Osireion's Library

By Baron Brady

A disaffected contract attorney, who would much rather be writing, accepts a mind-numbing job as a document review attorney only to suspect that it's a memory of a mistake which could never be undone. It's only when he stumbles upon a secret library, along with a series of books written by the protagonist of a story he's been meaning to write about for years, that he embarks on a quest for a better future by rewriting his past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257722389

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OSIREION’S LIBRARY

by Baron Brady

BARON’S BOOKS

www.baronbrady.com

Osireion’s Library

First Lulu Edition, 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Baron Brady

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

ISBN: 978-1-257-72238-9

Printed in the United States of America

This book can be purchased at www.lulu.com

For more information about the author and his novels, go to Baron’s Books:

http://www.baronbrady.com

I never intended to stay for very long; not that I had the slightest idea how long I should stay. But I was advised not to stay long because the longer I stayed the harder it would be to leave; or so I was told.

Not that I believe what I’m told. Sometimes I do and sometimes I have my doubts. But I had no doubts this time. I was confident that I’d been given something which I’d grown accustomed to doing without: sound advice. I didn’t know for certain, of course. But if I knew anything for certain it was what a risky proposition it was to make myself at home where I wasn’t at home. You grow comfortable but it’s only an illusion of comfort because the reality is no one wants a stranger in his home; not for very long anyway. And I was always a stranger when I started a job. A stranger when I begun and no less of a stranger when I left, which invariably took several months at the outset and as little as a day where I found myself least welcome.

Truth be told (since I’ve never had the nerve to risk getting caught in a lie), I’m a lawyer; not that I ever felt like one. But it’s what I was, which wasn’t something I wanted to be. I would rather have been something else. But you have to be something these days because if you’re not something you’re nothing; and despite feeling like nothing much of the time, I never wanted to be nothing. It’s never an ambition, just the unfortunate consequence of a life lived without purpose.

Though, to be fair, my life had purpose, just not the right purpose. I wasn’t sure I deserved what I really wanted so I settled for less and when asked if I wanted to be an attorney, I agreed; disingenuous, of course, but I agreed with a smile. No one knew I was lying, least of all myself; because if I’d known, I would have told the truth: that I had no interest in being an attorney and that my ambitions lay elsewhere.

Fact is, I wanted to write; a pity I didn’t realize that until I was already doing something else. But at least I’d determined my calling eventually. Though as a practicing attorney, it was harder than ever to find time to pursue my writing. I would have willingly abandoned a career which proved to be an unmitigated misery, but once a lawyer always a lawyer. So it was too late.

Yet, there’s a difference between wanting something and having the wherewithal to possess it, because I wrote, but to no avail; which is to say I couldn’t write, at least not well enough. So I’m not a writer, which is why I still call myself an attorney; an attorney by default. Not that I was attorney-like in the least. I was nothing like other attorneys. I was a writer by temperament, not a lawyer; but I was a lawyer by training and ability, not a writer. Never one thing entirely but always something else; something I wasn’t but something I wanted to become.

All the same, I was a lawyer and have remained one to this day. Though I’m not just any lawyer. I’m a contract lawyer; an increasingly common breed of halfhearted lawyers who practice law without having the appetite to practice it in more than a piecemeal fashion. We remain lawyers, only less lawyerly than before; waiting for an opportunity to make a clean break, as if we could ever break from what we are and would always be; though there was always the hope that we would become so unlawyerly as to become virtual clean slates, unmarred by the disappointment of having settled for a career for which we felt no passion, despite an unfortunate aptitude for linear-thinking and impeccable work habits. 

I was an attorney, which did nothing to alleviate the suspicion that I was an imposter. Chances are no one noticed but me, but that was enough. It would have been alright if I’d been taken in. I would have been none the wiser for not knowing my true nature. But I did. I knew I was pretending to be a man I never wanted to be in the first place. Yet if I couldn’t convince myself, how could I convince anyone else? Nor would I want to convince anyone of something I couldn’t believe myself, which would have been the most rank of hypocrisies. I didn’t commit to paying back a small fortune to become a hypocrite.

That’s only because you didn’t score a big firm job, concluded my erstwhile friend Hiram when I’d revealed my feelings on the matter. You’d be a hypocrite for six figures, wouldn’t you? he asked me.

Conjecture, I replied without answering him. I was afraid to answer him, not because I feared losing his good opinion of me. If anything, Hiram would have admired me more for admitting the occasional venial sin. What I feared was the truth since I didn’t like the idea of lying to anyone much less myself. I could imagine a lie but when it came to giving voice to the lie, I invariably told the truth.

Of course, it would be rank hypocrisy to claim I could never tell a lie; then again, it was true; I couldn’t lie, though not for want of trying. If I could have lied my way out of my disappointment by committing myself to an ill-suited career path, I would have done so. I would have lied my way out of my misery, if only for a few moments reprieve from the shameful truth that I’d sold myself short for a chance at turning a healthy profit, only I couldn’t do it. To make it worse, I couldn’t even turn a healthy profit as a lawyer, which made my disappointment twofold.

Fact is, I was never good at pretending.

Self-sabotage, explained Hiram that same evening, waxing wise while noisily sipping the froth off his Irish stout.

Hiram had an answer to everything; at least he wanted to believe he did. Quick to advise, he imagined his prescriptions for an ideal life invaluable. Of course, he was often wrong, but I never told him that. Though if he’d asked me what I thought of his advice, I would have certainly told him the truth. He never asked me because he didn’t care what I thought.  He never doubted the quality of his advice, which is most likely because he never thought about it much.

Funny, though, that those with the most to say about the world are the very people who think about it the least. I don’t know how they do it.

Hiram was right about the self-sabotage. I didn’t want to be a lawyer, but rather than endeavor to make it work, I did everything I could to fail at it.

It’s not that you’re not smart, Aldo, he answered. You’re just not smart enough to properly address your bottom line.

Which is what?

You’re capable of making money and you refuse.

I don’t refuse.

It takes guts to refuse. You, however, just make yourself dispensable.

Despite the veiled insult, Hiram was right once again. I hated it when he was right and fully resolved upon saying nothing for a full five minutes while Hiram soliloquized on the merits of milking the system for all it was worth.

As if I don’t pay enough taxes, he said while I happened to be listening to him. So I’d say I’m within my rights. I’ve worked hard. I’ve earned it. Every penny.

He continued to speak but I’d tuned him out. If he’d so much as looked at my face while he spoke, he would have noticed as much; but Hiram never noticed. He wasn’t good with people even though he called himself a people person.

I didn’t have Hiram’s knack for self-deception. He never noticed his own faults, whereas I couldn’t help but notice mine. They were shamefully obvious, perhaps not just to me but to everyone. But one of my worst faults was my incapacity for direct communication. In other words, I was uncomfortable sharing my true feelings with anyone. Of course, I never lied about my feelings; and if anyone ever asked, I would have volunteered the truth, however damaging the answer. Few ever asked. Certainly not Hiram, otherwise I would have told him I considered much of his advice ill-conceived and that I regarded him not as an eminent realist but as a bombastic windbag whose inflated ego rendered him incapable of real thought.

When faced with a lie or an unpleasant truth, I invariably chose a third option: silence. 

Did you say something? asked Hiram while I’d been struggling to direct my thoughts as far from him as possible.

No, I answered, surprised that he’d even bothered to notice me. It was out of character for him. But everyone goes out of character now and then. We forget ourselves, which is a good thing sometimes.

Anyway, I was saying that these people don’t have a clue. I have to explain everything to them. It makes you wonder if anyone uses their brains.

I nodded agreeably while turning my thoughts to myself. It was how my conversations with Hiram invariably played out, if you can even call them conversations. He said when he wanted to say, and I pretended to listen while imagining the discussion I wished we were having. Hiram found an audience for his pompous self-indulgence while I could almost convince myself I’ve gotten things off my chest. It was a lie, all the same, this arrangement of convenience masquerading as a friendship.

Though why you didn’t hold on to that associate job is beyond me. You could have had what I have. You could have been happy.

I heard every word but I said nothing rather than explain that he was a bigger fool than I’d ever imagined if he believed I envied him anything. Though I did what I always did when I tired of someone’s company. I admitted I was tired without confessing the full reason.

You know, it’s getting late.

I don’t know what you do with your time. I mean you’re not looking for a job.

I have a job.

That’s not a job, he replied with the ill-disguised contempt which was his calling card.

I’ll be getting paid.

But you’re not doing anything.

I do what someone else asks me to do, which I think is what most people would call a job. It would be different if I were doing what I wanted.

You can have both, you know? he answered, as if to suggest that he did. Though, truth be told, he wasn’t happy being a lawyer even though he wouldn’t admit it. He never had a good word to say about anyone or his colleagues, nor did he think much of his clients even though they made it possible for him to earn an inflated salary as an associate of Stepton, Stock and Wahldup, or the SS as I called it, much to Hiram’s annoyance.

I can? I asked him with enough of a smile to suggest I wasn’t always prepared to give him a free pass.       And you don’t because you think you can’t, he answered with an air of polished wisdom. Though, truth be told, it was either accidental wisdom or, more likely than not, someone else’s wisdom. It was always the same phrases, which he mixed and matched to suit the occasion. Usually it made no sense, but on occasion it did.

I can. I just don’t want to.

That’s why I don’t understand you, he answered as if Hiram ever attempted to understand. It made no difference to him whether I landed a great job or not; though I long suspected that my inability to earn the sums he could command was a boon to his self-image. He liked friends who’d failed. Those who hadn’t failed were too self-important, as he called it, to listen to him.

You don’t have to understand, I suggested, realizing that Hiram’s attempt at advice was disingenuous. It was bad advice, and he knew it; and he gave me bad advice (and by bad advice I mean advice ill-suited to my nature and situation) because he didn’t want me to succeed. It was a competition. It was his destiny to come out on top; and it was his destiny because he’d earned it. He sure as hell didn’t think I’d earned anything.

I’m only trying to help you, he replied, convinced, I’m sure, that he was. 

I appreciate that, I answered, only because I appreciated the attempt; unless I had a greater capacity for mendacity than I ever thought possible.

Well, I wouldn’t get too comfortable there, he said before retrieving his wallet and taking out a credit card. The longer you stay the harder it will be for you to get a real attorney job.

And what if I don’t want a real attorney job?

Hiram scrutinized my face as if to gauge whether I was having him on or not, though he didn’t know how to read my face. A classic poker-face he called it. But I revealed only what I wanted others to see; a legitimate defensive tactic when it came to people who studied you only to make better use of you.

Unsure how to reply, Hiram shrugged and turned his attention to the waitress, mouthing the words Check. I, on the other hand, reached for my wallet, wondering how Hiram would avoid paying his share of the bill. He always ordered more drinks (not to drown his disguised sorrows but because he could handle it, as he put it) and yet he always insisted on splitting the bill down the middle. It was only equitable, he claimed, as if he knew what equitable meant. It had nothing to do with equity and everything to do with ensuring he gave my wallet an unwelcome pinch. He knew I ordered fewer drinks because I couldn’t afford more, and yet he expected me to pay more as if to remind me I couldn’t. As a contract attorney I was often out of work; though it was different now that I was working again. I didn’t mind splitting the bill, even when Hiram had the lion’s share of the booze.

Retrieving a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet, I offered it to Hiram. It was more than half the bill; but without an acknowledgment of my generosity, Hiram took the note and pocketed it.

So you’re giving it a week?

They told me a few weeks, so I’m not too worried.

Well, it’s your life, he answered, barely disguising his contempt, as usual; contempt not for me but for not being more like him.

I smiled. I appreciated those moments when he and I would agree on something. My life was mine to squander, and I was doing just fine on my own. Though I wasn’t squandering it the way he thought I was. The problem was my persistence in practicing law despite having discovered how ill-suited I was to it. I had no business doing something I disliked; and if I resented it enough to refuse to thrive at it, I was only sealing my fate. Practicing law meant misery and failure, and yet I couldn’t give it up. What else was there to call it but self-sabotage?

There was nothing more to say to each other, so we parted ways, each with a peremptory nod of the head.

I couldn’t fathom Hiram’s objections to my job as a contract attorney on a document review project at Stepton, Stock and Wahldup when it was Hiram who suggested I contact the firm. Of course, I’d contacted the firm with a view to working as an associate; but with my resume not being up to scratch, they directed me to an agency which staffed temporary attorneys on their voluminous discovery projects.

There were procedures to follow, the procedure, in this case, to direct me to an outside party since apparently few associates had any direct dealings with the contract department, or the Department of Practice Management, as it was called; a moniker which, committing itself to nothing, also revealed nothing. But it was something; there was no doubt of that. Everything was something. But practice management was potentially so much of everything you’d imagine the practice of law to have nothing at all to do with the practice of law, which for someone like me wanting out of the industry, sounded like something of a godsend.   

Hiram knew nothing about the Department of Practice Management, but he cautioned me against it all the same. The less he knew of something, the more suspicious he was of it. As for me, the less I knew of something, the more intrigued I was to know more. Innate curiosity kicked in, and nothing Hiram could say about looking elsewhere would dissuade me from satisfying it.

Yet I had no intention of staying long because I never stayed very long at any job, much less an attorney job. I didn’t like the work; not arguing with impertinent court clerks or kowtowing to overbearing judges; not answering to the equally self-aggrandizing partners or attempting to find anything in common with sycophantic associates, all too eager to please; not the aggrieved and often vindictive clients and not the unnecessarily belligerent opposing counsel. There was too much gamesmanship and not enough humanity. But it was the nature of the game; only I was tired of playing games. Games were for boys and girls who enjoyed running around in circles and playing hide and seek. I wanted to go off and read, which is what I did, until I realized I was better off putting that time into writing my own books.

And no, I’m not the man who talks about doing something and never finds the time to do it. I made the time to write, only it wasn’t what I’d hoped it would be. Brilliant conception but disappointing execution, though that had a lot to do with my own high expectations.

I couldn’t think about writing now that I was about to begin a job; my first in several months. I was already beginning to forget I wanted to write, not work as an attorney. I often forgot myself, which was part of the problem. I got so caught up with the person other people expected me to be that I almost enjoyed convincing others I was just like them.

I’d interviewed already, first with the agency and then with the Director of the Department of Practice Management, one Todd Hightower, a man who said little more than need be said. Hightower was all business, which suited me fine because I wasn’t interested in pretending to care when I didn’t. It wasn’t about fitting in, something I was never very skilled at as an attorney. The work was easy enough. It was the pretending that was nigh impossible. Recruiters chose associates who could contemplate partner track. I didn’t; and if, by some chance, I did land an associate job, it was only because I’d been too eager to tell them what they wanted to hear. But they found me out soon enough and it wasn’t long before the work dried up and I was out pounding the pavement looking for another job to lose.

I was a contract attorney now. Everything was temporary, making it much easier to commit to a project. No partner track, no hourly billing, but no benefits either. I worked as long as there was work to be done, and then I’d be asked to leave, reviewing documents requested by opposing counsel or reviewing documents produced by opposing counsel.

Lawsuits were even more document heavy than ever, now that electronic communication gave us more information to sift through; making it easier for attorneys to accrue billable time reviewing documents, or to overburden the other party with a barrage of document requests; not that the attorneys perused the documents themselves; it was the job of the contract attorney to wade through the tedious mess of emails, contracts, spreadsheets and powerpoints.

We were on the front lines but got no credit for it. We were anonymous. Clients knew nothing about us, and the associates and partners intended to keep it that way. Then again, the work was simple. My task was to read the documents and then mark them either responsive to the discovery request, or not, categorize them and then determine if there was enough reason to invoke the attorney-client privilege; an oft-used excuse to keep the business of lawyering as secret and highfalutin’ as possible. Less responsibility but less glory, though I wasn’t interested in glory, not as an attorney anyway.

Anyway, my meeting with Hightower came after a significant dry spell, professionally and creatively. Odd how my failure to secure work left me without the wherewithal to write so much as a word, as if I could only write as a hobby and not as a full-fledged career path.

The usual fear of commitment, suggested my girlfriend Mona. Mona Meyrink was her name, and, truth be told, she wasn’t exactly a girlfriend. Our relationship had never been entirely clear. She was never one for a relationship, telling me she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, just a friend who could please her in ways that female friends never could. Though for someone who often complained about her life being too complicated, she was uncommonly adept at dismissing something and then praising it after calling it by a different name, as if the form of the thing were the reality itself.

Fear of commitment? I asked, astonished that she, of all people, would call me on that. Aren’t you the one afraid of commitment?

We all are, was her casual reply. Commitment or not, it was all the same to her.      I would have called her a nihilist if the thought of being summed up in a word wasn’t completely distasteful to her. It was distasteful to me too. And we had many a talk about how short-sighted people were and yet how quick to judge. It was how we bonded, talking about the failures of others, and forgetting our own. It was like love, this forgetting of things I usually never failed to remember. All that mattered was being with her; not the past but that moment; each delicious, eternal moment which felt like being with someone who knew what I was thinking and felt what I was feeling. There was no pretending with someone like Mona, which was a relief because I never enjoyed playing the man people thought I was. I liked Mona because I figured she was like me.

How so? I asked her.

Because we expect others to do all the committing, you know? But do we ever commit to anything? Just look at us. Both of us still attorneys because you can’t give it up and because I don’t care either way. Though what else are we doing?

I’m committed to writing.

And what happens if you give it up?

I wouldn’t.

And if you did?

I don’t know. I’d still be a lawyer.

So you’re not committed to it.

I said I was.

But you don’t lose anything by changing your mind; which isn’t a commitment, is it? You haven’t given anything up.

I’ve given up my time, I explained, something she didn’t understand. She’d never given anything up because she always had everything she wanted. Her family was wealthy, and they sent her to law school because they wanted to give her a good head start; only she never intended to practice law. She did enough to keep her parents off her back and to maintain some semblance of independence, though it wasn’t financial independence. She asked them for money and they gave it unconditionally, fully expecting her to make good. She remained employed, but never for very long.

At first glance, we seemed to have everything in common, but Mona wasn’t going anywhere. I’m alive, she once told me, and that’s enough. It was never enough for me to just be alive. I wanted to do great things, something I’d never do as an attorney, which, Mona explained to me was because attorneys never did great things, only petty things for significant profit.

Time is eternal. You can’t parcel it up and make any of it yours.

You know what I mean, I said, frustrated whenever she intentionally misconstrued my remarks. She was supposed to understand me better than anyone else, even if we were diametrically opposed.

But you haven’t given up anything that was yours.

Nor have you.

But I don’t want anything.

I’m having a hard time believing you don’t care about anything, I told her.

What should I care about?

Someone else. Someone like me.

Alright. I care about you, she answered unenthusiastically, which was as close as she was likely to come to telling me she loved me. I didn’t think her capable of love, which was fine because I wasn’t looking for love. Love was an idea and I wanted something real, something to take my mind off all the other ideas which had failed me, like becoming a writer so I wouldn’t have to practice law anymore.

You don’t sound like you mean it.

Do I have to act it out for the words to have any meaning?

No, it’s just that I don’t know what we have.

Whatever two people have, that’s what we have.

You said two people never share anything. They’re always alone.

Well, it’s the truth, she maintained fiercely as if I were calling her beliefs, or lack of beliefs, into question, which of course I was.

Then what’s your incentive? I mean why spend time with anyone if there’s isn’t even a chance of sharing something most people don’t? What’s the incentive if there’s no hope of making a connection?

I don’t know, she answered listlessly. She was uncommonly somber that night, the night before I started my first day of work at Hiram’s firm.

She was usually cheerful despite her nihilistic turn of phrase; buoyant and eager to relish the moment because the moment was all that mattered to her. But that was then and now her demeanor suited her words. They were one and the same and it was beyond disappointing.

She’d warned me about her black moods, but I thought she was joking. Everything was a lark and nothing worth taking seriously. But she was still human, even if she claimed she wasn’t troubled by the same longings and needs.

People are so needy, she told me the first night I met her. We’d gone to the same law school, and she remembered me when she saw me at a bar and struck up a conversation. I’d remembered her too and was surprised that she’d taken any notice. I rarely saw her in class, and I’d long suspected she hadn’t bothered to finish her final term; but she’d mustered up enough willpower to see herself through graduation and to land herself a job as a contract attorney on a document review project, the first of many.

But I’m not needy, she added that first night I saw her since graduation. I promise you that.

She was being provocative, as usual. She had a habit of saying one thing and meaning something else entirely, which was why she liked me, because I could see though half the things she said. She could deny her needs but I knew them first-hand.

She was now suffering under the weight of her thoughts, and I didn’t know how to act. I was new to this, but I couldn’t bear to watch someone so high-spirited sink into herself as if she wanted to disappear, or at least become someone or something else. 

Let’s go somewhere, I suggested. I was exhausted and anxious for sleep.

You’ve got an early morning, she replied without meeting my gaze.

So do you, I reminded her. She was a contract attorney in the Department of Practice Management at Stepton, Stock and Wahldup, though not once did she suggest I join her there. I wanted to join her, but I liked her too much to risk putting a strain on our relationship by working together; besides which, I didn’t want her to assume I joined the Department to spend more time with her. She was a private person, and I respected that. I was a private person too. But she told me we were kindred spirits, and the less I saw her, the truer it felt. It was one thing to call someone a kindred spirit and another thing to act on it, and I was willing to act on it if she wasn’t.

The opportunity to work there came only when I’d contacted my old friend Hiram who had been working as an associate there for several years. When he suggested I submit a resume, I did; and before long, I was interviewing with Hightower.

I told Mona beforehand, not wanting to surprise her by meeting her there the day of my interview. She cautioned me to reconsider. I assured her there was no harm, that it was a short project. But she said she wasn’t comfortable working with me, and that there was a time and a place for everything, including us. She led me to believe I was spoiling something which had, until then, been so pure.

I promised her I’d consider her as a stranger. But it wasn’t the assurance she wanted. She said I deserved better, and I wasn’t clear whether she meant the job or her. She knew I wanted something more, but this was only a job. After some back and forth, we agreed to table the discussion, but she remained silent on the subject, soured by the news or by something she refused to tell me.

I was thinking about her when I sat down with Hightower. He’d kept me waiting for forty-five minutes; a typical occurrence, as I was given to understand.

Mr. Hightower is a busy man, explained his assistant Dot, a nervous young woman who spoke of Hightower as if she knew what it was like to be him, his moods effectively hers.

With an entire department to manage, you can imagine. He does everything. Everything. Not a moment to himself. But it has to be like that. It wouldn’t work otherwise; everyone doing as they pleased without him to keep us focused. But it has to be him. No one else can do it. I’m just happy to be here. And I’m sure you’ll be happy here too. Everyone is.

Having peered into the contract attorney rooms in search of Mona, and not finding her, I was struck by how cheerless everyone seemed. Then again, it was cheerless work.

And if I make his job that little bit easier, I’m happy. But I feel for him. I really do. He’ll like you, I’m sure. You seem nice. Quiet. But, oh my God. He’s off the phone. I didn’t realize. Wait here and I’ll tell him you’re ready.

I did just that as she sprung from her seat and rapped softly on a door across the hallway. I heard nothing, contemplated nothing but Mona. I’d been hoping to find her, though I suspected it was for the best I couldn’t

Mr. Hightower will see you now, came the request as she raced back to her seat, her fingers pounding furiously on the keyboard. I stood and approached the open door.

Hightower was sitting at a cluttered desk in an equally cluttered office. He was a middle-aged man, nondescript in appearance but smartly dressed. Busying himself with some paperwork, he neglected to acknowledge me with so much as a glance before speaking.

You ready now?

Well, yes, I assured him, as eager to please as ever though unsure what to say to someone I was expected to impress. I wanted to be myself, but I could never be myself with someone who expected to be treated better than others. I was never entirely sure how much better they wanted to be treated.

Placing my resume on the side of his desk, I took a seat facing him.   

I don’t like to be kept waiting.

I was waiting, I explained.

And then he lifted his gaze and, peering over his glasses, gave me the once over; his expression impassive and impossible to read.

So you want to be a document reviewer? he inquired as he returned to his writing.

Well, it’s not that it’s my ambition, but it’s work.

Yeah, he replied, his gaze meeting mine. Well, just as long as you know what it is and what it isn’t.

I think so.

Hightower smiled. I couldn’t tell if I amused him or not.

You’d be the bottom of the totem-pole, as it were.

I nodded my understanding. Not that I was agreeable to being the bottom of the totem-pole, but I was no stranger to this kind of work. I had no misplaced expectations. I just wanted a place to be left alone and work easy enough to free my mind for less lawyerly preoccupations.

I’m not interested in a legal career, I informed him while Hightower turned his attention to my resume.

Then you’re in the right place … he answered as if fishing for my name.

Aldo Weiss, I told him.

Yes, I can see that, he said.

I smiled, but he didn’t notice. He didn’t seem particularly impressed with me but there wasn’t anything about the job I couldn’t do, though I couldn’t belittle the job without appearing too good for it.

I’ll have to submit your name to the conflicts department, he continued. And if everything looks fine, someone’ll give you a call.

I’ll look forward to it, I answered in an attempt at enthusiasm. Then again, there wasn’t much else to say.

It’s a two-week project, he continued. Then again, you never know.

Of course, I replied. I’ve done this work before so I know.

Alright then, he answered before turning to his paperwork.

It was a pleasure meeting you, I told him as I took to my feet.

Don’t be so sure of that, was his cryptic reply. I was confident he was humoring me, but he barely cracked a smile.

I offered him my hand and he offered his. We shook.

Thank you, I added, again for lack of anything better to say.

It was the last I‘d heard about him until the conflicts department called to inform me I’d cleared conflicts and that I was expected to report to Hightower that Friday morning.

Friday? I asked the woman who’d called.

He always starts projects on Fridays, was the polite reply.

And so it was decided. I was once again an employed contract attorney. Doing work which should have been beneath me, but which kept me once removed from the attorney work I detested; just not entirely removed. I was an attorney and yet I wouldn’t have to feel like one. And not being entirely one thing or another, I could disappear.

It was Mona who’d practically disappeared. I wanted to tell her in person that we’d be working together, only she wasn’t answering her phone. I suspected she knew, which was why she’d been avoiding me. When she did call me, she excused herself, telling me she’d been feeling out of sorts. She sounded like a different person. I feared it was my fault, but she assured me it had nothing to do with me. She was thrilled to see me more often, she assured me, though she couldn’t have sounded less thrilled.

It was no different the night before my first day. She was lifeless that evening.

I can stay here if you like, I suggested that night. I didn’t want to leave. Her place was more accommodating than my dingy den of a bachelor apartment; besides, she needed company.   

We barely know each other, she replied.

You called me a kindred spirit.

I call people a lot of things, she whispered to herself.

What did I do? I asked, unsure what I’d done to turn her mood.

You think this has anything to do with you? she hissed, her once tender gaze a hateful one. I’d done something but she wasn’t telling me.

I don’t know.

It’s not about you.

Then what is it about?

You think I’m going to tell you everything you need to know about me? she asked.

No. I just want to help.

I don’t need your help.

I don’t want to see you suffer.

You don’t have to stay, she told me.

I’ll stay if you need me.

Well, I don’t need you.

You’re not yourself.

I’m always myself. That’s the problem.

I can sleep in the living room.

You’re only making it worse.

How?

Shadowing me like you don’t trust me. Like you think I’m up to something. It was fine until you had to have more. But what we had wasn’t enough, was it?

It’s just a job.

Is that what you think it is? You have no idea, do you?

You want me to call it off? I need the work, but I’ll call it off if that’s what it takes.

It’s too late now.

For what? I asked, desperate to find the words to ease her fears. Was she completely out of character or was her true character only just coming to light. How could I not have seen this coming?

I’m worried about you, I continued.

I’d worry about yourself now, she answered before turning from me.

I reached for her, my fingers grazing her delicate back. She flinched.

I want to help you.

Because I couldn’t help you?

I didn’t need your help, I explained.

Because I don’t need yours. Because we don’t need each other. We don’t need anyone.

I ran out of words to say, but I couldn’t leave her alone. I feared I’d never see her again if I did. I wanted to see her face, kiss her lips. I would have promised her anything if only to see her smile again.

I resolved to make myself comfortable on her sofa until she fell asleep, but I surprised myself by waking up at the first feeble light of dawn. I’d forgotten where I was until I remembered Mona.

I walked to the bedroom door but there was no sign of her. She’d left for work without so much as a word. Had she forgotten I was joining her?

I glanced at the alarm clock. 7:43. I had just over an hour to get ready and drive to work. I wouldn’t have made the effort if blowing off the job would have revived the Mona I’d come to love. I didn’t want to lose her. I was alone without her. But perhaps I’d been alone all along.

Failing to see the harm in showing up for work, I groomed myself and took my leave.

Tempted to call Mona on her cellphone, I resisted the urge. She needed space. We both did. No doubt Mona was expecting me while perhaps hoping I might not show up; though if it had been her intention to dissuade me from showing up, it hadn’t worked.

I would be there, but I wouldn’t seek her out. In fact, I would avoid her at all costs so that she might imagine me somewhere else, though whether or not I could be both there and not there was another question.

It was with some trepidation that I approached the bank building, an architectural wonder of the late twentieth century; a hexagonal structure which, at any given angle, only appears to be three. I’d never stepped foot inside; but it wasn’t a place for the inquisitive. No one entered unless they had business there; and I had no business stepping foot inside, that is until that morning.

The windowless lobby was something of a bastion, virtually impenetrable; and where it wasn’t impenetrable, armed officers glowered from behind elevated desks, making mental notes of everyone who may have been entertaining the notion of entering without an invitation, as if they knew what everyone was thinking. At least they knew who belonged and who didn’t belong.

I’d arrived earlier in the week to a chilly reception and a barrage of questions terminating in a demand for my identification. They’d believed me suspect, but upon finding I had a legitimate invitation, the chilly reception warmed to a humorless one as they escorted me to the elevator and rang me up.

This morning wasn’t any different. If anyone recognized me from before, they still trusted me about as much as a lunatic with a ticking briefcase.

The officer who motioned me over was half my size, but he made up for it in arms the size of two engorged pythons. He clenched his fists as if to warn me he was prepared to use them.

I’m starting a job today.  Stepton, Stock and Wahldup. Thirty-first floor.

He asked for my name and I told him. He asked for my identification and I gave it to him.

What’s your business here?

I’m working.

Your business?

Attorney, I told him firmly, hoping to convey an air of authority. It didn’t make a difference, his face still the picture of blank mistrust. I could have told him I was a janitor for all the good it did.

You here to see someone?

Todd Hightower, I said, remembering the name after some hesitation.

Your name’s not on the list, he said to himself while examining a clipboard.

It should be.

Well it isn’t, he answered as if I’d questioned his honor.

It’s my first day here. They told me nine o’clock.

You’re still not on the list.

That’s not my fault, I told him, surprising myself for having said it.

There’s a good reason for this, he explained, his pursed lips, as he held the clipboard aloft. 

Can you call?

You’d be on the list if you had proper business here.

And what if you have proper business and you’re not on the list?" I asked him. It was an honest question. I wasn’t trying to be difficult.

The guard gave me the once over before turning to his phone and punching in a number. He turned his back to me while he whispered into the receiver for what appeared to be several minutes.

I turned to my watch. It was already nine o’clock. I’d be late, but at least I had a good excuse.

You were expected at eight thirty, said the guard with