Life Is Good but It Sucks

By John Frank

What if a former professional hockey player became a lawyer and married the most beautiful woman in the world? And then it all fell apart?

A Friday begins like many others, until John is fired by Frog, the managing partner of the mid tier law firm where John works. Over the next seven days, John confronts his career choices and marriage skeletons.

Life is Good but It Sucks is an exposé on the dark side of the legal profession and a personal account of failure and success in life after professional sports.

Excerpts:

”My wife and I will separate when Jake is ten and Lea fourteen.”
”...I play a lawyer on a reality TV show called Life Is Good but It Sucks.”
”Pucks and people to the net, boys, pucks and people to the net. Part-time effort, part-time results. In hockey, and in life.”
”My father has few grand sayings: one, never trust a communist; two, there’s nothing worse in the world than a communist—save another communist; and, three, under every stone lurks a communist.”
“A single piece of paper on a chair, face down, never bodes well.”
”Sir, can I ask you a question? Is the firm experiencing a restructuring?”
“I have crossed a lot of lines. I laugh at the absurdity of it. Get a life you Internet people. Sincerely, a troll.”
“I’m late for the best billable time-filler invented by the legal profession. The process of discovery calls on me.”
”The rush you experience when your shoulder sinks into the unsuspecting suit—lawyer, broker, analyst, actuary, underwriter, adjuster, salesman—head down...”
»Wenn Churer sägen, sagen sie saga, sagen sie sagen, dann sägen sie säga.«
“...I call them, collectively, the German Goo Girls, GGG, the Gs, or, sometimes, Die Physiker.”
“She tells me not to hurt her, and claws her fingers into my neck. Don’t you hurt me! she hisses as she punches me furiously...”

About the Author:

John Frank is a lawyer and former professional athlete. His practice involves litigation and corporate counseling. He lives with his wife and children and two whippets. Connect @realJohnFrank or at [e-mail].

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Frank
• Release date: Apr 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310196454

John Frank

My name is John Frank and I am 69 years old. My wife and I have been married for 48 years. We have five children and three grandsons. I’ve lived most of my life on the Northwest side of Chicago. for a couple of years I lived in Wisconsin. My wife and I are both from Chicago. We got married while I was living in Wisconsin. She got homesick so we moved back to Chicago. I tried to retire at age 62. The plan was to fix up the house sell it, by some land off my brother, build some cabins on it and rent them out. A few months after I retired, my brother passed away in the housing market went south. So I went back to work for a few years. I got laid off and tried to find work but nothing came of it. A year ago I had a heart attack and officially retired. I had read about IPT LD. With time on my hands I looked further into it. I believe IPT LD should be available to every cancer patient. I tried passing out flyers in the loop (in Chicago). But I haven’t seen much progress. When I looked at my flyers I realized I didn’t give a lot of information and that the websites would’ve been difficult to copy from the paper to the computer. So I thought about e-books and here I am.

Book preview

Life Is Good but It Sucks

or

The Case of John Doe v. Life, Marriage, et al.

a novel by John Frank

©2016 All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

www.LifeIsGoodbutItSucks.com

@LifeIsGoodbut

@realJohnFrank

Table of Contents

FRIDAY

SATURDAY

SUNDAY

MONDAY

TUESDAY

WEDNESDAY

THURSDAY

About

FRIDAY

My wife and I will separate when Jake is ten and Lea fourteen. Children suffer minimal psychological damage if divorce occurs during their teens. Any earlier and the results are not pretty. Studies show that. At least studies my wife has read show that. We must not gamble with our children’s future. I keep repeating this. Even in my dreams.

And what a wondrous and glorious dream! A redhead with glowing layered hair sucks on my toes. Her tongue moves up my left shin and thigh, balls, abs and settles on my chest. I would like her to go down on me. Instead, she straddles me. Before I make out her haloed face, she leans over and spits on my forehead. Quite dirty. I like it but I wake up. A bird, some type of pigeon, is perched on the headboard, just above my face.

Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!

Jake stands at the bedroom door, holding an open cage. Lea, next to him, laughs.

Catch the pigeon! It carries spring!

My son is five. He has a crush on Tinker Bell. For the past three months, he has tortured me with one particular Tinker Bell movie every other day. I have seen fairies ride pigeons and bring spring to the Mainland many, many times. Tinker Bell is hot—I would not mind seeing her in a little lesbian action with the mean black-haired fairy, Livia or what’s-her-name—but if I shared all that, my wife will tell me that I’m sick.

My daughter is nine. She is mischievous.

So much for my redhead. I have an erection. I cover it with my pillow and sit up. The pigeon has not moved. I reach out, but it traipses to the other side of the bed. I used to play hockey and had a promising career. The one that got away, I imagine they said when I asked them to buy me out so I can attend a most prestigious institution of higher education. Okay, once promising. The older I get, the better I used to be. But the point is that I have developed a rich vocabulary in the English, French, Russian, Swedish, Czech, Slovak, Finnish and German languages. There are many apt words to capture the moment. I settle on the best, and my favorite.

Fuck!

I clean my forehead with a Kleenex from a box on the nightstand and, covering my erection, go after the bird. It flutters around the room until I corner it on the dresser by the wardrobe. On the Louis-Philippe commode next to the Régence armoire, if you asked my wife. I do not speak that language unless threatened with bodily harm. I’m not facing the kids so I let go of the pillow. My weapon of choice is on the bed behind me. With a swift movement, I have the bird flapping in a relatively expensive top sheet. Came in a bedding set. My wife agonized over the purchase at the department store for an hour. I grab the pillow again.

I confirm my suspicion.

Jake, baby, where the fuck did you get the bird from?

Uncle Dima gave it to us yesterday, Daddy. The pigeon brings spring!

Lea giggles. She will pay. Dima is our next door neighbor. He is an Eastern European gentleman who breeds pigeons. A two-story-high aviary extends from his house to the end of his backyard. It must be against the zoning laws, by-laws, building codes, nature, humanity. But Dima is a retired wrestler. Evropah sham-pee-on, he says. I believe him. Dis ‘n’ dat, he says he works. Brand new luxury SUVs sit in his driveway. His son, who visits weekly, drives the latest M3. Dima is mortgage-free; I am not. Dima has scary tattoos; I have none. Dima frequently entertains our local politicians; I regale nobody. How can I complain about such an upstanding citizen and pigeon fancier? I must thank him for the pigeon.

My wife walks in the bedroom past the kids. She wears baggy sweatpants and a tight tee. Her hair is in a ponytail. She looks hot. She always looks hot when mad. She purses her lips and frowns in a sexy way before she is about to lay into me. A hint of exaggeration but I’m not sure. Long ago, I could tell.

Are you swearing in front of the children?

My wife knows, and I know, that I swear in front of the children.

Why do you hate me so much?

An interesting question. I have never answered it.

Why? Why? Why?

She is oblivious to the poo smeared on my forehead, the pillow in front of me, and the trapped bird. Then the cage catches her attention. My stupid grin. A flap from Mr. Spring Carrier.

My new...

Yes! Your new sheets. A fucking pigeon.

She tears up. From angry hot to crying hot. She leaves. But not before she comes over and pinches me very hard on my left biceps. She has a monstrous, vice-like grip. Her way of showing love, I guess. The newest addition on my arm will bruise for weeks. I’m used to the pain. It should dissipate in due time.

Are you going to put five dollars in the swearing jar?

My devious Lea. You win the bout, but we’ll meet again, I promise. I sit on the bed, hugging the pillow, already exhausted. My erection will not subside. I wonder if I must rub one off in the shower. I tell my kids to leave the cage, go downstairs, take ten bucks from the wallet on the side table and drop it in the fucking swear jar. I tell them I’m very upset. I tell them to leave, carefully avoiding Fuck again. I help the bird back to its home without difficulty. In the shower, the cold water calms me. No need to touch myself. I shave a face I do not recognize. Maybe just the eyes. They look like mine.

Friday. You simply have to start the morning with a smile. Even when you are on your way to work. My commute is so exciting that I want to exclaim, Out, out, brief candle! I pilot our sedan to a commuter rail station. A ten-minute drive in a once-safe old Volvo. Automatic, of course; my wife knows how to heel and toe but has always valued convenience. Empty child and booster seats in a panoramic rear view safety mirror remind me of my role in the world. At seven thirty, I reverse expertly into one of the few spots left in the farthest corner of the parking lot. I jog back not to miss my train. What a nice way to break in a new shirt. The long trip to the city is uneventful. Upon disembarking, I dive in a sea of humans and emerge on a subway platform.

Here, I fight for standing room with ladies and gentlemen of all races, nationalities, and levels of hygiene. When the train approaches and opens its doors, I swim forward with an energetic front crawl. Once inside, more often than not, I receive an elbow to the kidneys. But I prefer that to the aroma of fried onions, garlic, or other fragrant herbs. And I choose those over body odor. The subway ride is very short but eventful for all the senses.

The elbow to the kidneys lands. Over my shoulder, I see two Asian women chat and make room for themselves. They look up. I nod approvingly. Years ago, an insurance adjuster emailed me a link to a website that asked you to distinguish Korean, Chinese, and Japanese faces. I scored seven out of eighteen. Not great. The adjuster had explained the difference afterwards: if a person’s face is square, he or she is Korean; if not—Chinese. There was a cheat about the Japanese which I forget. I was assured by the adjuster that the website was not racist because she was half-Japanese herself and was not offended. I later admitted I did not forward the link to anyone. Our budding friendship was cut short. She stopped assigning files to me. My wife says I’m terrible at networking. In any event, if I avoid breathing, the subway ride is an excellent opportunity to meditate to the tune of my favorite song. The doors on the train go open and shut, open and shut, open and shut.

I work in a very prestigious building. I’m one of the least paid professional employees here but the address is a vestige of dignity for me. You see, I play a lawyer on a reality TV show called Life Is Good but It Sucks. I’m the star and cameras follow me everywhere. INT. OFFICE TOWER—34th FLOOR—DAY. Coming off the elevator I say hello to our attractive receptionist whose outfit costs more than mine. I have my Friday smile on: huge and fake. I trudge to my office and greet colleagues and staff in the same polite way. I do not discriminate against people on the basis of their having spent thousands of dollars on worthless education or their having wasted their lives working for people who have spent thousands of dollars on worthless education. My attitude is colored by my disdain for academia; my manners, however, are not.

My office is Spartan. A great achievement made possible by the reams of paper I bring home every other night. I bring the paper home to do important work: read thoroughly, annotate, and summarize, first on yellow legal pads and then on my firm laptop. I use fancy legal software to create magical databases of documents, transcripts, correspondence, comments and exhibits. When I have done what I have done, I write a memo about what I have done. When I have finished the memo, I dictate another one to my secretary. I break down my hard labor to the littlest of tasks, describe them fully, and estimate how many 360-second intervals I ought to have spent on each one so that the most nefarious software can spit out how much money the firm must charge the clients for my time and keep track of how little I contribute to the firm’s bottom line in the grand scheme of things. Describing the work is an art and very important. The wording is scrutinized by different evil software installed by the clients to reduce their legal fees. Defeating it consistently is not achieved easily. All of this is a very exciting and rewarding process for a fancy big-city litigator like me.

Of course, reality is different. I simply cache the paper in my basement. Like a caching rat. Every two weeks, give or take, always on a weekend, I fill up the car with a careful selection of the ripest bankers boxes and truck them back to the office. I dictate memoranda to junior associates to read thoroughly, annotate and summarize the paperwork ASAP. I come home for a well-deserved rest from fruitful husbandry. I wish. Instead, my wife always yells at me about the cost of parking and my general profligacy because common sense tells us I could have transported the rich yield by public transit. Packrat was the word I was looking for. A rat, nonetheless. A profligate rat.

As soon as I walk in my office, I regret the decision not to call in sick. A memo lies on my chair, face down. I immediately realize that I did not follow my Friday routine for dressing in my shirt and suit from left to right. I fucked up the only thing I had to do today. A single piece of paper on a chair, face down, never bodes well. It is not a heads-up for a new file, a request for a favor, or a high-five. On the contrary. It is an admonishment, command, or something very, very scary.

I pick up the memo fatalistically and read it in a quick hazy glance. Froggy and Mr. Stork, the managing partners, want to see me in fifteen minutes in Froggy’s office. I know what the meeting is about. I will not make partner after eight years with the firm. Emotions rush in. I cannot describe what they are but at the very moment they are not all negative. A powerful wave closes out. After indeterminate time, a current brings me up, and I can breathe again. A huge burden has been lifted from my chest. No more pretending I like work, no more constant worry about clients, dates, fees and billing, billing, billing. The relief is fleeting. How do I support my family? A base-surge rolls over. I close my eyes. The darkness envelops me, and I stand accepting it, impotent. After a while, I feel like what is happening is happening to someone else, snuffing out someone else’s life. Dissociating allows me to open my eyes again and move.

I leave the office for the washroom. The cold water eases a familiar tightness in my head. There you are, my friend. I remove my flipper by habit and swirl and spit. I fix it back on and look at myself in the mirror. Pucks and people to the net, boys, pucks and people to the net. Part-time effort, part-time results. In hockey, and in life. And I ran out of effort. Long time ago. I have no desire to make something out of my life as a lawyer. As anything? I ran out of ambition. How did it happen? One day at a time, of course. I know it. For years, my wife went over my lack of drive every night, helped sink it in. Is there a bottom? I’m not even mad at being fired. Sad, yes, but not mad.

Lo and behold, Froggy enters the washroom to do his dirty business. He is short. An avid cyclist, swimmer and a runner, he is the perfect exemplar of the Ironman wannabe. My father has few grand sayings: one, never trust a communist; two, there’s nothing worse in the world than a communist—save another communist; and, three, under every stone lurks a communist. Over the years, he expanded the definition of a communist to include any member or supporter of a party, organization, or association of any kind. I disagree with that. Most people in parties, organizations or associations rally behind known causes. They set out to bring their apparatchik agenda to fruition even if secretly advancing their own petty goals. So to a large extent, they are predictable. I, on the other hand, never trust people interested in individual sports. They are always full of themselves. There is no common agenda. Their only cause is Me. Example: Lance Armstrong. And don’t tell me he was in a team sport. I rest my case. Same with short men. Not on the level most of the time. I should know because my best friend is a shorty. Two strikes for Froggy. Legend has it that at a firm party two decades ago, a retired founder inspecting the new blood ran into a diminutive man with a French name and asked him who he was. We are not privy to the full exchange, but that much is known: the founder ended the conversation with, Frog, turned his back, and never spoke to the man again. I love that story. Strike three.

At the sinks, Froggy avoids eye contact but is chatty.

How are you?

Not well.

He mumbles in response and disappears into a stall. Little Froggy, I’m thinking. You are about to fire me and you will not even give me a heads-up. What have I done to you, I wonder. You are a little man.

I exit the washroom. I’m back in the experimental maze. I search for Froggy’s office and avoid contact with the other hamsters. At the end of my journey, his very pleasant and capable secretary ushers me in. The partners come in after minutes lasting an eternity. I shake hands with Mr. Stork, but not with Froggy. He does not even offer his, so it is not awkward.

I like Mr. Stork. My first meeting with him was during my summer job with the firm. I was asked to go to his office and report on a file I had been working on while he was away on vacation. With great anticipation, I opened the door to the corner suite to meet the man, the top dog, the legend. I found an old man seated behind a big partner’s desk with an inlaid marble top, crying uncontrollably, head in hands, elbows on the marble. The secretary, an old maid who had devoted her life to the professional advancement of the weeping man sat on a chair against the wall. She cast such a look on me that I felt scared for the first time in a long time. I thought I projected an image of a man who could battle good ol’ prairie boys three times his size—a man with no front teeth and no fear—but the lady did not think so one bit. With a somber tone, she told me a very important document was missing from the file. In fact, it was missing from the office. Lost! The old man sobbed and with a broken voice leveled the accusation that I had sabotaged his work and his old secretary, incompetent as she was, had done nothing to protect him. That was Mr. Stork, then, at sixty-nine years of age.

The secretary and I stood perfectly still. We stood still for so long my back hurt. The beastly stork on the elaborate heraldic achievement bedecking the wall behind the crying man hurled the rock it was holding and hit me on the head. Then grabbed another rock and did it again. When your back is killing you, your mind is playing tricks. When Mr. Stork got up, to show me the way out of the legal profession no doubt, the missing document, the key to the case, revealed itself. It peeked shyly behind his skinny behind, glued to his buttocks. A couple of steps in and it dislodged, glided down and landed on the floor in front of him. Without missing a beat, Mr. Stork procured a dictaphone from his pocket and, disregarding the terrifying body cracks ringing out, bent over to pick up the document. He then proceeded to dictate a short reporting letter to the client. Once finished, he shooed us out with his elbow, perplexed at what exactly we were doing in his office. And that is why I hate people leaving stuff on my chair. I imagine myself at sixty-nine, well past the mandatory retirement policy of the firm, pretending to practice law, in adult diapers, sitting on a key document, unaware. Perhaps crying.

In the present, Mr. Stork is uncomfortable. When lucid, he used to be quite partial to me. He played varsity hockey at our alma mater and, consequently, I was the son he never had. At least for the first couple of years. Mr. Stork has three daughters. The oldest left for Europe when she turned eighteen and never contacted the family again. The middle is a lesbian. They don’t speak much. The youngest died from cancer in her twenties.

Froggy begins.

We value your contribution to the firm...

He looks at flies when he talks. Years ago, at a send-off for a partner accepting a political appointment, after Froggy had finished a riveting goodbye speech, another partner, who is sadly no longer with the firm, opened his piece with, Where do you want me to start, and turned his head to canvass the ceiling and walls and all the places Froggy had scrutinized while orating. The room chuckled. I imagine Froggy did not like that. I may have sat close by, come to think of it. Now, it is not that funny.

...the firm is, however, experiencing restructuring...

The restructuring can be summarized succinctly: it’s a bear market; the four rainmakers in our office wanted more points but were turned down; they left within the last two years; Froggy inherited the office, along with Mr. Stork.

There is nothing to add. Yet, Froggy is intent on droning on and on about the restructuring, the market, lateral hires, client pressures, and who knows what else.

Froggy and Mr. Stork. Mr. Stork and Froggy. Frog and stork. The frog says ribbit. Or does it say croak, I wonder. Croak, croak, croak. Froggy does sound ribbity though.

R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ribbit.

R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ribbit.

R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ribbit.

Mr. Stork nods gravely from time to time. What does the stork say, anyway? Clang? Clack? Maybe it only throws rocks and shit. Fuck it. I’m amazed they fired me only now. I was never a good fit. I was never good at climbing the pyramid called full-service mid-level law firm. Started from the bottom, now I’m fired. Okay, started from the bottom as a summer student. I disregard, of course, the non-human element affectionately called support staff. When times are tough, the firm coddles and bamboozles the summers lest they spread malicious rumors. Please, pretty please, don’t post bad things about us on the internets. Two years ago, I was deemed trustworthy enough to be assigned the secret mission of browsing forums for defamatory comments and salary information. With that came the online gambling, an old friend, but it was checked and in the end I lost only a few bills. I was credited with a lot of hours. The firm is unable to attract top talent if there are bad vibrations among eager beaver law students. Or so the theory goes. The firm did not invent the practice of lying to students. The firm has not invented anything. Top talent and mid-level firms do not go together. Just look at me. But we pretend otherwise and we pretend we are leaders and innovators. Back to my obligatory lawyer-making-fun-of-lawyers-how-original pyramid theory. The associates work for the partners. There are partners and partners, though. The service partners work for the equity partners. The equity partners work for the top dogs. The top dogs, finally, work for ex-wives and estranged children. In addition to the alimony, the disadvantage of always fucking younger women is the trail of squirts you leave—about to enter grade school, high school, college, marriage—all the way to the eldest who is in the middle of a messy divorce. They all need money. And you have to pay: straight cash, homie. In my case, I did not hitch my wagon to the right people and the top dog, by the process of attrition, chance, serendipity, whatever, turned out to be a frog.

Yet I thought I got along with the departed rainmakers. And with most of the partners in the office. As if that meant anything. I ran afoul of Froggy. I believe at the moment he continues to go over the restructuring the firm is experiencing.

Sir, can I ask you a question? Is the firm experiencing a restructuring?

I try positive thinking. What I will not miss at work and gladly leave behind. The long hours, the pressure to bill, the dealings with sleazebags and commies and Ironman wannabes, the whole legal system? I cannot say that. If I want to keep pretending that I’m a lawyer, it will be the same, wherever I go. The crux of the problem.

Then a specific file comes to mind. A much needed Oxycodone hit for my tired body. The client is a badly disfigured young man. I call him Franckie. Not after Frankenstein, I’m not unemotional. My wife leveled the accusation the first time I told her about the file. I think she meant callous. She