Matthew Richardson

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Cryingtown

by Matthew Richardson on February 2, 2010 in Columns

As much as I love being around women (and we know that’s A LOT), proximity to them within the confines of a law firm is a completely different story. All of my least favorite experiences as a lawyer come from dealing with women. Trumping the misery of working under an insecure, passive-aggressive coozebag of a Law Review editor as a 3L, my worst moments spent with womankind have been playing witness to specific instances of female in-office meltdowns.

Besides all the obvious differences between men and women that have ignited the gender wars for years—we pee standing up, we don’t think, we don’t feel—the most important, by far, is that MEN DON’T CRY IN THE OFFICE. It’s the sole reason we deserve to earn more money.
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Last of a Dying Breed (of Big Law Scumbags)

by Matthew Richardson on January 15, 2010 in Columns

Oh the irony. I returned from an extended lunch one day last month only to realize I had a meeting for my annual review that afternoon.

After ditching out of work early the day before to meet up with a cute cocktail waitress from my old bar for a 6:10 showing of Up in the Air, there was something about watching George Clooney fire people way more competent than me for two-and-a-half hours that put me on edge. I couldn’t help being a bit squeamish; however, I figured if I managed to survive for this long with all the shenanigans I’ve pulled, I was pretty much bulletproof. Firing Matthew Richardson at this point would be like trying to impeach George W. Bush now.

I closed my door and mentally prepared myself to meet the two ad hoc corporate review partners, Bob and Jin. I had managed to avoid working for—and barely even speaking to—both of them my entire career as a lawyer at [Big Firm.] Bob, mainly because his breath stinks and I hate staring at his ear hair. And Jin, well, mostly because I don’t mesh well with the Asian work ethic.

I rehearsed some stock responses in case they turned on the heat:

“Sure, my hours were low this year, but weren’t everyone’s?”

“I plan on picking it up BIG TIME this first quarter.”

“I know I haven’t worked with either of you before, but I’m really looking forward to doing so in the near future. Especially you Lin—I mean, Jin.”

“Offices are notorious for gossip. I know better than to dip my pen in the company ink.”

I took a few deep breaths. With those gems in my pocket, I knew I was going in fully prepared. They knocked on the door, and I offered them both seats in my office.

The looks on their faces immediately gave me a queasy feeling. I made a joke about the holidays that fell flat. I could see in their eyes they wanted to establish no human connection with me. I’m all too familiar with that look. It’s the same one I’ve dished out to many a stripper trying to pump me for more cash by telling me about their family life.

Jin: Matthew, I’m not going to beat around the bush. The reviews you received this year are consistently negative and your hours are way down. You’ve only billed 1350 hours to date.

Okay, wow. Cutting straight to the chase here. Not even a simple “How was your weekend? Did you see Avatar?”

Me: Well, I’ve had a bunch of broken deals, you know how that goes… I—I mean, sure, my hours were low this year, but weren’t everyone’s?

Jin: Matt, how do you feel you can improve your job performance? You agree that it needs improvement, yes?

CODE RED. I AM BEING FIRED.

I started tuning Jin out while visions of vengeance filled my mind.

My temperature started rising. I considered which one of them I’d punch in the face and which one I’d smash in the ear with a closing binder. I watch a lot of UFC, so they could be in for some serious pain.

I weighed the pros and cons of having a total Michael Douglas Falling Down episode. Should I handle this firing like a professional? After all, I’m Matthew fucking Richardson—not some whiny associate who actually gives a rat’s ass about this job—does my reaction even really matter?

Matt. Matt. Control yourself! Tune back in. What the hell is Jin even asking?

Then it dawned on me. Bob hadn’t chimed in yet. Was he the firm’s executioner? I stared him down carefully as I spoke.

Me: You know what? I think I’ve made some steady progress over the years. Overall, as an attorney, I think I’ve grown. Maybe this year isn’t as indicative, but I plan on picking it up BIG TIME this first quarter.

Jin: This isn’t just about your subpar work performance, Matthew. There are also some major concerns about your extracurricular activities.

He must be referring to me sticking my pen in every inkwell at the company. And, like I feared, he likely really did overhear me that time I threatened to carve a glory hole in the women’s bathroom on the 13th floor.

Jin: I think it’s fair to say you are starting to develop a less-than-professional reputation. It’s not good. For the firm especially these days.

Damn paralegals. They can never just bang and keep their mouths shut.

Jin’s BlackBerry started chirping and he excused himself, claiming it was a client. I figured this was their system for executions. Bob would now coldly ask me to lay my head down sideways on my desk ALA Mel Gibson in Braveheart, and I would wait for him to cut off my head and let it drop into the wastebasket.

When Jin was good and gone, Bob leaned in close. I pictured the last paralegal I would ever bang and braced myself for the guillotine—my well deserved fate at long last.

Bob: (Practically whispering—) You’re lucky you’ve got allies at this firm. Partner told me about all of the intangibles you bring to the table. Guys like Jin, they just don’t get it. In their country, it’s all about the work—not about the people. That’s why we run this world. In the old days, a guy like you would be on partner track, but now we’re more international. One of these days, you’ll have to take me out on one of your famous Richardson adventures.

Hold the phone. Hold the goddamned phone.

If I understood Bob correctly, he just said that Partner made a call on my behalf and gave me a stay of execution based on my “intangibles” (i.e. I take a lot of these loser associates out and get them pussy, and I take loser clients out and get them pussy). I DO perform a valuable service!

Also, Bob had just revealed himself to be a blatant racist, but he’s old, it wasn’t that overt, and he just saved my ass—so I’ll let it slide.

I was thanking him for understanding as Jin walked back in the room. Jin looked at Bob, and Bob nodded. As if to say, “I set him straight.”

Jin: Before we go, we really need to impress on you that this is the only time that we’ll ever be having this conversation. We hope you take what we said to heart and that we see some marked improvement soon. Otherwise—

Me: I get it. 100%. And you will see a 180-degree turnaround. I’ll call you both tomorrow to see you have any new deals for me. I know I haven’t worked with either of you before, but I’m really looking forward to doing so in the near future.

They got up to walk out. Bob patted me on the shoulder the way a scummy-but-proud grandfather would. It was enough to make me start rethinking the whole bad breath/ear hair thing. Maybe he wouldn’t be so bad to work for after all.

I exhaled. Holy shit, that was definitely a close call.

I have been playing with fire for years. Have almost got burned many times. But nothing like this. I always figured the fact that I lasted this long was a testament to my rapport with partners. Guess I was right. I’m like the law firm version of Liam Neeson in Taken. “What I do have are a very particular set of skills.”

Now I know I have Bob and Partner on my side to protect me from the Jin’s of the world. If he had his way, he’d be dining on my corpse right now. But, unfortunately, the Jin’s of the world are becoming the rule; the Bob’s are now the exception. The fact that I came this close to being canned today means I may be the Last of the Mohicans.

In a few years, there may be no more room for a guy like Matthew Richardson in BigLaw. I’ll shed a tear when that day comes. Obviously because it will mean I got canned.

In any case, for once in my life, I was a little shaken up and needed to clear my head. So I calmly walked out of the office, smiled at my secretary and headed straight for the strip club. All in a day’s work.

Matthew Richardson is mergers & acquisitions by day, Unethical & Amoral by moonlight.

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CLE: The Malignant Tumor of the Legal Profession

by Matthew Richardson on December 3, 2009 in Columns

The second to last thing I want to be doing on a Friday afternoon is sitting in a CLE class trying to pay attention to some droning tax partner talking about the newest updates to “the Code”—whatever the hell that is. (The last thing I want to be doing? Going to work and listening to a droning tax partner.) Unfortunately, I have been woefully unprepared when it comes to staying on top of my CLEs.

A few years back when I was just starting out, there was a minor mention of CLEs at orientation. Get them done or risk . . . something bad happening? I was pretty hungover at the time. And I never ever gave it much thought for the subsequent several years. But it turns out there are some serious repercussions for fucking off CLEs after all.
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The Wrong Side of the Bar

by Matthew Richardson on October 29, 2009 in Columns

Around this time of year is when I take stock of my financial situation. Every year, its been kinda the same thing where I realize I spend as much as I make. By the time I pay student loans, rent on my pimped-out apartment, fancy dates, top-shelf bar tabs, premium cable channels and Thai massages, there’s not much left. So I pretty much do this lawyer thing to break even. Sadly, I’m faced with the unfortunate fact my salary will be way down from last year (including a $0 bonus), which means I’m kind of in a financial pickle. Maybe the levelheaded, logical attorney prepared for this by cutting some costs this year, but not me. I continued to spend like it was 1999, 2005 and 2006. Combined.

So the other day, I was discussing this with my buddy Marcus, the second-year who also shares my desire to live like a banker. He spends a considerable amount of money on fancy suits and video games, but he isn’t feeling the squeeze like me. When I revealed my bottom line, I expected him to reply with something to the tune of, “Me too.” Instead he laughed in my face. Apparently dating a bleeding-heart schoolteacher with low romance expectations affords Marcus a lot of cheap opportunities. Like upstate apple picking and walks through the park and other shit real men don’t actually do. Knowing that without me his life would be relentlessly boring, he finally decided to be part of the solution—and we started batting around ideas.

Marcus: What about starting a side business? Internet startup.

Me: I have a better idea. How about I invent a time machine taking me back to 1999 and then suggest a search engine called Google?

Marcus: Okay, how about a resume service?

Me: (Throwing a crumpled up napkin at him.)

Marcus: What do you propose? Rob a bank? Drug dealing?

Me: Now you’re talking!

Truth be told, I might actually consider dealing drugs if I wasn’t so afraid of ending up on the wrong end of a cock-meat sandwich in prison. I’m not risking my ass virginity so I can take snotty girls to Morimoto. They’ll have to settle for Benihana this year.

That afternoon I remembered my friend Tim who dropped out of law school as a 2L. He finished his degree through some no-name program and has been a struggling associate at a Queens chop shop ever since. Given he still pays student loans to a top-10 school for a degree he never received, he’s been bartending a few nights a week for extra cash.

I gave him a call and pretended to want to catch up. A few words into his ho-hum life status, I cut him off and said I wanted to join him in his booze-slinging adventures. I’m sure he swelled with joy to hear Big Firm Matt was in liquidity bind, but he said he thought he could swing me a couple shifts—and that I could potentially make about $300—off the books.

“Off the books” reminds me of my days working at Gino’s Pizzeria in 10th grade. How far I’ve fallen.

Tim gave me all the details of my potential moonlighting gig. The bar was a pretty classy downtown spot. So I went to meet the manager, Josh—a tough, blue-collar type who was busy berating a barback for forgetting to cut lemons when I walked in. (I always find it weird when bars act like they are a sophisticated business. But that’s probably the dickhead elitist in me.)

Tim warned me that I would have to exaggerate my bartending experience if I wanted the gig. Apparently Tim didn’t realize I already did when I told him I had ANY.

I gave Josh the standard lying about my experience. I rattled off tales about annoying customers, celebrity sightings and even threw in some bartending lingo I picked up from watching Cocktail. He totally bought it.

My first shift was the following Wednesday night, their slowest night, working alongside their regular Wednesday bartender—Tim. Slam dunk. I couldn’t lose.

That night was pretty uneventful, and I didn’t make much. But I didn’t manage to screw anything up either, so it wasn’t all bad. Restocking after close, I convinced Josh to throw me into the fire by letting me join Tim on Saturday night.

Every hour I billed the rest of the week was spent researching drink recipes online. If the firm was my wife, the bar was my new mistress, and I couldn’t get her off my mind.

By Saturday night around 10:00, everything was going smoothly. People were drunk. Tipping generously. I did the math in my head and realized that if I can do this for the next six months, rub-and-tugs may not be out of the financial model altogether. Adrenaline pumping, I was actually feeling a little like the Bryan Brown character in Cocktail. Oops, maybe throwing that glass in the air was a bad idea. But if I didn’t break it, the busboy would have nothing to do.

About that time, Marcus bellied up to the bar to check out a corporate lawyer in action—the Tom Cruise to my Bryan Brown. I cleared a spot for him next to a pair of mid-twenties PR chicks, and over the course of the next few hours, we’re running a pretty smooth two-on-two game. Or, I should say (for once), the girls are the ones doing the hitting on us; we are just reacting.

PR Slutbag #1: How do you two know each other?

Marcus: I’m a bartender here also. This is my night off.

PR Slutbag #1: So you two are like bartenders fulltime?

Me: Well, no. We’re actors too. Marcus was on Days of our Lives.

PR Slutbag #2: So you guys, like, never went to college? That’s so crazy.

Marcus: Our college is the college of life.

Not bad, Marcus. Not bad at all.

PR Slutbag #1: You guys are more fun than all the boring bankers and lawyers in here.

PR Slutbag #2: (Making vomiting motion.)

Me: Ha, chumps. But if you girls are looking for rich guys, we don’t have any money.

PR Slutbag #1: If we wanted that, we’d be talking to those dorks over there.

We all soak in the sight of a booth full of MBA drones.

Marcus: Well, we’re usually with stupid model types, not sophisticated ladies such as you two.

Wow, Marcus. On a roll!

PR Slutbag #2: What time do you guys get off? We should hang out tonight.

Yes, please.

Right there I knew I hit on something genius. I can play the role of stable lawyer and pick up mediocre firm chicks searching for a husband six days a week, and on Saturdays, I will live out every businessman’s fantasy: Swashbuckling barkeep screwing mediocre girls living out their bad-boy fantasies. It’s like role-playing. Except the girls aren’t in on it.

Unfortunately, Marcus killed the mojo immediately by copping to having a girlfriend, which pissed me off since I was already on the fence about breaking up with mine. I partly wanted to dump her because I thought it would make my life cheaper. And partly because my mind is still consumed with thoughts of piping my Brazilian co-worker. But I digress.

Around 1:15, an attorney from our IP group randomly showed up. I knew this would happen eventually, and it’s obviously not as bad as moonlighting as a Starbucks barista, but I wanted to keep the side gig lo-pro. It wouldn’t have been a big deal except this kid, Aaron, is the kind of d-bag that would use this opportunity to embarrass me by sending a firm-wide email. I could see it saying something like, “Matt needs cash,” with a picture from his iPhone of me serving drinks.

I sent Marcus over to survey the situation with a directive that if Aaron said a word, he was to remind him of the time he pissed himself because he was so shit-faced at our one firm dinner for the Summers in July. (It’s good to collect dirt on people sometimes.) Luckily, Marcus reported back that Aaron was even more wasted than usual and didn’t even know his own name. He handed me Aaron’s credit card and said he asked him to fetch a round of shots. After tallying up four Johnny Walker Blue Label shots (plus two for Marcus and I) and adding on a healthy tip, which yours truly adjusted onto the receipt, Aaron ended up turning me into a bartending rainmaker.

That night, I netted almost $250 bucks and got hit on by girls. Practically heaven. When I called Josh on Monday to see if I could do the whole thing again this weekend, he told me to come in that night for a staff meeting. Though I wasn’t really looking to get involved in the bar’s off-hours lowlife culture, I agreed.

Me: Thanks for the opportunity on Saturday. I think Tim and I really nailed it.

Josh: Nailed it? I don’t know what you guys think happened on Saturday, but you broke three glasses behind the bar next to the ice bin. That’s a health code violation—not to mention dangerous.

Hmm, I guess I should have noticed when the busboy started threatening me in Spanish.

Josh: And then I got a call from a customer who was here on Saturday night and said he was charged $265 for a round of shots, which Tim said he definitely didn’t serve. You know anything about that?

I know a lot about that, actually.

Me: I can explain…that was one of my law firm colleagues. He ordered the shots, but was so drunk…

Josh: Why would you pour for someone you knew was over-served?

Me: No one told me that part. Look, I can talk to him about this and get it squared away. I was hoping to not have to embarrass myself by telling anyone at the firm I’m moonlighting as a bartender, but I’ll talk to him, and he’ll be fine with the charges.

Uh oh, did I just say that? Josh’s factory-town chip was bursting through the vein on his forehead.

Josh: You don’t make enough money at your law firm? How much you make?

Me: Umm, I couldn’t give you an exact number.

Josh: And tell me, what’s “embarrassing” about being a bartender?

Me: I meant “embarrassing,” as in like “unprofessional for a lawyer.”

Josh: Tim’s a lawyer. He embarrassing?

Me: That came out all wrong, I really need this job.

Josh: Sure you do. YAW FIIIYED.

What accent was that? Was he trying to give me the Donnie Trump?

I walked out, meekly, hoping there would be a cab waiting for me where I could explain myself on camera.

“I gave it my best, but it turns out I wasn’t cut out to be blue collar.”

Matthew Richardson is mergers & acquisitions by day, Unethical & Amoral by moonlight.

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The Forbidden Law Firm Fruit

by Matthew Richardson on October 15, 2009 in Columns

There are a few things in this world that just don’t mix well: Oil and water, Kanye and Taylor, girlfriends and female co-workers that I’ve banged. As I’ve documented before, I’ve dipped my pen in the company ink on more than one occasion. And it’s never had much consequence (that I’ve cared about, anyway), but add a girlfriend to the mix, and things get sticky.

Yes. I said it. Girlfriend. We’ve been dating for over four months, and I haven’t slept with anyone else yet. So maybe I have actual feelings for this girl. She even recently began meeting my friends. Sure, there’s always something a little annoying about being nervous that one of them will open their fat mouth and say something stupid about my sordid past, but so far, they haven’t fucked it up for me. In September, she met my family, which I have no problem with given I haven’t banged any of them. In fact, my mother still thinks I go to church every Sunday. In that environment, I’m a saint. And what girl wouldn’t love me after being there?

The real problems begin at my law firm. I can shield her from just about every crazy ex or one-night stand, but given I still work with women whose plumbing I have inspected, that’s where it becomes difficult. It’s not like I would bring her into the office and point out random staffers, being like “Banged her, didn’t bang those two, banged that one with the lazy eye at the firm retreat…” But eventually their paths will cross.

I was concerned about one girl in particular, mainly because I actually consider her my at-work girlfriend. Jordanna and I have worked together since day one at the firm. We’re in the same group and often on the same deals. And did I mention she’s Brazilian? That point alone automatically makes her a threat to any real girlfriend.

I swear that Jordanna and I are just friends. Well, at least by my definition anyway. We hooked up when we were first years. Having met at orientation when we both snuck out of some IT seminar to get coffee, in the law firm universe, we were considered the cool kids. A few weeks later, out at an event, we somehow ended up back at her place for a night of ridiculous Brazilian sex. (If you don’t know what I mean, then you’ve never had a Carnival-style dance over your scrotum till it is raw and begging for mercy). We later decided it was a bad idea and actually ended up becoming friends.

Over the years, there have been a few occasions when I get wasted and text her late night. Once in a great while, she accepts my aggressive overtures. But on the whole, I consider our relationship to be platonic. Unfortunately, I knew my girlfriend wouldn’t quite see it that way.

You see, I committed a cardinal sin in a moment of drunken weakness two weeks ago and admitted to my girlfriend that Jordanna and I have had sex. She and I were talking about how my day went when I stupidly mentioned going to lunch with Jordanna. Without a beat of hesitation, she asked if we ever hooked up.

The thing about girls is that their instincts are usually pretty good. One of my best friends, Eric, summed it up perfectly for me a few years ago when I was rampantly cheating on a previous girlfriend and complaining about how paranoid she was acting: “It’s not paranoia if you’re doing it!”

So, I guess that my girlfriends have a right to be suspicious—all girlfriends have a right to be suspicious, especially when dating pond scum like me. But, in a situation where I actually feel like I can be trusted, it’s annoying.

I denied ever hooking up with Jordan every time my girlfriend asked, which was about 30 times. I was perfectly content with denying it because I knew there was no upside to coming clean. (Any guy who thinks brutal honesty gets you anywhere is dead wrong. It only gets you a one-way ticket to the doghouse. Permanently.)

Yet, stupidly, the 31st time she asked, I admitted it. And at that very moment, I knew I was no longer trusted to even be at work.

Me: I don’t see what the big deal is.
GF: The big deal is that you fucked her, probably more than once, and now you hang out all the time.

Can’t really argue with any of that.

GF: How do I know you aren’t still sleeping with her?
Me: That’s ridiculous. We’re just friends. We don’t hang out, except for work functions. No big deal.

Sometimes you honestly have to lie to earn trust.

GF: If it’s no big deal then I wanna meet her.
Me: Okay, I’ll set up a lunch. I think you guys will get along great.

That will be nothing more than a bitter hate-fest.

GF: I’m sure we will.

Meaning: She better be uglier than I’m picturing, or you’re in deep shit.

A small part of me foolishly thought that introducing them could somehow help my predicament… and maybe give me an outside shot at a threesome. However, knowing my girlfriend—and knowing how girlfriends generally feel about Brazilian chicks—I knew it was an unlikely outcome.

But my girlfriend persisted, so the three of us went to lunch. Jordanna was perfectly polite, nice and remarkably un-flirty, but somehow Brazilian chicks just ooze sexuality.

Jordanna’s first words were, “Hi, it’s very nice to meet you. I’ve heard so many great things.”

What my girlfriend heard was, “I am Jordanna, the girl you boyfriend pictures when he’s fucking you. And yes, I don’t wear underwear to work.” (Wind rushing through her hair; Shakira blasting in the background.)

What I heard was, “If you weren’t here, Matt and I would be fucking right now.” (Huh?)

My girlfriend acted polite and laughed at all the right spots, but I could see the seething resentment below the surface. It was one of those lunches where I didn’t go to the bathroom for fear of leaving them alone together. Not missing a beat, Jordanna politely left a little early.

Me: See, she’s really nice, right?

GF: Yeah, she’s great, smart, funny, gorgeous.

Me: Oh, come on, you’re way hotter than her.

GF: So you think she’s hot?

Me: Nope. Not really.

GF: So why did you have sex with her?

Me: I was wasted.

GF: Oh, so if you get drunk it’s okay to have sex with her?

Any other guys get caught in this classic girlfriend trap argument? I would think at this point in my life I would know the right words, but I manage to screw it up every time. Overcompensating commences.

Me: Look, I don’t like Jordanna. I have no interest in her. I like you. If you don’t want me to hang out with her, I won’t hang out with her. I won’t even talk to her unless I have to for work stuff.

GF: Don’t be ridiculous, she’s your friend. I don’t want to be the reason you two stop talking.

I think, loosely translated, that means: I will never verbally forbid you from ever talking to her, but you best understand that I’m watching you. I know your dirty tricks, and you best avoid her like the bubonic plague. Or get fired. Or die.

The minute I got back to the office and saw Jordanna in the hallway, I was outrageously horny for her. I honestly hadn’t found her attractive in years. Even though she is objectively hot, working at a law firm long enough can even make even a spicy South American lose her luster. But for some fucked-up reason, I felt my loins burning (and not in a post-Spring Break Cancun way). The simple fact that my girlfriend hated her only made me want to fuck her more. And yes, folks, that’s how it works for a degenerate like me.

So, I guess I can’t blame my girlfriend for feeling threatened by Jordanna. But I will blame her for making me want to bang her again. After all, it was her reaction that triggered a course of hormones unlike any I’ve ever felt. She made Jordanna sexy again. And I know that I will, without a doubt, not be able to rest until I sleep with her one more time.

A few days ago, Jordanna and I closed a deal together (which is not a euphemism). The client actually told us we could bring significant others to the closing dinner, which was an interesting test. Seeing Jordanna in the office everyday now only makes me think about her going Carnivale on my unit. Even though common sense told me I should bring my girlfriend as a preventative measure, I decided against it. I wasn’t even going to mention it; however, she saw the invitation on my table at home. So I had no choice but to act like I thought I already asked her to come along.

That night, my girlfriend pulled out all the stops. She looked slammin’ and brought her A game as she politely mingled, just barely hiding her true desire to leap across the room and murder my work girlfriend. I felt so good that all I could do was crush martinis and daydream about a bloodbath in my honor.

As we sat for dinner, I was hungry for some chupabacabra. In a quick maneuver, my girlfriend shrewdly placed herself between me and Jordanna, ending my plan for illicit leg contact. Lucky for me, I have become fairly adept at texting with my phone in my pocket, so I fired off something inappropriate to Jordanna. I saw her read it, smiling, while keeping her phone in her purse. She texted back: “You’ll have 2 ask ur gf 2 do that 2 you later.”

My girlfriend remained queen of the hill that night, but it’s only a matter of time.

Stay tuned.

Matthew Richardson is mergers & acquisitions by day, Unethical & Amoral by moonlight.

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That Partner Voodoo That I Do

by Matthew Richardson on September 17, 2009 in Columns

Dear Partners,

I have a small request: Please stop driving associates crazy. Why? Because if you do, then we’ll all stop wishing death and harm on you and be more productive employees.

At 6:30 PM last Tuesday, fed up with my gut expanding from Friday margarita benders and sedentary bouts induced by thin attempts to ramp up my billables, I was preparing to take off for the gym. At this point in my legal career, nothing clears the early-week haze and prepares me for late-week binge drinking quite like a workout and a steam. That, and I enjoy seeing old balls.

At 6:32, my phone rings. It’s a partner who I’m on a deal with. In reality, I’m blatantly slacking on this particular assignment and haven’t done anything on the deal in weeks. Every time I see him, he keeps saying things like, “Gonna be heating up soon,” “Get ready for hell,” and every other clichéd partner phrase that make associates want to punch you all in the face. I contemplated not picking up, but as I recently stated, I’m trying to at least make an attempt to at least make an effort to at least try to look like an actual lawyer. And people like that normally pick up the phone at 6:30 when a partner calls.

“This is Matthew.”

“Thought maybe you had left for the day.”

I clack the edges of a stack of paper on my desk to sound fully engaged in something profitable.

“Me? …Never. What’s up?”

“In Section 6.13(d) of the reps, we really need to bang out those changes we talked about by tomorrow, so—”

My teeth began grinding into nubs because in 20 words, this partner tripped into the pitfalls of my two biggest pet peeves of partner/associate interaction:

1. Partners who think of themselves as on-call doctors

We all know that Biglaw is a nightmare. And sometimes it requires your full, around-the-clock attention. However, those rare occasions should be limited to closings. In all my years of working, I have never, ever, ever seen the benefit in making someone pull an all-nighter any sooner than three weeks before a deal closes. You not only drain associates of all energy for the entire next day, you make them hate you.

2. Partners who assume I keep logs of every conversation we’ve ever had

How the hell do I remember all the crap that came out of your mouth when we shared an elevator three weeks ago? Come to think of it, what human could? Maybe Ray Babbitt or kids with autism can recall it verbatim, but not Matthew Richardson. (Come to think of it, why haven’t I grabbed my friend’s autistic five-year-old and headed off to Vegas yet? I could clear the tables with that rug rat.)

But seriously, would it be so hard when a Partner calls for him to say something as straight-forward as, “Hey, Matt, how’s it going? What happened with that slob you took home after the summer event? Great. Look, do you remember a few weeks ago when we were discussing the _________ deal? Take a look at the reps section, refresh your memory on it and call me back so we can have an intelligible conversation about it. Okay? Thanks.”

Instead, Partners seem to thrive on hearing associates hem and haw before sticking them with some crap response to sound competent.

“Section 6.13? Ahh, yeah, uh huh, sure…”

“Let’s get it done then. Only instead of—”

Call it burn out, call it old age, call it a lack of grunt-worthy sex, but when I hear this s#!t out of partners’ mouths lately, I silently undergo a psychotic break. My nub teeth could barely bite my tongue.

This is hate. I mean voodoo doll hatred.

In my top drawer, tucked behind my new “Girls of the ACC” Playboy, which is carefully tucked behind a distraction of office supplies, are two voodoo dolls of partners. One of them made me stay up for 70 hours straight, which triggered my now-chronic back problems. His particular voodoo doll even has a comb-over, push pins in his spine, and I think I gave him swine flu. The other is of a female partner who didn’t know her ass from her elbow but thought it was “cool” to work ridiculous hours because she was a gunner. She pretty much thought everyone should bill 300 hours a month to be doing a decent job. The truth was she had absolutely nothing to go home to. So her voodoo doll has flapjack titties and chair ass, and I used to rub it on toilet seats hoping she’d contract something horrible.

I began contemplating making the two a trio and doing black arts on my current deal partner as I frantically rummaged around my desk for the proper credit agreement. By the time I actually found it, I had missed any relevant information and requests he had just plowed through.

Realizing I’d inevitably fuck it up if I didn’t ask him to repeat it, I stepped on the flaming bag of poo.

“Okay, so can you repeat that?”

“Come on, Matt. Get your head out of your ass.”

Whose fault is this???

Some might say mine for not speaking up in the beginning of the conversation, but I don’t think so. Every time I take that approach, I somehow irritate the partner with my lack of awareness of the inner workings of his brain. I’m working on multiple deals—just like him. I keep track as best I can with little white boards and Post-it notes scattered about; however, I, nor any associate—no matter how much of an ass-kiss—will ever master the art of mind reading. Voodoo? Maybe. But never will anyone know everything that went through your goddamned mind the three minutes before you picked up the phone and called us. It’s not going to happen.

So please, when you call, at least give us a second to sort out what the hell you’re even referring to.

And for any partners who are reading this and dismissing me as an outright degenerate, just know that my fellow non-degenerate associates are sitting at their desks carving voodoo dolls of you when you do these things. I’m just the only one man enough to admit it to you. So stop it. Please.

Sincerely,

Matthew Richardson

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BigLaw Beyond Thunderdome

by Matthew Richardson on August 18, 2009 in Columns

One Friday in July at around 3 p.m., I did something I hadn’t done in quite some time… I did NOT leave the office to drink a margarita. I can’t even blame it on a deal—I didn’t have much going on. Sticking around the office and putting in a full day’s work on a Friday was a matter of face time.

I know that trumpeting my decision to actually work might seem contrary to all my other actions, but lately I’ve been feeling the heat. And by heat, I mean that there’s an eerie feeling since layoffs and salary freezes have slowed down, and I have a hunch the bottom is about to drop out again. The murmurs, whispers and neurotic chatter that used to exist in every corner of the firm have subsided, and everyone just seems to be intensely working—a concept that has me concerned. Every single partner, associate, paralegal, secretary, HR chick and IT guy seem to have tunnel vision. And the target of their focus is their jobs. Hell, even the heavy-set Russian woman who empties my garbage and normally harasses me now marches like an Army private and doesn’t reek of vodka anymore.

All of the people I count on to join me in slacking off suddenly decided to keep to themselves and start walking the straight and narrow. The reason? I’m not sure, but I’m freaked out. So I figure if I can’t beat them, I probably should join them.

To make matters worse, not only has everyone become a teetotaler, they are acting really, really edgy toward each other. I generally find the firm to be a pretty cordial place, with the occasional a-hole and me as obvious exceptions. Lately, though, my office has turned into a scene from Mad Max. But instead of fighting over scarce oil, we are fighting over billables.

Halfway through the year, I took a look at my billed hours, and the picture wasn’t pretty. I made a few calls to see how I stacked up against my colleagues. I’m usually in the lower middle, but this time around, it seemed everyone was struggling to bill hours—and we’re all aware the firm loves an excuse to trim the fat.

So when a new deal started last month, my standard protocol was a little different. Usually I get one of my boys like Marcus, who is now a second-year, on board. If at all possible, I try to work with people who know the drill and my M.O., and I recruit anyone who will cover for me, as I will for them…but it’s mostly them covering for me. In return, I show them how to game the system. It’s a pretty good tradeoff, and everyone seems happy. But times have changed.

Instead of leaving the grunt work on a routine deal to Marcus, I realized the easiest way to pad my stats was to do some of the dirty work myself.

When Partner called us in for the first meeting on the deal, the conversation went something like this:

Partner: So, I assume Marcus will have a closing checklist ready by Tuesday.

Me: Actually, I figured I would do it. Marcus has a bunch of other stuff going on.

Marcus: No, I’ll do it. I’m used to it.

Me: Yeah, but I can do it a lot quicker.

Marcus: Yeah, but I’m billed out at a much cheaper rate.

Me: Yeah, but I can do it twice as fast.

Partner: What the hell is going with you schoolgirls? Marcus, do the checklist.

WTF? A second-year just gave me shit, and Partner took his side? It was a complete breakdown of the rules of decent conduct.

Suddenly, I knew I had been thrust into Bartertown—that place Tina Turner ran with an iron fist in Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. The fight over scarce hours was heating up. But you can be damn sure I was going to be Mel Gibson’s character and not some extra that gets his head chopped off in the first twenty minutes of the film.

Marcus walked out of the office to go work on his cheap-rate checklist. Partner, AKA Tina Turner, stood looking unpleased.

Me: So what do you say we go get a drink?

Partner: I say you get back to your office and do your f&*king job.

Not the first time he cursed about me, but a bit jarring at that precise moment. New approach.

Me: I’m a little freaked; my hours are low. I know they’re looking to ax a few more.

Partner: I’m not gonna lie, you better get your shit together.

Me: Wait, you’re serious?

Partner: Just look around the office. It’s a climate change. Act accordingly!

NOT THE ANSWER I WAS LOOKING FOR.

Asking me to shape up is kind of like asking Paris Hilton to stop hooking up with random Greek dudes and snorting cocaine, but after that confidence-building chitchat, I decided to buckle down. Progress is best measured in relative terms, and any gains were obviously temporary, but I can’t say I wasn’t warned.

I busted my ass and started working full 8-10 hours days with nary a drink or random sexual encounter for what seemed like months. (In reality, it was about three weeks.) (Okay, three weeks and a day, if you’re really counting.) But I did my part to get back into everyone’s good graces. I even managed to get Partner to see it my way and let me take on some of the first-year crap to get my hours into the realm of respectability. I was living by a new set of rules in the post-apocalyptic Bartertown.

Sure, it’s all well and good to dream about leaving. And, lord knows, I’ve wanted to get myself fired in the past, but the more I look at the desert wasteland outside my office, the less inclined I am to want to leave.

As they said in Bartertown, “Bust a deal, face the wheel.” And though I put in a solid effort to avoid the wheel, the shenanigans unavoidably took over again. I guess it’s in my blood to screw around. Old habits die hard—something I realized as I tried to explain the rules of Thunderdome last Tuesday afternoon to Gia, one of my favorite exotic dancers.

“Two men enter; one man leaves,” I explained.

But Gia was either too young to get the reference or the Mad Max trilogy never made it to her native village in Poland. Either way, in addition to her gorgeous fake boobs and disinterested lap dances, Gia offered me a nugget of stripper wisdom:

“You think you got it bad. I would stab a bitch to get a Saturday night shift.”

Hmm. It was at that moment I realized that fighting over billables isn’t the worst thing in the world. I definitely wasn’t gonna stab Marcus over a few hours of work. That’s not my style. I threw a few more Washingtons at Gia and returned to the office determined to restore a bit of order to the workplace.

Thursday, a different partner called and asked me to come aboard a new deal. I hung up the phone and headed directly to Marcus’ office.

Me: New deal. You in?

Marcus: Are you going to let me even do anything?

Me: I’ll make you a deal. You do the grunt work, closing checklists, certificates…

Marcus: And?

Me: In return, you ditch out on Fridays with me for margaritas. Like the old days.

Marcus: You’re bartering billables so you have someone to get fucked-up with?

Me: Are you in or not?

Marcus: What are you gonna do about your hours?

Me: Lie, cheat and pad the stats like always. Remember, Marcus: Bust a deal, face the wheel.

Marcus: Huh?

Damn it! Apparently, Mad Max references have an age minimum. So I clarified.

Me: If you screw me over, I will stab you like a bitch.

Marcus: Margaritas tomorrow?

Me: Now you’re getting it.

This hellish economy may mean that I have to work a little harder, but I’ve always worked just hard enough to survive—no more, no less. Yes, from time to time, I may have to step up my game, but even Bartertown must’ve had at least one total screw-up.

Matthew Richardson is mergers & acquisitions by day, Unethical & Amoral by moonlight.

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Who’s the Man?

by Matthew Richardson on July 28, 2009 in Columns

The idea a Big Firm is “one big family” is merely bulls#!t used to con Summers into selling their souls to our particular brand of sweatshop. To actually catch up with someone in a department other than “corporate stooges,” I have to plan time to get together off the clock and then figure out a way to expense it. Last week, I decided to hang with my buddy Brian who’s a litigator at my firm. It sounds strange, but M&A and litigation mix almost as frequently as Barney Frank and female strippers.

Brian and I used to be close in law school. We were both big movie buffs, and he liked to chase tail half as much as I did, which was good enough for me. But once we went our separate ways day one in BigLaw, we barely spoke because, at that point, the ugly truth was apparent that the only thing litigators and corporate lawyers have in common is maybe bankruptcy law. Otherwise, I have way more in common with my investment banker friends who live and breath deals. Litigators…well, I have no idea what they do. I assume it’s something like that movie a A Few Good Men, but with less shouting.

So, when we sat down for lunch, I figured I would at least pretend to feign interest in Brian’s work for the sake of friendship. But once he started droning on about how amazing it was to be assigned to take depositions at his level, I started daydreaming about Angie Harmon circa Law & Order. She and I were in the middle of making out when my dream was rudely interrupted by his ire.

“Hey, asshole, don’t ask if your not gonna listen. You think your life is so interesting?”

Um, yeah, I just closed a billion-dollar deal for a paper company!

“Sorry, go on—I’m listening. You were taking a deposition, and it’s a pretty big deal for someone your year to do that all alone…”

Out of the blue, he shocked me with his level of condescension toward my chosen part of the profession.

“So how’s the comma spotting? Crossing all those ‘t’s and redlining.”

“Do you even know what a redline is?”

“Let me guess, something to do with editing documents. Are you even admitted to the bar?”

“Yeah. Jackass.”

Note to self: Double-check that.

But Brain wasn’t prepared to ease off the pedal.

“I bet you really get a lot of use out of that license.”

“Whatever, Brian. You get excited about the one time you got to talk to the CEO of a company for a deposition. I talk to CEOs every day.”

That was a blatant lie. Occasionally, during a closing, I will engage in some brief chitchat about the deal and maybe give a hearty handshake. Mostly I spend my time getting grief from analysts.

After a bit of back and forth, we kind of dropped it and finished our lunch.

“We should do this again sometime soon.”

What we really both felt like saying was, “No, we really shouldn’t…ever.”

I went back to my office with a bit of a chip on my shoulder. Did I have it wrong? Should litigators be looking down on us and not the other way around? I tried to be objective in my analysis.

My argument is that litigators aren’t real men because the following words mean nothing to them:

1. Prospectus

2. EBITDA

3. Reps

4. Leverage

5. The Printer

If you are 30, and you work in the corporate world, you cannot be considered a man if you don’t know these five things.

Conversely, his argument probably goes something like this:

—Corporate lawyers are trained monkeys. (True.)

—If corporate lawyers were real men, they would work at banks or hedge funds. (Also true.)

—Litigators are hired to fix problems made by corporate lawyers. (100% debatable.)

—We don’t know the first thing about negotiating. (Totally false!)

Of those, the perception of our people skills was obviously my biggest bone to pick.

Litigators try to sell themselves to Summers by talking about interacting. But I contend that corporate lawyers, on the whole, do way more interacting with clients and opposing counsel than any litigator. I actually have no idea what they do, but I think 90% of their days are spent alone, sifting through boxes of useless case files.

More importantly, I think corporate lawyers are more socially normal than litigators. Sure, we’re all lawyers, which means we have way more weirdoes among us than other professions, but lawyer-against-lawyer, corporate guys are much easier to talk to. And at the associate-level, I’d say that corporate practice attracts 85% of the cool, new lawyers.

When I’m at a random gathering of men who work in various fields (golf outing, bachelor party, whatever), it seems to me that litigators have the least to add to the conversation. Hell, even doctors at least have a stock portfolio they want to comment on when they’re not busy playing God. But litigators—they are in this little shell that’s almost cultish. They’re so insular and nerdy they may as well be Harry Potter fans.

(If you’re a Harry Potter fan, you probably dress up in a cape, use weird terms like “muggles” and are totally oblivious to the fact that people think you’re weird. If you’re a litigator, you babble on about arcane rules of procedure and tell stories with no discernable narrative, totally unaware that your audience has fallen asleep. Same/same.)

After mentally wrapping up my fantasy with Ms. Harmon, my analysis concluded that corporate lawyers had every right—and possibly a duty—to look down on litigators. Regardless, I decided to keep my insights to myself and patch things up with Brian.

So, a few days later, I went up to his office. I walked in intending to shoot the breeze and talk about movies or something non-hostile. But he wasn’t alone. He was with two litigator pals—a first-year and a second-year (AKA socially retarded sycophants of the cult).

Litigator 1: “How are things going at the printer? I heard there was a toner issue.”

Apparently, he had filled them in on our conversation.

Litigator 2: “I heard someone messed up the TPS reports, you might want to go check on that.”

Was that? Wait. No one thinks Office Space humor still funny, right?

I was shocked to see that they actually busted out into what seemed to be authentic laughter for such an unoriginal insult.

“That’s genius. Anyone wanna do an Austin Powers impersonation for me? Seriously, George Carlin called, he wants his act back. Brian, I actually just stopped in to see if you wanted to leave work early, grab some margaritas and maybe hit a titty bar. But you guys can join.”

Litigator 1: “Seriously?”

“Why not? The markets are dead in summer, nobody is doing any deals.”

Litigator 1: “We have a big deposition to take in the morning.”

Litigator 2: “Yeah, otherwise we definitely would join. Definitely.”

I could see in Litigator 2’s eyes that he had never been to a strip club.

Unexpectedly, Brian told the litigation duo to handle it without him and have it ready by 9:30 the next day. He grabbed his jacket, and we left the stunned litigators to shout at each other about Code Reds for the rest of the day.

Hm. Brian had left the grunt work to his underlings—just like I do.

We proceeded to have a kick-ass afternoon filled with Patrón shots and silicone boobs. More importantly, we agreed to leave the bickering about our jobs at the office. But my competitive nature got the best of me, and I felt one last dig gurgling up.

“Brian, do you really think litigators are better than corporate lawyers?”

“I really do. No offense.”

“I have an idea for how to settle this once and for all.”

“Go for it.”

I called over two of the Hustler Club’s finest—Chastity and Destiny. (Obviously, their given names).

“I have a question for you two beautiful ladies. Which job sounds sexier: A litigator or a corporate lawyer? Shhh, now wait. I want you both to answer at the same time. On the count of three. One, two…three.

Chastity and Destiny: “What’s a litigator?”

And that was all the affirmation I needed.

Matthew Richardson is mergers & acquisitions by day, Unethical & Amoral by moonlight.

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Girl-on-Girl Crime

by Matthew Richardson on July 8, 2009 in Columns

I don’t consider myself to be too much of a misogynist. Yes, I visit massage parlors and I watch the Spice channel, but when it comes to work, I think I treat almost everyone equally. Honestly, I don’t think BigLaw is nearly as much of a boy’s club as some industries. I truly believe that women get a fair shake—no better and no worse than their male colleagues. That said, there is one, tiny segment of the workforce that might get a bit of special treatment: the hot female summer. But while this rare breed may get special treatment from most of the male attorneys, she usually gets a Cobra Kai legsweep from the female attorneys. And in my experience, those two opposite forces tend to come out in the wash.

This summer, my friend Libby (typical chip-on-her-shoulder, decent-looking, single and miserable associate) decided to pick on Amy (runaway winner of the “hot summer who probably won’t be a lawyer for very long because some hedge fund dude will scoop her up” sweepstakes).

Amy clearly was aware of her effect on the male attorneys and rocked it. Lunches, dinners, baseball games, you name it. Amy’s cakewalk made Libby decided to pretend to be friends with Amy, and she gave her a bunch of assignments and called herself “mentor.” She hustled with aplomb to turn Amy into a miserable Libby clone.

Now, I’m not stupid enough to actually rely on Summers for work output. As we all know, they don’t know anything. Honestly, any attorney who blames a mistake on a Summer Associate should be fired. Immediately. You may as well say, “Sorry, billion-dollar client, the Chinese delivery guy forgot to deliver our food, so now we can’t close the deal. It’s all his fault.”

Libby had yet to understand that Summers are to learn and socially impress enough to—hopefully—get an offer. Expecting actual job performance out them is absurd. So I’m not really sure why Libby got all bent out of shape when a harmless extracurricular activity deprived her of Amy’s services for an afternoon.

One of my favorite partners (previously mentioned) scored some tickets to this year’s U.S. Open, I invited Amy. Sure, maybe it would have made more sense to take a male Summer who actually has an interest in golf—I believe Amy’s exact response was, “Oh, great, I love tennis!”—but there weren’t any male Summers I wanted to see in a tight, white polo shirt on a rainy afternoon.

After a fun-filled day of chugging beers and watching Mickelson blow it yet again, we returned to the office where I found an angry voicemail from my Libby, bitching me out for taking “her Summer” without “running it by” her first. Apparently, Libby had Amy working on a closing checklist for a deal that was two weeks to closing.

Two weeks? Sound the alarms! The house is on fire!

Slightly inebriated, I returned her call.

Me: Libs, you need to relax.

Libby: She can’t just disappear for the day. She’s working for me.

Me: Look, it wasn’t my call. Partner demanded that we take Amy. Who am I to argue?

Libby: That’s a lie. And I’m listing it in her review. She should have declined your sleazy offer.

Me: Are you for real? You’re going give her a bad review because she went to a golf outing?

Libby: No. I’m going to give her a bad review because she thinks that she gets to be held to a lower standard because she’s cute.

Me: You’re a sad, jealous freak. I’m simultaneously aroused and revolted.

Libby: Screw you! [Click]

With that, Libby wrote a scathing review of Amy, perhaps jeopardizing her career. Was it warranted? Absolutely not. But apparently, Libby planned to blast Amy for a few typos in her first assignment anyway.

Personally, I think it’s a sliding scale. If you’re an 8, you can make 8 typos; if you’re a 6, you can make 6; if you’re heinous, better have an eagle eye.

Now, I have no idea how women interact behind close doors. I always assume it’s a lot like every scene from The Devil Wears Prada.

Amy: I feel like we got on the wrong foot, I’m sorry if there was a misunderstanding.

Libby: There was no misunderstanding, but I’m willing to put it in the past and give you a chance to redeem yourself. I’m going to give you another assignment.

Amy: Well, I just feel like if maybe we don’t work that well together, it might be best for me to work with another associate.

Libby: I’m going to give you a minute to think about what you just said and let you change your answer if you want.

Amy (grudgingly): Okay, I’d be happy to take on another assignment from you.

At least that’s how I imagine it went down. Whatever happened, Libby assigned her something new and later added a line at the bottom of her scathing review: “Despite these shortcomings, we are now working on a new deal, and Amy is performing adequately.”

I know because Amy came to my office and told me all of this. She seemed a bit shaken by it. I debated whether to lock my door and prey on her vulnerability or to actually help save her career. Face it—one bad review in this climate and you are working at some immigration shop. Since Amy’s relationship with her boyfriend seemed pretty unbreakable, I decided to be MacGruber and try to diffuse the Libby bomb.

It really wasn’t that hard. I knew Partner would see it my way.

Me: Partner, we have a problem.

Partner: Libby?

Me: Yeah, she thinks she’s all principled and shit.

Partner: I say we make them have a catfight in my office.

Me: Great idea. So what are you going do about Libby’s review, it’s pretty harsh.

Partner: If I can’t handle a tight-ass associate picking on a hot Summer, I have no business being partner, Matt.

Partner then called Libby in and let me stay for the fireworks.

Partner: So Libby, seriously, what’s your issue with Amy?

Libby: I don’t have an issue. She didn’t do a great job on the deals she worked on.

Partner: Everyone else gave her solid reviews and said her work product was good.

Libby: Everyone else meaning you and Matt?

Partner: What are you trying to say?

Libby: Just because she is hot, you are giving her a pass.

Partner: That’s ridiculous, Libby. You need to watch what you are saying. Or, just drop it.

Libby: She disappeared when she had an assignment and went with you guys to a golf tournament. She should have asked me if it was okay, and then I probably would have said yes.

Partner: It doesn’t matter what you would have said. If I decide she’s going, that’s the end of it.

Libby: Why did you even call me in here then if you’re just going to ignore my review?

Partner: I just wanted to get to the bottom of your issues with her. And frankly, this looks more like a catfight than a work issue.

Libby stormed out in a huff. I followed her down the hall to see what her next move would be. Libby never understands the phrase “Just drop it.”

Libby: Oh, he’s really done it now. That conversation is going in the file.

Me: There’s a file? What file.

Apparently many, many female associates with chips on their shoulders keep files of all the times they have been slighted, unfairly left out, subjected to lewd conversations, or harassed. I suppose that’s the lawyerly thing to do, but if the men in the office kept a similar file, I’m pretty sure there wouldn’t be much of a gender gap should we ever get down to doing some real comparative analysis.

Me: You don’t have a file on me, do you?

Libby: You are SO lucky we are friends. But I promise you, SOMEONE has a file on you.

Great. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about. Amy’s on her own.

Matthew Richardson is mergers & acquisitions by day, Unethical & Amoral by moonlight.

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Crashing Solo

by Matthew Richardson on June 15, 2009 in Columns

A few months back, I got an offer to strike out on my own and leave BigLaw for good. The offer came from Andrew, a really solid guy at the firm, who just wasn’t partner material. It was an open secret that nobody knew what to do with him. He was a diligent worker, but he just didn’t have the ability to connect with clients. That’s the polite version. In truth, he was socially awkward—a total slob who constantly had dried ketchup on his face and mumbled something awful. There were probably firms that would have cut him loose a long time ago for simply being a disheveled mess, but he was down to throw back the sauce whenever I wanted, and he liked watching UFC. As far as I am concerned, those are qualities that matter.

One night, while we polished off some twelve-year-old Macallan, I asked him about his future. When you’ve been an associate for ten years and still haven’t made partner, I wondered if he’d yet said to himself, “Hey, maybe there is something else I can do with my shitty life.”

“I’m leaving the firm soon to start my own boutique shop.”

I was shocked. I’m sure if my blood alcohol had been under .25, I would have told him I thought it was a terrible idea. Instead, I apparently agreed to quit and become his first associate.

When I woke up in the morning, the only thing I could remember was agreeing to take our waitress to Bonaroo or some other poser grunge festival that is everything I stand against. Apparently, Andrew had a clearer recollection. And he saw our drunken rambling as an ironclad agreement.

The following morning, we had the following IM exchange:

Andrew: Matt, have you figured out how you’re gonna give notice?

Me: Whatchu talking about, Willis?

Andrew: We need to do it at the same time. Leave as a team so they know we’re serious.

Me: I don’t know if that is such a good idea. I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet.

Andrew: This place is a shithole!

Shithole. Really? I mean, I know we weren’t making F-U hedge fund/d-bag money, but making over $200K year after year for simply editing prospectuses and mostly sitting silently on conference calls isn’t too shabby. We have an endless supply of underlings that I love to hate on, who are completely necessary and—sometimes—nice to look at. Plus, there’s that little thing called an expense report. When you go out on your own, you pay for everything, even if you don’t make a dime!

I pondered Andrew’s offer a bit, partly to humor him and partially because of the current climate. We are in a recession. I am a screw-up. Firms are looking to fire screw-ups. I probably should explore my options.

Me: It sounds like an okay idea. But what can we really offer clients?

Andrew: For starters, a lower rate. Second, we only take on clients we get along with personally. No assholes bossing us around at ungodly hours.

This guy was starting to sound compelling.

Me: But how do we find clients?

Andrew: Look, with my work experience and resume and your connections, there is no way we can fail.

Whoa, time out. My “connections?” WTF?

Andrew: Yeah, you’re best friends with [REDACTED.] That’s gonna be a huge score for us. Get us off the ground.

Note: When I’m drunk, I do a little embellishing about my “connections.” According to my imbibed ramblings with Andrew, I have a whole book of business through the father of one of my college buddies. In reality, that “buddy” is an “acquaintance” who loathes my existence. He even once toasted to my death. So something tells me if I asked him to ask his dad to move his hedge fund’s annual $10 million legal tab to my new boutique, he would politely tell me to suck it.

After a few days, I told Andrew that I just didn’t have the guts to do it, which was the truth. He left BigLaw the next day, and that was three months ago.

We exchanged emails at the beginning. He picked up a couple of small deals and hired a hot piece of ass straight out of college to be his secretary. I sometimes thought about how smart and lucky he was for getting out; how gutless and stupid I was for putting up with this place. And then, last week, I snapped.

It was after midnight, and I was on my third espresso. We were supposedly closing this deal in the morning, but we were still fighting with opposing counsel about some tax issue. To make matters worse, Partner on the deal kept calling me to check in and make sure the prospectus didn’t have any typos. It’s like he knew that I would sneak out of the office to pass out the second my phone stopped ringing. Also, I had forgotten my contact lens case and solution, which basically meant that I was bleeding from the eyeballs. I was doped up on Cyclobenzaprine (aka Flexeril, a muscle relaxer that doubles as an antidepressant) because my back was killing me, as usual. (Question: Does anyone who is at least a third-year NOT have back problems?) I was in agony as I reread the prospectus for the thirty-seventh time.

I decided to call Andrew about jumping ship. How could it be any worse than this, I reasoned?

The deal finally closed, and I sent Andrew an email and left him a VM that day. I assumed he was probably, yet improbably, reeling in a new client. I knew this was a bit optimistic since I had no idea how he was actually doing. But I was at the end of my rope, so I pinned my hopes on a dream scenario where he and I were this hotshot new firm—totally killing it.

I actually went so far as to type up a draft of my “goodbye” letter to the firm, thanking Partners for the misery, ulcer, growing addiction to painkillers, and thanking specific female co-workers for the pleasure of letting me know them. But as I typed, my secretary said Andrew called and asked me to meet him in the first-floor lobby.

Perfect. Maybe I’d quit on the spot, and then Andrew and I could grab lunch to discuss my compensation package.

The man I saw when I walked off the elevator was hardly the confident solo lawyer I expected. Andrew looked more defeated than ever.

“It’s not happening…,” he stammered.

“What’s not happening?”

“Me hanging up my own shingle. I got one client from my mom, but he could barely afford to pay. Also, don’t underestimate having a dedicated doc services. Hot chicks can’t edit for shit. Besides, I am a slob who can’t speak to clients to save my own life.”

Apparently, he had found self-awareness.

“I was thinking about joining you.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here. I was hoping to re-join you,” he trailed off.

Como?

“I tried to grovel my way back in here. But obviously there’s no place for a former associate who practically gave the finger when he voluntarily quit a few months ago. They’ve already bumped up the start date of someone who has an offer to take my place. I’ve been replaced by some chump who hasn’t even passed the bar yet. Once again, Matthew Richardson comes out on top.”

All I wanted to do was run for the elevator, head immediately back to my office, deleted any sign of my goodbye manifesto and pore over the first legal document I could get my hands on. I searched for the lobby surveillance cameras. I couldn’t be seen with this loser.

“Listen, buddy, let’s grab some scotch sometime soon. I’ll help you figure this out.”

“I wouldn’t mind jumping on your expense account. You busy tonight?”

“Maybe. I’ll call you.”

I darted back to the safety of BigLaw, where I vowed to limit risky behavior to loose women and to never try to be a solo artist’s wingman again.

Andrew said it best: “Once again, Matthew Richardson comes out on top.” And don’t you forget it.