You arrive to work late, again, on this Friday before your weeklong vacation, timed to coincide with Thanksgiving. Your drive this morning included a blistering weave in your blue Civic Coupe through traffic to reach your destination. After a parallel trip through the Starbucks line, which, to your surprise, is not long enough to extend past the front doors of the closet-like tunnel-space in the downtown Houston labrinyths; you reach your desk, boot your computer and read this email message from a partner in the office:
As many of you already know, we have a couple of very large projects that need to be completed in the [omitted] case by Nov. 30th (per Court order). We are having a meeting today at 10 am in the front conference room today to discuss the various projects. For those of you who have already agreed to participate in the project, thank you. For those who have not, I would strongly encourage your participation as we will need everyone possible to complete these projects on time.
You suspected a more strongly worded invitation to participate in this project would await you and the rest of the office. The previous afternoon, your office received a similar email from an associate, who could only request availability, not cancel vacations. You responded to the associate by explaining you would be out of the office next week. You omitted the detail that scheduling this vacation time occurred 2 months ago. That Thursday eve, a friendly drink with another associate, included a resolution to not work on the project, or otherwise seek the ruination of your week off without a personal "engraved" invitation. The associate concurred.
Now analyzing this email, your resentment for the feudal structure of legal industry pounds in you chest and your temple as your office politico rationale chides, a serf has no rights. The real possibility that you could be either jobless or in the office through next week's vacation, enters your rueful cranium. Between the lines, you acknowledge the regal legals' communication, stamped and sealed, ad electronica, demands you relinquish your life, droit de seigneur, to give to the larger needs of the firm, who will then leave you unthanked and unrewarded for your service.
But the scales have fallen from your eyes, since last year you spent six weeks of your life in indentured servitude. Relinquishing all free time, many hours of sleep and in some cases food, you worked sacrificially for this firm during a hellish arbitration hearing. You billed between 13 and 20 hours a day then, a statistic that you believe no audience ever fully grasped the reality of. Once back home, you woke up every morning for 10 days, after 8+ hours of sleep, still fully exhausted, from those 45 days of sleep deprivation. The oft-repeated factoid in those days was, "Sleep deprivation is considered a form of torture according to the United Nations." You've sworn to see that the US Ambassador--or possible the Norweigian--move for sactions against the firm should such a workload lie before you again.
So, you skip the meeting. As it progresses, you sit at your desk, indexing documents. A voice calls two associates over the paging system just 5 minutes after the purported start. You re-read the email, doubting your decision, but unsure how to alter course. You continue indexing. Then, in the otherwise silent floor, sounds of someone approaching your cubicle area plods toward you, a partner--a nasal-toned partner, who ever-displays his enamoured adoration for the sound of his voice, a withered minotaur of a man who thinks himself a king, if his percieved divinity, even supposes him a mortal--passes enroute to the break room for coffee. You half expect a pre-terminal interrogation, then, but instead get only a nominal sigh of emphysemic air in passing.
You continue indexing. Indexing as though your employment depends on it. The paging system sounds again, "You could have gone to the meeting and just explained your limited availability, you know." Why would you do that you wonder, wouldn't that be an admission that you were willing to work next week on the projects? Your heartrate rises again, you invent contigency plans for losing your job prior to the holidays, which you regard more as an inconveince than a threat. You pause.
"Who said that?"
As the floor begins to repopulate, your actions feels magnified, "Was your judgment is too harsh?" As fast as you can say, respondeat superior this email for another partner arrives in your inbox.
I forgot to mention at that meeting that we do not expect you to work on this project on Thanksgiving Day.
Thanks,
You awe at the merciful generosity of that statement.
You work quietly till lunch. You sign out, eat, and return to your desk. Indexing.
At 4:45, the email arrives. Your heart gallops as soon as you see who it's from--your supervisor--and read the subject line, "Document Review -- Your Availability." You open it to read, "Can we meet, now?"
Sitting down in the office, you notice every artery in your body, laced with adrenaline, constricting your muscles, your voice, and pressing against your skin. Your supervisor asks, "What are you working on now?"
"Indexing the documents from the July review."
"Can you assist on the document reviews, that's a priority."
You explain you are out next week.
"We are cancelling all vacations."
You feel your throat tying itself in a perfect square knot. You ask yourself if you are prepared to say this. You breath in. Open your mouth to speak.
The phone rings. Your supervisor answers. "Yes. Yes, we are looking for information on Hitler's missing testicle. We believe Napolean also had only one. "
You waver.
She continues, "We believe that the single testicle theory holds up, due to the rhyme."
"What rhyme?" you hear your voice ask?
At that moment, you notice moisture has gathered in the corner of your mouth. You try to wipe it with your hand, but your arm responds clumsily. You also become puzzled as to why "Jesus, Etc." by Wilco is playing on the paging system. You arm feels like jelly, and your back is aching. You hear someone calling your name.
Suddenly, you notice the formica texture of a surface against your temple. Your name again. You notice the warmness of saliva on an unseen surface. You feel light on your eyes. Your name, again. You raise your head from your desk.
"You better wake up. You don't want to get fired before your Thanksgiving break." You hear, as you recognize your cubicle neighbor standing before you. "Wake up. It's Friday, time to go home."
***
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Hope everyone has a safe, fun holiday!