A TRUE LEGAL DRAMA
BY RICHARD GARBARINI

New York Lawyer
December 1, 2008

The Greyhound bus has just pulled out. Haven’t been on a bus of any type in as long as I can remember. I can smell the faint odor of fried food from the rather large woman in the seat next to me. Can’t remember the last time I ate. I smile at her, she smiles back. Thank god we aren’t talking, don’t think I could take any chit-chat, not now, not today.

The hum of the engine is strangely soothing, and I can just rest my head, rest, something I barely remember. It’s been one long day, so long it has lasted several days. How did I get here? On a bus to somewhere in Pennsylvania to a place I can’t even remember the name of. But the bus is moving, and so am I. Let me take you back to this morning …

Somewhere in the midst of the bottles, cans and garbage that are strewn over every square inch of the seven hundred square feet on the 16th floor apartment I call home, lies the other cuff link I so desperately need to make it out. I gave up the pretentions of any well-heeled facade long ago. I need the cuff link because the lone shirt hanging in my closest that can even pass for wearable is a damn French cuff. What was I thinking when I bought French cuff shirts, it is just one more nuisance in the morning. But as I clumsily drop to my knees and push the random bags and cans aside to reveal what was once a rather nice white Flokati rug -- which is now some institutional grey -- I realize my search is pointless. I can’t even recall the last time I saw it. No problem, I’ll just throw my jacket on over it, nobody will notice. I am already wearing one black and one dark blue sock. Does anyone look at that stuff really? How many days have I been up, too many, cocaine is a hell of a drug. But I have none left, and I do have to make it to work at some point.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above my dresser, the bad facial hair has to stay, no time to shave, hell no time to shower, but I do need sunglasses. I slip them on, gel my hair back, yeah I can pass. Before I leave I know I have one more beer somewhere, if I could only remember where. My hand instinctively slides to the half empty can on my dresser that has been there for a couple of days, it will have to make do. Awful.

I pull the sheet I have covering the window over just to make sure it isn’t raining, if it’s raining there is no way I am going to work. Damn, clear day. I love these sheets, I bought them on a trip to Turkey. They may be coarse, but they are perfect for making sure not a single damn ray of light enters my abode - ever. I just couldn’t bear that.

I pass through the garbage on my way to the door; I have to clean up some time. I don’t even bother locking the door as I leave, I wouldn’t even if I could find my keys. Its ten o’clock and I have to make it in today, it’s mediation day on a case I have billed many an hour preparing for. I only wish I had actually prepared for it. No worries, I can wing it, I’ve done it before. After all it’s only mediation, meaningful and mediation has never appeared in the same sentence. Everything is alright.

I turn my BlackBerry on, and it starts buzzing away. I slip it into my pocket, I hate that thing. I haven’t been able to look at it for days, and I can feel it almost mocking me as it vibrates, telling me things are collapsing. What is it Wednesday, no, maybe Thursday. I can’t remember.

The elevator swings open to reveal my worst nightmare, a horror I could not have conjured up from the deepest recesses of my most assuredly sick and twisted mind. It is Ms. Feinstein, a 70 year old woman from upstairs. But make no mistake, she’s five feet and 80 pounds of terror. Thank god for my sunglasses, not because I have some aspiration of cool, but because they are my last refuge against Ms. Feinstein, and the rest living world.

“Mr. Grey” she mutters as her little hands with their see through skin fumble in her purse, “late start.” I imagine a purse full of Red-and-blue Tuinal lipstick-red seconals, and beautifully square oxy-contin. I wonder if I just took her purse and ran off when the doors opened if she would turn me in.

“Mr. Grey” she says louder, it snaps me out of my little fantasy. “Working from home” I spit-out as she pulls a little compact from her bag. Wait, does she do coke, is she just going to do it right here on the elevator? No, too bad, it’s only a mirror. How can an elevator ride take so long, I scream to myself, and why is it so impossibly hot. I can feel myself sweating through my undershirt.

When the doors open I wait for her to exist first, always the gentleman. She takes an unconscionably looking time; I regret this gentleman nonsense. I pass her and walk past the little coy pond to the doorman. Those damn fish, they always look hungry. I can’t help but wonder what they taste like, they must taste like old. Carlos has my Journal in his hand already waiting for me. Thank god for Carlos, he’s on the program, no hello’s just a head nod as a grab the paper like some awful yuppie relay race.

The sun hits me like the punch in the face from an angry girlfriend; something I, regrettably, am not unaccustomed to. It must be 100 degrees, is this just a typical New York heat wave, or was Gore right on the global warming thing. I mutter something to a woman as she walks by, which receives only an awkward look in return. Okay honey, like I am going to feel bad being ignored by a woman wearing a heavy coat on such a hot day. I mean, this must be the hottest February on record.

Great thing about leaving for work at this time is that I can always get a cab on First Avenue, something unheard of at 7 am when the sheep actually leave for the firm. I raise my hand and slip almost immediately into the backseat of a cab. As I tell the driver the address the anxiety hits me, I am actually going into work; I start to feel sick. My hand goes into my pocket for a valium just to calm my nerves enough for the ride. I wish I could crush it and snort it in the back of the cab, but I just have to make do with swallowing.

I watch the streets pass, and can feel my anxiety rise with the passing of each one. I decide to call in, and let them know I’m on my way. I haven’t called in for days, but I can’t show up cold. I know they understand, after all I told them my mother, or was it my brother, just passed away. Hell, I need time to heal. Then the thought passes through me of just skipping it, they’ll understand. I have a dealer on 110th who is always open for business. I could get drugs, go back to my place and just continue the party. No! I’m already out, and I have this mediation.

My secretary Jenny answers the phone with her normal aplomb – Mr. Grey’s office. “Jenny it’s Rich, I’m coming in how are things.” How are things? Is that the best I could come up with. Let me explain Jenny, she is a matronly forty or fifty something from Jersey. Who, while very sweet, is prone to excitability.

“Mr. Grey” she responds with far too much unease, “Doug has been trying to get in touch with you for days.” My shoulders slump a little more into the back-seat, just low enough that I can no longer see the streets pass. “Doug” the venerable head of litigation, never speaks to me, he is some aloof icon that the mere mention of his name causes associates to get tight. But she called him “Doug” not “Mr. Maher”, but “Doug.” What could that possibly mean, is Jenny in league with the forces aligning against me?

“Jenny, what did Doug want, you know I’ve been dealing with a family issue.” The words fall from my lips as my hand searched frantically for another valium, my last valium. It’s not there! Where the hell could it be? Wait, I think back to Ms. Feinstein, did she somehow take it? Is that her thing, she distracts you with the allure and promise of drugs only to somehow sneak that little hand into your pocket. I’m thinking crazy --the funny thing about thinking crazy, you know you’re doing it, you know it doesn’t make sense, but still – how could I not have noticed her doing it.

While Jenny just prattles on my fingers finally find the little pill in a fold in my pocket. Everything is alright. I put it in my mouth, barely able to swallow; I would give anything for a beer right now. I catch occasional words, something about my hours, and a phone call. My full attention is on the pill in the back of my throat which has somehow failed to go down, I keep swallowing.

-- meeting when you get in --

I swallow more . . .

-- very upset --

The pill goes down, everything is alright. I hope the cafeteria is open when I get in, I could really use some juice.

Thanks Jenny, I interrupt her, I’ll take care of it. Of what, I have no idea, but I have always taken care of it. I am sure they are just mad that I haven’t turned my bills in for weeks. I’ll just figure some projects for some corporate clients that I can retroactively spend some time on. I’ll make it up over the weekend.

The cab pulls down the Avenue of the Americas, I can see my building. I feel the familiar feeling of blood trickling from my nose. It’s amazing how one becomes familiar with the feeling of blood leaving their body. I casually wipe it with a napkin I find lying on the floor of the cab. What luck, a discarded napkin right here, everything is alright.

The blood doesn’t stop by the time the cab does. I look at the now completely red napkin. A single drop has hit my shirt. I ask the driver for a napkin, which he obliges. As I attempt to wipe the blood it only smears, no problem, I will just keep my jacket shut over it.

I hear the receipt printing and catch the driver’s eyes looking at me – does he know? Has he been watching me? I thank him and hand over my last ten. I hope this is payday; I have to replenish the funds. I look at the paper, it’s only the 20th, and it’s Friday. My heart stops. How many days have I missed? What day was the mediation? I can’t remember now. No worries, I can feel the first valium start to kick in, and a calm wave start to come over me. I figure, put in a few hours, and the weekend is here, I can cut loose. Maybe I can hit up petty cash.

The cab door closes and the mass of people on the sidewalk feels like an impossible barrier to the front door. I can do it, just make it to my office. I walk pass Randy at the front desk and smile as I walk by, everything is normal. I walk by with the vigor of a man who has places to go, important things to do. I slide my ID over the turnstile and pass through to the elevator – first lag of the journey is done – almost there. I wonder if I should go straight to the cafeteria. No, I’ll give some face time, explain how I’m still in mourning over whomever. I pray no one from the office is around, but alas, one of the paras is there waiting, and she has already seen me. I whip my Blackberry out and start typing. I write a little poem to myself hoping she doesn’t talk to me.