De Novo

The lawyer next door is having a heated shouting match with his phone, and it's good for neither the vibrations of the building, nor my digestion. I have my own office, but I hardly need it. It's still cluttered with the possessions of previous owners, and my desk is worn with the scuff marks of abuse. Eruptions of what sound very much like the pounding of tables and repeated declarations of "we're going to trial" keep issuing through the walls. The secretaries, researchers, and paralegals are careful to tread softly around the office on days like these.

Morale and energy I do not possess, but stationery I have in great troves of unwonted abundance. I could probably fund all the paper clipping, stapling, and writing efforts of a small country of secretaries and authors. I've got to admit that with each new folder I open, and every trip I make to and fro the copy room, my face fills with mounting despair. So next week I'm going to start working in both downtown and Westlake, splitting my hours between paid drudgery and unpaid edification. But my dress pants are tight, the professionalism is a bit uneasy, and I find that I really haven't the audacity to uphold the law of the letter.