firm went to work out at lunch, trying to stay in shape until, through the magic of corporate time, they had to work through lunch or take business lunches. “That's why older lawyers get fatter,” one of the secretaries once told me. I usually just went to the food court, not understanding the appeal of a quick sweat and a shower.

Joyce liked me—Jewish girls always do—but she didn't need me. When we were sophomores, I had her shirt off in the backseat of a car on the way home from a concert in Buffalo, but she was drunk. Her friends took her home, and then she didn't look at me for a month. Our friendship soldiered on and was deep and complicated, and somewhere along the line we reached old-buddy status. Only I missed out on the sex. She was smarter than me, and I could never get her. We fought like crazy over the years, and I think that is what prevented me from really getting into her pants. More than anything, she had to be right, and if she never fucked me, she would always win.

But as we matured, we gained respect for each other. Unlike me, Joyce had a great work ethic. I breezed by in classes without much work. She took great notes; I never took notes. I would come to her for study lists, and she would come to me for the right twist of phrase for a paper or a brief. We often talked about what we wanted to do. And now we were here in the inferno of the food court in the West, far away from our homes.

She had lousy taste in men. She had even dated Rothbart. Her first boyfriend in California was named Jay, and he was in television. He was five feet five, talked fast, and called me “brotha.” She'd moved on to a new guy who worked at Paramount. I met him once, Brandon something, a few years older and from Beverly Hills. Like most of the Hollywood people I met, Brandon determined within thirty seconds of meeting someone whether anything was at stake, and if not, he moved on. I had no way of understanding these people, these rude and ruthless motherfuckers. They seemed like they must be kidding. I thought the whole town needed a good beating. I told Joyce we had not set out from Ithaca for her to end up with snivelers like this.

But I was at least happy she was no longer dating Rothbart, whom she had met with me at one of the many office functions thrown by the firm. To my amazement, they had a nice conversation, which led to an exchange of numbers and then several months of dating. I hadn't really let her off the hook for it.

“What was it like?” I asked.

“What was
what
like?”

“You know…going out with him.
Being
with him. You know.”

“Oh Jesus, this again.” She made a look like she was searching for the exit.

I pushed. “Did you ever get the feeling he was gay?”

“He's not gay.” She thought about it a little more. “Who knows what he is? I thought he was cute. He
is
cute, Frankie. And, you know, he says Yale's not the best place for Jews. We talked about that. I thought he was, like, angry and vulnerable but couldn't show it. It was interesting to me. What can I say?”

I worked on not being bothered by it. Still, try as I might, I was obsessed: about his game, his rap, and what would make this beautiful, smart, and funny girl fall for it. I was ashamed of being so juvenile, but I had to know what convinced her to go for him.

“I've only told you ten million times it was a six-week mistake. The kind I always make.” She waved her hand. “He is a freak. Every minute of every day is organized. I mean, you wake up on a Saturday, and he's out of bed by eight. One time, we went to a club…like some techno club—”

“You went to a techno club?”

“I'm ignoring you. We were out till three, and he was still up at eight. He plays with the dog in his yard till eight twenty—it's that organized. Look, in that moment I was
impressed,
even
hopeful
, seeing that he even
had
a dog. It's not easy to think of him thinking of anything else. But then I got that, too—the dog is like a…like an artifice, y'know? There by design, like everything else—like the photo of Derrida in his bathroom.”