It’s…not terrible.
I let out a long, slow breath as the doors open on the first floor, and reprogram my brain for another day of work at Abbott, Bradford & Carmichael, or ABC as it’s known in the legal world.
ABC is one of, if not the top law firm in New York, and thus the country. If you look up white-shoe firm in the dictionary you’d find their logo, and probably a picture of the founders from 1895.
Having graduated in the top five percent of my class at Harvard, I was an obvious fit, at least on paper. I’m well aware that my blue-collar upbringing is a sharp contrast to the blue-blood that flows through the veins of most of the partners. Still, I’d like to think that my intelligence, hard work, and more importantly, billable hours have made up for it.
When I exit Norton Place, I head for the subway. I could take an Uber or taxi or even a hired car downtown from the Upper West Side apartment, but I take the 1 train instead.
I spent the first few years out of law school sending money to my parents and siblings, studiously paying off student loans, and saving up enough so that I can buy in when ABC finally offers me an equity partnership.
Now, all but the first—which I’ll never stop doing—have been taken care of, so I can afford to treat myself.
However, either old habits die hard, or I find the idea of paying for a car ride grating on my lingering lower-middle-class sensibilities.
Besides, it’s enough of a splurge to rent an apartment at Norton Place, which (just barely) has the right zip code for a future partner at ABC, at least those who haven’t moved on to custom homes or stately manors out of the city limits.
That has my mind wandering back around to Honey, which it does more often than I’d care to admit.
I have no idea what she does for a living, but if she can afford an apartment at Norton Place, then it must pay well.
I do know that she always seems to be coming when I’m going, and vice versa. Though on occasion, if I stay to an absurdly late enough hour at the office, we sometimes arrive together, well after midnight.
The places that takes my mind, I’d rather not dwell on.
By the time I get to the office, I’ve dropped her from my thoughts.
The official start time at ABC is nine-thirty. I’m usually the first senior associate to arrive, well before that time.
Which is why it’s a surprise to see Todd Westlake, Vaughn Clark, and Andrew Palmer strolling down the hall, already with coffee in their hands. The three of them are practically clones of each other, made from the same prototype you’d find in frat houses or country clubs across the country.
The only difference between the three is hair color. I’ve always thought of it in terms of printer toner, with Andrew having hair almost as dark as mine, Vaughn’s being basic brown, and Todd grasping the last bit of color in a dirty blond.
I also can’t help but compare the fading color to loss of brain cells.
Which I’ve discovered is more than apt.
“Giuseppe Castiglione,” Todd announces, when he sees me, bouncing on the balls of his feet as usual. Andrew once confided in me that it’s because, at six-foot-two, I have several inches on Todd, something that irks him to no end.
It amuses me more than it should.
Ever since Todd discovered my full legal name, he’s gotten a kick out of greeting me with it each day. It’s always accompanied by that perpetually smug sneer on his face.
My parents had the brilliant idea to name me after my great-grandfather, the first Castiglione born in America.
Jesse was a condensed version that I used to make it from elementary through high school in one piece.
It ended up sticking with me all the way to law school.
During on-campus interviews for summer legal internships, it just seemed more “convenient” to call myself Jesse rather than Giuseppe.
Most firms probably wouldn’t have given a damn, especially with my grades. Still, I felt I needed a leg up against all the Todds, Vaughns, and Andrews of the world.
That idea was pretty much reinforced by Doug Hancock, one of the senior partners at ABC suggesting I stick with Jesse when dealing with clients.
I didn’t need a magnifying glass to read between those lines.
ABC doesn’t actively discriminate, not in this day and age. An (almost) equal number of men and women work as attorneys, though not necessarily as partners. They’ve also hired more than enough brown and black faces to pass the muster of any quota.
I suppose “unfortunate” names are one of the last acceptable forms of subtle discrimination left.
Whatever I have to do to get ahead.
That doesn’t mean I have to put up with my given name being not-so-subtly smeared by Todd of all people.
“Congratulations you can pronounce words with more than one syllable,” I deadpan.
That turns that pretentious smirk of his down a few degrees.
“You’re probably wondering what we’re doing here so early on a Monday,” he says, quickly recovering.
“It’s been eating me up since I arrived.” Neither my disinterested look nor my dry delivery deter him.
“David assigned me to work with him on the Abernathy Trust case. My Dad’s an old friend of the CFO. I picked Vaughn and Andrew to work with me.”
Does it eat me up inside?
Of course it does.
And hell if Todd doesn’t know it.
David Winters is a senior partner, one with serious influence over who gets offered a partnership.
“You have to learn to work smarter, not harder, Giuseppe. Those weekends you spend chained to your office are worthless if you can’t pull in the big clients.”
With that, my daily quota of wisdom from Todd Westlake has officially been met.
“We can’t all spend weekends brown-nosing the keepers of the family trusts.” I tap the end of my nose. “By the way, you missed a spot.”
Todd inadvertently twitches his nose, then goes
