Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 3L

T1_loser
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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Mon Apr 16, 2012 4:46 pm

Class moves a lot slower when you're stone sober.
Last edited by T1_loser on Tue Apr 17, 2012 12:41 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Tue Apr 17, 2012 12:30 am

You know, for someone who got what he wanted I sure complain a lot.

Anyway.

It was months ago. Early in the semester. A weekday and a forgettable night. I had trouble finding the place at first but the party was good enough. Not the best. Not the worst. The place showed all the standard signs of being lived in and partied in beyond its expiration date. And it was small. A consequence of the era it was built in, but eh. Ran into some folks into the law school while I was there among the undergrads.

There was a call for beer pong players. I volunteered mostly because it's a sure fire way for me to get drunk quickly. The two other folks didn't have swagger, but they were pretty confident. Turns out it was an ugly game on both sides but my partner and I wound up beating them. He was an undergrad. I introduced myself and he did the same. We wound up leaving soon after.

He told me he was in architecture. I told him I was in law. He might have asked me what I thought about it. I probably told him something in reply. I asked him how he liked architecture. And he said. He said that he enjoyed it. And then - and I still can't know for sure, I still can't be sure - he said it was more than something he was good at. It made him a better person learning how to do this.

For weeks. Months. I've tried to decipher the memory. Not intently, mind you. The memory of hearing our steps against the pavement and the curve in the street would surface in my mind. And I'd ask myself; did I imagine that he said that? Did he say that? I wasn't drunk yet but I was close. And it was a while ago. But I'm almost sure. And I need to know because of the question that formed in my mind after he went one way and I went the other.

Does the law make me a better person?

And that's a stupid, worthless question. I didn't come to law school to be a better person. This is functionalism at work. I have to help people. Be like Dad. Mom too. But be more than them, as well. That's what they say they wanted. Something more than what they got from the military. This is how I'm going to learn how to do it. So, I'm going to go here. That's it. That's all there is to it. It's a means to an end. That's why people go; the intellectual challenge, prestige and lucre and foolhardy folks like me that want to "help people" - whatever that means and sometimes even I'm not so sure I do. No one comes here expecting to be a better person just because. Law school doesn't promise you that. This degree doesn't mean I'm a better person. It does mean I can help people though, doesn't it?

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Wed Apr 18, 2012 3:42 pm

New rule.

Drink bourbon in every class. In a coke can preferably rather than a clear water bottle.

Every time a Professor mentions The Wire during the semester, write it down and take a shot for it at the end of the semester.





I really should re-watch Season 4.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Mon Apr 23, 2012 12:45 am

I had this dream.

It was raining but I couldn't feel it on my face. Nothing was wet. Not the cars parked outside the courthouse. Not my suit. Sometimes, I like feeling the little rivulets on my face. But only for a little while. Something isn't right, a fitful, muffled voice whispers. This courthouse isn't like the one at a home or the one with the Judge I worked for. But just like the best of dreams, you don't even recognize the concept of things being disjointed. This is how things are. If it seems wrong, it's okay. It's okay. And you feel blissfully sure of things. Like a patient flushed with anesthesia, who can barely feel the coldness of the slab under him.

I walk inside. And the inside isn't right either. There are no CSO's. No friendly exclamations from the wizened, retired police officers chatting it up. No storefront hawking candy bars and the local paper. You don't even remember walking through the doors into court, but there you are. Like you were supposed to be there. You don't know if the doors close behind you. And by this time, I'm not questioning anything at all. It's only when I'll wake up that I'll start collecting those moments. The judge's seat isn't there. It would be closer to the right. Next to the witness. You can't catch all of them. You can't remember all of them.

But I remember the words: "We've got this taken care of," I say as I lightly grab his shoulder as he sits at the table, grim-faced. He turns to me and nods his head, quickly, as if deep in thought or if he's trying to swat away a fly. I don't mind. "There's no reason to be concerned." I can't remember his face. But his clothes are battered. He's old and tired. Something has aged him and etched it across his brow like a jagged knife. There's a woman sitting with him as well with black hair, just as downcast. I only see the side of her face.

Someone breaks the bar. I notice the singular creak and the small, heavy door swing back and forth. "He's taking over from here," I say. And I can feel him standing right next to me. And I stand up straight, because the Judge is now here and the half-life of memory has already decayed too much, I can't see him. He's faceless. There's a sickly slab of white flesh where his face would be. "It's all right."



It's raining. Outside. And I don't leave bed for a long while. I just stare upwards and try to get back to sleep. But I don't. And then I have one of those incomprehensible moments where my mind says that I can't help people. And again, there's no way to explain it. It's just there. Like a lump in the throat.
Last edited by T1_loser on Mon Apr 23, 2012 2:22 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Mon Apr 23, 2012 2:06 am

My birthday is during exam period. Fine. I can deal with that. It's the simple pleasures you have to settle for during this time of the year. And from what people tell me, they mean less every year after you hit twenty-one. That seems to be true.

So. Not only have I broken the promise I made that I was barely going to spend any time outlining this time and wasted time writing useless crap here, but I come home after outlining and I don't have any bourbon. I could've picked up some wine at the store, but I don't want wine for a nightcap. I want bourbon. Tomorrow. First thing. We're fixing this.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Mon Apr 23, 2012 7:26 pm

That moment when you realize you should start studying but your too drunk to drive back home and you don't have the first section of the materials so you just get back to drinking again.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Mon Apr 23, 2012 8:20 pm

The Jet Set

"I've been to California," he says almost wistfully, a sweet and sour taste that makes him ambivalent about touching the memory again. But it lasts for less than an instant and then he pivots into his pitch; "New York is in decay..."

Mom and Dad always said that I should stay away from California. Go there when you have money, or if you join the military, (and you won't have any choice then) but stay away otherwise. The place'll drain you dry. It's where they met. And I don't think I've ever really wanted to go. It's too far from home. Too unknown. And too different. Dad always said he wanted to go to New York. It was planned that we'd go there after he got back from Iraq before everything went to hell. The way you would hear him talk about it, you'd think an American was required to take a pilgrimage to the place. Like it's something special. Huh. Right. I've been there, Dad. It's not much. At least not Chatham Square. Just rainy and gloomy and everyone looks past everyone else. Everything and everyone is bigger than you are. Or at least it feels that way. Places like that are designed to make you feel small. And Penn Station is a mess.

I bet California's the same way. You think it's hungry for more, but it was satisfied with what it has a long time ago. Now it just gets going by tearing folks apart who run into it's maws without any good sense. No reason to believe incompetent sons of guns like me can make it there. If I went to California, I wouldn't be a Draper, I'd be a Joad. But every person needs a place like that - a place you can run off to. Not because you want to be a better person but so you can be.

Hey. Hey. You think if I were to go to Maine

Would you shut up with that nonsense?


I'm on track to finishing half this bottle. I'm not getting any work done tonight.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Tue Apr 24, 2012 8:15 pm

Waking up hungover in the Law School is the worst of all possible things.

I have so much work to do. Ugh.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Wed Apr 25, 2012 7:53 pm

Had a less than stressful meeting wherein my mea culpa is not hard-fought and is deserved. Finish whiskey bottle in response and pass out for a bit at Law School.
Last edited by T1_loser on Sat Apr 28, 2012 7:04 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Sat Apr 28, 2012 7:04 pm

I've had a few good drinking days in me, but I settled on getting serious about this whole mess for a while. I stayed in bed only until two instead of three this time. Didn't drink any Firefly or have a rum and coke (the bourbon's gone again, so I don't get any credit for that) and instead girded myself to go to the Law School after picking up something to eat and waste two to three hours before I get any work done. Then, periodically hit Byliner up as an excuse to read something interesting. Standard exam period behavior for a 2L - the scattershot death throes of law school excitement. Bursts of fitful academic learning followed by NYT or Facebook or both. I can hardly wait until 3L when the darned penchant to care about the matter is not only extinguished altogether but also marked as foolish, unless your a clerkship gunner. And then I'll be off to work, or something, I guess.

But then I remembered something again.

When I was here a few days past. On the couch, with enough bourbon in me to kill a deer. Staring at beams of trapped florescent lights with half-closed eyes that memory drearily stirred.

When I was back home I called the old man. I had promised myself I would visit my friend's grave as I listened to a Passacaglia in this very room. And I feared that it would morph into something else, like a conversation that you start with a specific purpose but you don't remember what it is once the words start flowing. I didn't want to just have fun once I got home and forget my obligations. And I didn't want this to fall out of my pocket like so many other things. So I left it here and buried it. Knowing full well that I would remember wholesale if I did so.

But while I had thought of the old man for some time before I got back, it had been a stiff memory. It inspired something sad in me, but sparked no action. I had promised myself nothing. But I knew that I had to call him. She had died in the winter and it only been a year since then. I had this untenable feeling that the old man must be lonely. I had to call him. I asked Dad for his number. He forgot. I asked him again the next day. He gave it to me quickly, nodding his head.

I asked him how he was doing. He said he was fine. The connection was bad. He seemed more muted in that trademark optimism we share. For good reason.

They took my dog.

What?

They took my dog, he said. I liked the thing. He was nice to have around, you know. Said I couldn't took care of him anymore.

Yes. I'm sure. They probably had to, I thought. But I felt that would be cruel, so I only listened.

They're thinking of putting me in some place now. I could hear the chair he was sitting in creak loudly. I still had to strain to listen to him. The static, darn it.

I'm not going to any home, he said. And I knew it was true. The man is kind, but stubborn. If my great-grandfather had died in his own cabin, on his own land, it made sense that the old man might want to die in his own home too.

Yeah. I know. I muttered.

What?

Yeah. I know. And then we talked. How are you doing? Well, he answered. Did you do anything today? Did anyone come around?And he inevitably started chatting things up, as old folks do.

Dad said that it was kind of me to do that. That he had not called him in some time, though he meant to. It's difficult to remember people sometimes, even people that you care about or that you owe something more than what you can give back...even if you don't know what that is. Do you understand what I mean to say? No one ever means to forget, that's what makes it such a terrible thing. Dad's busy. I'm busy. Everyone's always busy. And those that aren't just eat themselves away or are stuck in a place where the world hasn't turned in a long while. Like Mom was, for a time.



It doesn't matter. The old man will be in the same state in any case. But I've decided that I'll call him on my birthday.
Last edited by T1_loser on Sun Jul 29, 2012 1:44 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Sun Apr 29, 2012 12:56 am

This place has an absurd ability to attract people that can pick me up when I'm feeling down even when they don't know it.

/sentimentality for the night

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Tue May 01, 2012 1:20 am

People do strange things during finals time.

There's the endless facebooking, as if we're desperate to avoid the purgatory of outlining (even though we're 2L's and shouldn't be outlining at all). There's reddit - an apparent abyss of a site that I've avoided somehow ("You just need to look at some of the sub reddit's instead of the main page" - Well. If that's the case. No.) The amount of random youtube videos and g-chat status links forwarding us to high-larious gifs is more than you can shake a digital stick at.

...Oh. Me? You think I'm falling for all that? No way. See, last semester I had friends who just found their own things. One read all of A Song of Ice and Fire during exam period (which I'm just going to refer to as Game of Thrones collectively now because...whatever). One played through Skyward Sword. One slayed more dragons in Skyrim than the amount of sentences in his outline. I'm exaggerating there. Only slightly.

Me? I'm screwed. Totally screwed. My exam schedule plans are not looking hot. That outline is not going to get finished. I have no base knowledge for two of my classes; which, judging from the inverse relationship of effort and grades, would be good if I cared about law school. There's a paper I should've forwarded to my group yesterday. Meaning Sunday. I've avoided my e-mail so I wouldn't have to worry about seeing any questions from them about where it is. A quality douche move. I know. Not proud. I've become the laziest, most unconcerned 2L in the world and I'm only mildly bothered by it.

But on the upside. I've found my Finals distraction:



Image

It's f'ing fantastic. I wonder what's going to happen next, eh?

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Fri May 18, 2012 3:35 am

And as we talked my eyes kept glancing leftward, trying to find something that wasn't there. There were pockets of silence where our minds groped for more words. But it was nice. It was still nice. She was still pretty. I had forgotten how pretty she was. It almost made think that maybe, one day, I could feel something for her. And wouldn't that be nice?

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Thu Jun 14, 2012 8:48 pm

I need to stop bringing these files back to the apartment.

Everyday, without fail, I say I'm going to do some work when I leave the office and everyday the same thing happens. Get inside. Turn on the air condition. Kick around the new host of dead roaches and silently celebrate the fact that they aren't bold enough to reveal themselves when I'm around. Make some ramen noodles and then pass out on the couch.

There's bit of bliss to the routine. Work started being mere drudgery but then it turned to the stuff that actually is worth doing. And besides, it helps people and I'm enough of a sap to take that to mean something more than I should. So it's a step up from school in that respect.

I miss my friends though. Not in the sort of way that can be fixed in scattered GChat conversations and the cumulative gathering of likes on a Gawker link you posted on Facebook or an only mildly funny status you wrote. I miss seeing them every day. Turning a corner and wondering who I'd run into this time. I've made new friends here, but...boy,I'd kill to have a beer with one of them right now.

But in any case. I'd best enjoy the new friends I've made here while I can. And Game 2 is starting.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Sat Jun 16, 2012 4:09 pm

My mind was empty of memos and deadlines when I found hm in the bathtub, twiddling his antennas this way and that. It reminded me of how an impatient man shifts the rabbit ears on a television -a certain blind, desperate ferocity, yearning for a signal.

His antenna was as long as my ring finger. His legs as long as my pinky. His body the same dull brown hue as the others. The color of horseshit. I know the color, now don't I? He would shift his head and his antenna would shift with him. They would bob up and down up and down for just a short while. And then the scramble would begin. Every leg scrathing uselessly for a foothold in the smooth milky whiteness . And then he would stop. Shift without purpose to another corner. Up and down up and down.

"Then why did you go in there?" I said, full of oysters and Dewars. "You're not a very smart roach." He scrabbled furiously at a corner of porcelain in response. He sat in repose and spread his antenna wide apart where they drooped sadly,

They die in different ways. Some stand still, thinking I won't see them somehow. And then my black work shoe comes down and cracks their brown back. Maybe takes a leg or two. But it never kills them outright. They'll scurry one way or the other before it comes down again and they burst. Sometimes they die on the ground. Other times they stick to my shoe leaving a mixture of brown and white. Once, I caught one that was already dying, so that one didn't count. When I stomped on him his head popped off.

In some ways they're very gracious creatures. These roaches. I'm always waiting for the moment I go to a sandwich I left out for a little while or come back to a soup that's been sitting out and find a roach hanging from the side. His antenna bobbing up and down not taking any notice of my presence. But they tend to mind their business.

I turned on the shower. Don’t know why. Maybe I thought he would drown and then I wouldn’t have to grab one of my shoes. Maybe I thought that he would just go down the drain – but that’s not possible, the roaches here are too big for that. But he floated. And then he swam. When I turned the water off he went off to a corner and started to buzz the water off his back with his wings and clean himself off.

After I drew back the shower curtains and left a memory started to saunter up the staircase of my mind. First with light footsteps and then it became clear. The story of the mouse. I came into work one day and one of the assistant managers told me the how they had finally caught one of the mice. They filled a large jug with water they had and threw the thing in hoping to drown him, which strikes me as somewhat perverse thing to do now. But then something unexpected happened; this tiny, baby mouse started paddling with his tiny pink feet, holding his head above water. “I couldn’t kill him then,” he told me. So they snapped him up and threw him outside in a field. “But as soon as we did he started scurrying right back to the building,” he said with a shrug.

I hate the weekend. There’s nothing to do and there’s no one to talk too. As I headed to the elevator one of the interns struck up a conversation. “Are you alright?” he asked, in his pleasant English accent. “You just looked dejected. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you unhappy before. Has it been a long week?” I was glad he suggested an answer; “Yeah, it just been one of those weeks.” And then I shifted the conversation to what he would be doing that weekend. Which is better than saying the truth – I’m not sure what the problem? Was it because I was thinking about her again? Or maybe it’s because I was a little upset that I wasn’t going to hang out with that other fellow today, so I’d just go straight home and start being lonely. Or maybe, and this is what bothers me, bugs me to the core – maybe the problem is I don’t know what I want anymore. I notice I still have my work shoes on.

I'd best go kill him now.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Tue Jun 19, 2012 3:58 pm

The NYU contingent is my favorite. That’s not to say there’s anything wrong with the Yale folks, they’re quite pleasant to talk to and hang out with. But the NYUers are just interesting and fun. They’re very different from some folks I’ve met before I went to law school – cut from a different cloth, we’ll say. And not necessarily a hipster cloth, but sure, there’s a few strands there- but not the kind of hipster-ism that everyone goes on about, but the cool “let’s have a beer and eat healthy food and just try to have a good time” kind of hipster. And even that’s a pretty dumb stereotype and I’m not sure it really says what I’m trying to say. What I mean is…they all have the distinct air of New York about them, but without all the pretentious weight that makes people like New York, the city, but not New York, the people. It’s one of the things that certainly came out swell from going to law school; meeting new folks that were a far cry from people I hung out with back home.

But still.

I still get that feeling. When you just know, and there’s plenty of evidence to back it up, that I’m someone that can see things from the outside-in while everyone else is capable of seeing it the other way around – as if there’s just some way of looking at issues that’s necessary to do this right that I can’t do and everyone else can. Whenever I’ve sat down with an attorney with my partner and heard him ask one question I had never thought of or come up with a way of doing things. Other folks, I know, can think in a dozen different directions and then coalesce all that thought into one. I have a hard time even thinking in a straight line, I think. I can’t bury the feeling that I’m still outclassed here and that feeling is nearly paralyzing sometimes. And perhaps, in some small way, I get the feeling that maybe I’m just getting in the way. But that’s silly. Of course, that’s silly.

The worst of it isn’t the pangs of anxiety, but the ones of jealousy. And even thinking about it makes me angry that I feel that way. Sometimes, I’m sure Dad said it and other times I think I just stumbled upon the principle myself – but whenever a friend does well, it’s just second to you finding out that things worked out well for you. If it’s good news for a friend, it’s good news for you; so there’s never a good reason for you to be jealous about someone else that you like doing well. And that always came naturally to me. If someone did better than me and I wanted to be just as good, well, don’t just try harder; find out what they did to make it work for them and adopt that approach. That’s what Dad would do.

But now, something’s different. Seeing a 1L friend from undergrad post on Facebook about their A in Con Law with grades, or seeing someone in the office have the good fortune of getting these great cases [where they prove themselves damn it, where they prove themsleves if I had gotten that case and done well with it too then I know I would have known that I could do this that I could be great at it if I wanted to be damn it], or hearing about the great other adventures of some of my friends. They sound content. Comfortable. Perfectly happy. With no caveats. And honestly, there was a time (wasn’t there?) where the only feeling I got when I heard such things was happiness for a friend. Now I have to stuff a shadow of a feeling in a locker every now and then. That’s not how a good friend should feel, though. Ever. I’m a worse friend and a worse person for it.

At the beginning of our time in the office, we did one of those cheesy ice-breakers that’s part and parcel of the experience. Go around and tell us why you’re here. Tell us what brought you here. And I heard all these folks saying what brought them here and for the first time I looked at my reason…and it felt small and weak in comparison. Everyone’s talking about these great big ideas and I’ve got…what I’ve got.. I never thought about it that way before. And I never doubted it before. It always seemed right; not just “good enough for me” but “right” in and of itself. A good enough reason to do anything. But…

I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer but I’m not the dullest either; I know that the only reason I feel like this is because I’m insecure about my position relative to everyone else’s. But just because I know the problem doesn’t mean I know the solution. And it’s not something that can be fixed - Dad would, with that military mind of his. He would always hear me whine about things and say, “if that’s what’s bothering you, then fix it and don’t worry about it.” If I could be like that just for a little while I know I’d be cured of this. But as it is right now, I feel like Pete Campbell – stewing over…what exactly? But stewing and getting so used to letting things stew inside him that he does it naturally, always saying that he deserves more when there has to be a part of him that knows he doesn’t, and he just buries that part of him with more stew. And I don’t want to feel that way. Because…and, well, excuse my language once again here, but fuck Pete Campbell.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Wed Jul 11, 2012 1:51 am

I woke up to wind chimes and the gray embers of the storm seeping through my window. It was pleasant. Once, the toilet backed up overnight and the smell of piss wafted into the room and slapped me awake like a rotting hand. Once, I had been dreaming of the rain and a gun in my hand. “Give me your cash,” I said to them. They obliged. There was a storm coming but I couldn’t smell the rain. I fumbled through the wads of cash they handed me and let some of the bills fall to the ground, balled up. “It’s too much,” my mind muttered in annoyance, but I didn’t know why. And then the law assaulted me. Armed Robbery. Under 500. No prior convictions. Crime of violence. What’s the maximum? What’s the minimum? What would be the appropriate deal? And then I awoke to the dense air filling my lungs. I had forgotten to turn on the air-conditioner. When I forced myself off of the bed, the sweat was sticking to me and I felt like I had emerged from a swamp with the muck clinging to my skin. I didn’t sleep anymore that night. And that was the day I stepped out of the courthouse, still mildly hung over, and stopped between the columns where the sun seemed content to cook me and a dream of Anna seized me. But this was pleasant. This was a pleasant way to dream and wake.

I should text him and see when the trial starts. They might want me to be there earli…and then I went back to sleep.

A dog was barking. Stop that someone snapped. I thought it was the German Shepards, but the bark was too meek for that. It must be the dog next door. It sounded so close I wondered if I had remembered to close the door when I came in last night. I should send that text. And then I went back to sleep.

The woman went through my apartment. She was disappointed. She shook her head. Wordlessly she moved, judging with every footstep, every wide-eyed gaze. Disappointed. I knew who it was. And then I didn’t as her face was swallowed by the half-world of dreams. And then I knew again, if I ever knew.

And then it was raining and it was past time for me to go. But I didn’t move. Whether I go or not it doesn’t matter. I’m just going to get in the way. But that’s not what I thought at the time. I thought, how nice it would be. If I could lay here. A little while longer.

And then the text came from Dad. The earnest kind of text you can expect from a parent that still finds texting to be the coolest thing ever. Dad. It didn’t matter because I didn't matter what I did either way but it seemed like reason enough to go. It seemed like reason enough. It's pathetic. I know. But.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Sat Jul 28, 2012 11:49 pm

My Darlin’

She wasn’t my first. I had another car like her back in high school – same color, same make, same model. I treated her just as poorly too. There’s that initial spurt of enthusiasm and measured fear no matter how beat up it is. Followed by the not carrying.

My buzz was dying down and so was the band. Those slow guitar strums, the gnarled, growl streaming from a bearded face shrouded in green light…it had all begun to wear on me. The common thrill of the roving conversation from one friend to the next had dulled. It had been a good night. I had been easily subdued into going –staying for an hour, then two, then three. I had gotten drunk without paying a dime for it. It hadn’t rained. It was time to go.

She didn’t want to move. I tried again. Turned the key and saw the clock flicker out. I turned again. Turned it again. Turned it again. Nothing. We had always had the best kind of relationship – the one where I take and she gives. She has all the scars – a rope wrapped through the innards of a door and tied to the passenger seat to keep it shut. Duct tape peeling from the contours of another door to keep it shut. When I hit a pothole, I gird myself in anticipation of the smell of tire rubber to tie my nose in a knot. But she takes me where I want to go and she never complains. “Come on darlin’,”I muttered, turning the key one more time, “work with me here.”

“Is that her name?” asked a fellow clerk sitting in the back seat.

“Yeah,” I answered back, without thinking on it. “Looks like I’m not going to be able to drive you home though.” I called for a tow truck and wasted away waiting for it to come. I went back in the bar to enjoy the last of the happy hour, but I was truly over it by that point. One of the other clerks, the flamboyantly gay one with a good sense of humor, swooped in with all the fervor of someone out to save the day with his car and tried to give me a boost. “It’s not the battery,” he concluded and shook his head. I shrugged. “It’s fine,” I parroted back with equal parts imported nonchalance and resignation. “It’ll work out. But thanks, man, I appreciate it.” I called the tow truck and waited. That resignation turned into an unforeseen weariness, probably brought on by the alcohol and I returned to my car at the corner to stare off into the night and eat the leftover Vietnamese from the lunch with our attorney. And so I stewed in the broiling heat, munching on spicy tofu and dreamt of nothing. Not even of Anna.

And that’s when I saw their bodies intertwine under the lamppost. The murmurs of a saxophone had been carried on a breeze all the way from a bar. I could feel it. His hands clung to her back. Motionless. And then moving in the orange tinted light. Her pink skirt was still and her speckled handbag hung over shoulder. His blue shirt was black and the words on his shirt chipped and faded. And that’s when I realized that he was the one from [].

Two nights before we had gone drinking. He was buying. We ranted about The Sopranos. It offers us no catharsis, I said. Tony Soprano is still Tony Soprano. Six years and the journey that we were taken on brings us nothing but a man given the chance to endure redemption, who, at multiple times teases with the idea of tasting it, and then decides that it’s too hard and sulks and then revels back into his role – not because he loves it or because it’s not stressful, but because he’s too damn weak to picture being anyone else. Only Melfi has the presence of mind and moral fortitude to divest herself from the cycle. But she was always the good one. Her mistake was thinking that she could change someone. No one changes. Everything stays the same.

But that’s the point, he says. Doesn’t it say something about the state of our culture, of our society that he can’t change? Doesn’t it say we’re fucked?

I shake my head. I want catharsis. I invested time in a journey. I deserve catharsis. And in my mind, the rebuttal is that we can’t be fucked. There’s always a chance.

He left for the restroom and left his phone behind, surrounded by our beers. His phone lighted up with a name and with a message. I recognize her name. Another clerk. Those are fighting words, it says. He’s fucking her. The thought ballooned so fast and with such reflexive certainty that I didn’t know how to deny it. But it was uncharacteristic of me to think like that. It’s not good to assume thing s about people. Dad’s first CO told him that if you assume things, you make an ass out of yourself. And Dad told me the same. I start to drive him home and he tells me to stop. “This is close enough,” he says, “I’ll walk from here. And he hops out.

They go at it for some time. And the hazy, dark pleasure of being a voyeur begins to settle in my mind. But there’s nothing I can do. If I move now where will I go? They’ll see me if I leave the car. I can’t get to the bar without them seeing me. I can’t open the car door without them seeing me. No, I’ll just wait.

They stop. Have words and sit at the nearest stoop. And then he engulfs her again. And I start to wonder. If I held Anna in my hands like that, how would I feel?
What would I do? Could I even? And the answer is nothing, nothing, and no. And those answers unnerve me.

And then they stand and start to move. Closer. Closer. Closer. And the small terror inside me begins to grow to a shrieking alarm. I turn my phone over to extinguish the light and hope they just keep walking past. They do – but at the car directly opposite of mine on the side of the street. They’re so close that I can
see their faces and hear their words whenever it’s above a whisper. I rest my elbow on the car door and cover my face with hand and hope they won’t look over.

“You always struck me as...extremely heterosexual and way out of my league,” he says with a characteristic stumble and descent into nervous muttering, but there’s some satisfaction in it as well. It was pretty clear why. Words pop up - lesbian - boyfriend - something. Something....

She says she had a crappy boyfriend. She says that it’s been a while since. And I’m starting to wonder who she is. I take a few glimpses through my fingers and I know that it’s him but I don’t recognize her. I start to think she’s just a girl from the bar.

“I’ve got to go to work tomorrow…bond hearing,” she says.

Is she a clerk? That doesn’t seem right. Her hair. Her clothes only fit what one other person was wearing but her voice doesn’t really fit. And then I started thinking…is she an attorney? He says her name, at least I think he does and there’s no only one person in our class with that name – and it’s not her. That person goes to NYU (and she’s cute) and this isn’t her.

“That’s one thing I never understood about…brotherhood,” he says, “talking about women like that…”

“If you talked about me like that I wouldn’t speak to you again. I wouldn’t.”

“That’s fair.”

My phone rings. I grasp at it and answer. Yes. Yes. I’m still at this corner. You can tow me form here. Ten minutes he says. I end the call and wonder if they’ve noticed. I’m so close that the light from the phone must have garnered their attention. But act as if they still haven’t seen me. They’re all over each other again. Dancing with their kisses. Silent. Hands never searching, never moving, just resting on their backs. And the music starts to fade away.

If they don’t finish up in five minutes. If the tow truck comes early. I’ll have to reveal myself. What am I going to do?

“Do you want me to drive you home?” She asks as she turns his back to him and faces her car door. “Where do you live? []?[]? Or do you want to come with me?

“Well,” he says, “let me put it this way.” And he comes up behind her and put his hands on her chest. He doesn’t stumble his words and his hands move lower and lower. And Anna…

She moans.

The car light comes on when she opens the door and she says some words. He enters on the other side. And then they drive off. I try to stretch over to see their license plate. Figure out the state. Anything that’s a clue for when I come back on Monday, but it’s more important that I’m not seen.

And then I start getting a little frustrated, because I’d rather not seen anything. To the point that I wonder about pointing out to him next time he’s around that he should be aware of his surroundings and delicately suggest I saw it, but I swat that thought down. That’s not a good guy move. It’s a douche move. He’s a friend of mine and I’d rather not say anything that would bug him. And it doesn’t matter. If they fuck, then they fuck. If she’s an attorney, and he’s a clerk, it doesn’t matter. If she’s a clerk it doesn’t matter. In either scenario it’s none of my business. I will not speak of this to anyone. I’ll just put it in my pocket.

It’s quiet when they leave, and oddly, my mind doesn’t grope for Anna in the silence.
Last edited by T1_loser on Thu Aug 16, 2012 3:00 am, edited 2 times in total.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Tue Jul 31, 2012 7:08 am

I have a feeling it'll rain tomorrow.

The road here is worn gray with ugly splotches of black that remind me of spat chewing tobacco baked in concrete. There's not enough chewing tobacco in the world to fill these potholes. I got off work but I didn't know what I was supposed to do. So I drove.

On Sunday the landlord knocked on my door and told me that my car window was down. If the rain comes the whole thing'll smell of mildew. Oh. That. I had forgotten to go back and try it again. "It does that sometimes," I said. "It just stops." The window had refused to go up when I came home the night before from watching the Olympics with the NYU folks. The tow truck guy had refused to tow it away the night before that without trying to fix it and he showed me the trick to get the engine going again.

"So it's electrical?" He said. "Well, I just thought you should know." I told him I appreciated it. And then he inquired about the rest of the car. "It must have a bent frame then," he said, ending with a smile. "You must have really got it on the cheap. Some folks would have just said it was done. It's probably worth more if it got in an accident with insurance then it is now."

"My Dad said the same thing," I said with a shrug, glancing at all that duct tape outlining one of the car doors, "but it treats me well. Gets me from point A to point B."

I drove somewhere. Ate crappy Chinese food and drove back. Knowing that I was going to write some crap, eventually. And when I woke up in the middle of the night and concluded that sleep had abandoned me, I knew the night was over and that I might as well get to it. I don't know I'm supposed to do had been what I muttered.

The most important thing I learned when Dad was in Iraq that you either do your duty or you don't. You can come up with a few excuses why you weren't able to do what you promised. You can even come up with a few good reasons why you couldn't cross the finish line. You can try to package it anyway you like and make your failure look presentable. It doesn't matter and it doesn't change things. The whole time he was gone all I managed to do was get in the way of other people and whine about the consequences rather than man up about it. Nothing's changed.

It would have been fine if I had grown up to be someone who could help people rather than just getting in their way, but I'm not sure I did. I don't believe that I can help people any more. Once I was driven by a dream that consumed me and drove me more than anything I've ever felt. One September I rolled out of bed and scrawled that nine-worded dream on a sheet of paper and nailed it above the sink. For the next two years, every morning as the water dripped from my face and my mind scrambled awake...the first thing I would see is my face staring back at me in the mirror and the second would be the weathered edges of that dream. Now, it feels like an artifact. It feels embarrasing. It twists me inside even thinking about it. I'm not even sure that the position I've dreamt of occupying for the last four to five years can help people in a meaningful way, or if it's just an institutional band-aid; a way for institutions to feel better without solving underlying problems or an insurmountable climb towards an ideal system that I never should have thought I could have helped implement.

The law can help people. The law does help people. I've seen it. I know people that will make sure that it does. I know the woman that's going to work in legal aid when she could make bucketloads at whatever firm she wanted. I know folks that are going to work in impact litigation and strive and fail and fail and fail until they win. I know gals that are going to go to Washington and work in international law - real international work. I know people that are going to do exactly what I dreamt of doing - but actually be good at it. Actually help people. These last two years have shown me that decent, talented people are going to use the law in a way that helps others. And at every turn these last two years I've shown that I don't have what it takes. Even before I stopped caring, even when I cared, it didn't matter.

My supervising attorney doesn't really think this is what I want to do - behind his gregarious mask and his assurances, that much seems clear. He thinks that for all the wrong reasons. It would be able easier to shrug his doubt off if he wasn't part of the panel interviewing me for the position. And my partner, good-natured as he is, pointedly noted it as well. My Judge believed me, but even he tried to push me in the opposite direction. All of this would be fine if I was as certain as I was when I first got to law school. It would be fine if I still believed. But I don't believe anymore. I don't know what I'm supposed to do.

I have to get to Austin. I have to find Anna. Tell her how I feel. And if I don't find her. If she's not there anymore. That's okay. I just have to try. I want to know if she still writes poetry. I want to know what she plans to do with her life. I want to know if she's happy. I want to know if I still feel the way I once did. If she's still there then maybe...I don't know. Maybe?

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Mon Aug 06, 2012 5:29 am

"Hey."



"Hey, what are you doing?"

I pulled my arm back from the crevice between the wall and the desk. "I dropped something behind here. I'm just trying to fish it out."

"Oh, alright," he said before walking out and then I was alone. A bunch of desks and a few marks of the clutter that had dominated our time at the office were still left over. I dug my hand back behind the desk, squirming to reach the red tie I had let fall behind there weeks ago. I remember thinking that the desk seemed to hurt my knees more in these dress pants. I remember pressing my cheek against the desk. Straining. Straining. "That tie," the thought began as it floated to the surface, "I found it back in high school. A customer left it. And never came back. Back then, I didn't even know how to tie one yet. I had to ask the others to help me with it." Almost there. My nails were scrapping against the cheap fabric. "Isn't that right?"

And then Anna slipped in and I collapsed into the dream wholesale. My arm went limp and my head was buried in the whiteness of my shirt. I thought, maybe I could fall into this dream, body and soul, and this whiteness would be all that would be left of me. Anna. And my hands stringing through her red hair like pokers twisting in a fire. If I go to Austin I'll find her and tell her how I feel and I'll know what to do. I'll know what to do.

It's the last day. We're all going out for drinks. The NYU folks will be gone. And Georgetown. And Berkeley. And the more regional schools I shouldn't mention. I've made so many good friends. But I know, now, more than ever, despite what people have told me that all I've really done is get in the way. I've got places to stay in NY and DC for interviews now - and probably in California, too, thanks to the kindness of these new friends. But someone as un-talented as me doesn't stand a chance in those places anyway. Or anywhere else. It's more than just grades - I just don't have what it takes. I'm not as sharp as them. Not as quick to analyze and dis-assemble legal theories. Not as comfortable with the staid, particularized toolbox of legal writing. There have been moments when I spent an hour rummaging around Facebook or Gawker not primarily because I was bored, but because I was paralyzed with the thought of crafting an argument. I can't. I can't do it. It always feels wrong. It's always wrong. Even when I'm serious about it, I know going in that I'll just get everything wrong. I'll know I can look over at anyone's work - especially my partners - and find something that's better by leaps and bounds.

We went out the night before to a bar and saw a show. But not my partner. An attorney marched in, told him all about the motion we won thanks to him. This didn't surprise me. He's a smart fellow. He could wait ti'll the last minute and get something together that would beat the other side. And after that, of course, he wanted to work and get everything done. That's how law school is supposed to make you feel; accomplished, sure of yourself, ready to make a difference...with your ambition piqued not deterred. One of the NYU folks put it more practically; he could he be assigned write fifty pages on an issue over a weekend after being in law school and turn in quality work whereas he wouldn't have thought he could've done that before. I couldn't do that before. The only difference now is now I know that I can't. That's just my fault of course. I'm in the minority; I was never that bright of a guy and I've grown more and more pre-disposed to the idea that I was a fool for thinking that I could've been any good at this. I never could. And even if I worked as hard as I could, I'd still be behind on the learning curve. There's not going to be any magical breakthrough - I had two years and there wasn't. Even if I try to focus like a laser on helping people, I know it's something I'm just going to fail at. Right now, I'll just get in the way, just like I did back home when he told me that it was my responsibility to take charge. I've just blown it again. Nothing's changed.

None of that matters. What matters is getting to Austin. Driving straight there. Finding Anna. Talking to her.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Wed Aug 08, 2012 12:19 am

I was so close.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Fri Aug 10, 2012 10:06 pm

He asked, "What's law school like?"

You'll make the very best of friends. No. No, listen. The very. best. You'll have speakers come up all the time and they'll say, "You'll never have as many smart people around you as you will here." That's probably true for me. Maybe it's true for most folks. But it's irrelevant. Go to those events for the free food, but ignore whenever people try to frame your time in law school as being important because of the how smart the people are or how many articles some Professor has written. If you want law school to be about that or some poor man's "best and brightest" nonsense, it can be about that. But I don't see why you would. Because at the end of the day, law school isn’t just about getting the job it’s about maintaining your desire to do the work, finding and then nurturing your calling. Professors and exams won't help you with those last two parts - though I wouldn't know, I'm not enough of a commodity to inspire investment from a Prof except a good kick in the pants for turning in shoddy work, for good reason, and I'm not going to waste my time trying to inspire anything from them now. You'll learn during one of your internships just how useless what you're learning is and how it doesn't bring you any closer, except in the superficial credentialist sense, to doing whatever it is you want to do. The only time I was ever sure, when I actually believed that I was getting closer, was when I was with my friends. Just being around them made me feel sure. Years from now, it's not going to matter which Professor you were buddy-buddy with (unless you’re a hotshot and you won’t really control that as much as you think you will) and the novelty of working all those hours is going to have worn off. The thing that matters - the only thing you'll invest in that’ll stay with you are those friends of yours. Nothing else.

But what do I know, I'm the dumbest son of a gun there; worse, I'm an idealist. So I really don't know what I'm talking about.

That's what I wanted to say. But that's not what he wanted to hear, I know. And what use is all that sentimental crap anyway? When I had arrived at the happy hour, avoiding puddles that dotted the broken street as I went, I had been dismayed. The only folks that were here were attorneys - not a clerk to be found. Without someone of my own tribe to bounce off of I felt the natural response to all that "everything is part of the interview" stuff Career Services offers - a stunted enthusiasm for conversation seeping in. A guarded, cautious approach rippling through every word like the drip from an empty faucet falling into settled water. It prevents me from feeling comfortable. It makes me feel fake - reaching for the standard, throwaway lines of small talk rather trying to have an actual conversation. It's a bad idea to drink in response to this feeling. Just dive right into conversation and it'll naturally fade away once you feel like you're at least partially on the same wave lengths. Get your hands out of your pockets. Do what you always do. Talk.

So I did and it gradually started to subside. I was trying to put the folks that I hadn't spoken to before in my pocket, but it was harder than usual. I still felt out of place probably because I was still in my work clothes. Probably because there weren't any clerks here. Darn it, they said they were going to be here. Just as I was finishing up my appetizer and recovering from a failed starter with someone else from the office, I was rescued by an intern from another section. One is all you need. He was enough to buoy me back into the game. “You’re from UChi?" I asked. "A very good friend of mine back at law school is from there. You know that attorney is from UChi too.” Traded phone numbers. Made friends. Learned just how swell a place Chicago is. It was odd – I had always heard folks from UChi were buttoned-down and such, but these folks were as easy-going as all else. By the time the clerks arrived and the sun had piped down I felt as comfortable as I was ever going to be.

But before they did someone new in the office – we’ll say a paralegal – came up to me and started talking about law school and asking what he should expect. He was enthusiastic and serious; but not the overbearing kind of seriousness that sets off potential gunner alarms. He wanted to grapple with legal doctrines, be instructed by the best, learn the law. He was animated. He was fired up. He reminded me of myself before the end of the first year. And what was I going to say? What was I going to give? The desperate, rambling answer of some burned out law student who doesn’t believe anymore? No.

"Well, after the first year, it can be about whatever you want it be about," I answered. "Some people start taking classes for clerkships, some people just start coasting. It's all up to you and that's what's so great about it." Standard, safe, disposable description and not the tiniest bit false. The Admissions Office should sign me up to do tours. Then I had I an Irish Car Bomb.

And then we went off to someone's party. I got drunk before we left and jokingly dissed my supervisor as un-charismatic to someone in the office. I had more drinks and sloshed beer on those weird modern stairs that looked like huge uneven wooden blocks. Had my first cigarette on a balcony. And talked to some Yalie about Anna. About her red hair. And her poetry. And how when I got to Austin I would tell her how I feel. He wished me luck. Drove someone home after I sobered up but not before they repaid me with some of the tastiest fried chicken off of a street corner I'll ever have. And then I headed back.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Sun Aug 12, 2012 3:19 am

I'm not sure I should try again. Would I make it to Austin next time? Would she be there? Did I miss my chance? My thoughts seldom return to those questions - they just linger in these sepia-toned days. Tuesday feels like Thursday. Monday feels like Wednesday. I guess it's Sunday now, but it doesn't make a difference.

Mom and Dad are nudging me to get to work in all the ways they do. You can't sleep until two, she says. You're sending out those resumes, right, he asks. And the thought of Anna hangs over all, as if in answer. They don't understand. There's no reason to put much force into things. She was the one who could tell me what to do. And the fact that I couldn't get to her, maybe that means that I'm not supposed to know...or maybe she doesn't know...

Dad pulled me aside one day and sat me down to talk of the military, of all things. I would be the first one not to go in enlisted. The first one, after three generations, to go in with a college degree and as an officer. They'd send you up to OCS. Teach you to take care of yourself. How to be a leader. The military will take care of you the same way it took care of me. Won't have to worry about healthcare or finding a place to live. They'll iron everything out for you. And you'll get to see the world.

Huh. The world. What's there for me to see? I left home to be on my own for the last three years on my own - except for being on the government teat - and all I did was blow it and waste people's time. Before, I thought that I should spend time elsewhere, get the proper training in how other folks do things and then go back to that office back home; import those skills into that office. Then, when I realized just how terrible I was at the law, that I couldn't go home just yet - not while I was unsure that I could help people. I would build myself somewhere else and then I would come back to serve the folks there. But it was foolishness. I'll get in the way no matter where I go. I should just get home and stay there. Seeing the world is for other folks.

And how odd is it for him to talk about this now? When he came back from Iraq he didn't have to be direct about his wishes - it was clear that he didn't really want me to follow in his footsteps anymore. And I couldn't do that to Mom again, not when he had just gotten back. Besides, he always wanted me to go in as as an officer if I ever did and I wasn't even done with high school back then. But hisunderlying ambivalence told me that he didn't want me to go in at all anymore. Is he saying this now because the war is winding down?

After he told me to aim for the Air Force or the Navy I tried to tell him how hard it is to get into the JAG nowadays, but his optimism, though gnarled and worn in his old age still won out. Stop worrying about how difficult things are and do them. You've set yourself in a good position. Put in for it. Of course, Dad doesn't know what a loser I am. There's no way I could do well in something like that. I have friends who went into the military and truly made something of themselves. The guy we thought wouldn't last a couple weeks wound up being an intelligence officer, poised to come out of the service and get swiped up by private sector folks and get paid more than I will straight out of law school. And with no debt. It's downright hilarious how life works out.

Anyway, that deadline has probably passed and even if it hasn't I wouldn't last in any of these jobs. And I wouldn't be able to help people. I'd just get in the way. That's why I needed to find Anna. She would've been able to tell me. But was she just a dream too? Like Maine? Maybe she never could have told me what to do. I don't know. '

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Thu Aug 16, 2012 2:54 am

...No. No, no, no. It would take two days to drive to Austin from here. Maybe three if, you know, I decided to sleep or something. We can't think about this anymore. Keep sending those stupid resumes and get back to school. If I let it, this dream will turn into an intoxicating kind of rot. I'll dream while I'm awake. That's fine, but I'll save that for Tax - I won't do it while I'm angling for jobs. I can't keep going around in circles about a feeling that might not even be there. There are just too many strings loose in that dream for it to tie me up like this. So. I'm committed to this. We'll try again, but not this year. Next year. After graduation. Maybe Winter Break. But not now.

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Re: Your friendly, neighborhood, Below Median 2L with an offer.

Postby T1_loser » Mon Oct 01, 2012 2:51 pm

Deep thoughts by Jack Handey

On the way down, she read from his book. I had never heard of the fellow before, before my time I guess, and it was taking all I had to not slip and fall on our descent. So she read one ludicrous aphorism after another, mentioning how funny this guy was in the 90’s or whenever he was on SNL here and there and I just kept my eyes glued to her feet – hoping that if I followed her footsteps I might do this thing right.

Of course I slowed them down, but they didn’t seem to mind. First time hiking and all that. When we reached the top they coaxed me to move to the part of the rock that jutted out into the air like a jagged knife. It was a sight. I was satisfied, though it seemed they weren’t. It was fogy, they said. The view can be so much better than this, they said. But I didn’t mind.

We ran into a few LLM’s. German and Chinese. Good people murmuring softly to each other with their hands intertwined. He had a noticeable accent, glasses, and dirty blonde hair. She was small, pale with dark hair and we talked and we talked and then I looked down and thought of you.

There were markings all over this rock. Etchings. Paint. The etchings were deep and didn’t seem worn at all. My feet had stumped over people’s initials with addition signs and heart; this tiny declarations of love. And I thought of Anna and what I would give for her to be here. All the time I was talking to this German and his girlfriend about wine and class and whatever other nonsense we law students talk about I thought about being here with you on the top of this rock. With my hands lost in that red hair in some perfect silence.

And look at me now, spitting out this crappy, lovelorn prose. If it was you writing this you could spin this into a real yarn. Or maybe you’d just make it more concise but with more punch. When I read that poem of yours I always knew you had a better gift for words than I ever pretended to. Nothing I write feels right. Not anymore. It’s always lumpy and meandering or just sentimental, whiny, purple prose Someone like Anna would never have that problem.

It would be nice to say that I thought of you for the rest of the day, but that’s a lie. I got drunk at a campfire back in town and thought of someone else as the rain started to fall. I heard some guys complain about the Green Line in Boston. We talked about Breaking Bad and other things.

And the next day I just went out and had more fun and drank some more. We went back home and everyone went to sleep and I just crashed on the couch and thought of you and what a joke I am. I’ve got papers to write. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been to class. I can’t shake this feeling that I’m in the way of other people. I can’t write for shit. And most importantly, the feeling that told me to come here in the first place is gone; I can’t help other people. I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

On the way back from the hike a friend of mine complained about how it feels like we always talk about the same things in the law school a hundred times over. I don’t mind. I like people. But there’s something fake about all this. No, that’s not the word. You just get the feeling that things are more narrow here than back home. You’re wrapped up in all these terms and firms and things and your just not sure about things. Of course, that’s not what he meant. A guy like him shouldn’t feel at all out depth in a place like this. I just…I don’t know about things. And I used to be so certain about where I was going to go, and what I was going to do and who I was going to help. Now I just drink, skip class, and get in the way of folks. This is the time I’m supposed to care and I don’t see much of a reason to. I’m just so full of it.




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