Where I Belong

Whatever.

Seriously, I mean it: What. Ever.

Last time you heard from me ["Learning Curves Are for Losers," May] I had bailed on my Big Law associate gig and was rocking it like a rock star as the newest (and probably youngest, and definitely the most bad-ass) in-house counsel at a supposed "dream" corporation. Until the dream turned into a nightmare, at least.

Case in point: After spreading my talents around the company for a good three weeks, it became clear that only one guy in the whole building was even remotely pulling his weight--this guy right here. So I called an emergency meeting with my so-called boss to suggest the obvious: immediate implementation of a billable-hours system in the legal department. Sure, there's no "client" to technically "bill" when you work in-house, but hello, that's not what billable hours are about (duh). Billable hours are about proving who's the best, about distinguishing the rock stars from the slacker-loser-sheep who need to take time off for nonsense like "chest pain" or "paternity leave."

Obviously, this was a genius idea. But the way my "boss" reacted to it, you would have thought I had suggested implementing a Bring a Child Molester to Work Day program. This sheepherder was clearly threatened by my brilliance. So I had no choice but to bail. Whatever. Good riddance, sheep. See you on the "Forbes 15" list in, oh, five minutes ago.

The first thing I did, obviously, was call up my boy, Krutcher, the head of the corporate department at my old law firm, and let him beg me to come back. I had never actually worked with Krutcher, but he was notorious for being a total animal who made equity partner at 29, eats baby associates for breakfast, and sweats cash (i.e., he's my idol). I knew he'd want me back.

As soon as Krutcher heard my voice on the phone, he started laughing--like you do when you hear an old friend on the line. I told him how I'd had to revise my life plan after pitching my billable-hour idea in-house, and he was just silent. Finally, he said "You really are some kind of an incredible genius, aren't you?" (Actually, he said "douche bag" instead of "genius," but that's just Big Law code for awesome--trust me.) Then he started talking about how the firm had actually been looking for someone exactly like me to head up a few new matters. BAM! Toldja. In a matter of days I was back in my old office and ready to start making mincemeat (again) of my fellow so-called associates.

Not three minutes back in my new-old job, Dubrov, the one other corporate associate in my class year who claims to have billed almost as many hours as I did, popped his ugly mug into my office. Rumor has it Dubrov had been busy since I was gone, running two sweet blue-chip M&A deals for Krutcher. I assumed Dubrov was stopping by to gloat that I had come "crawling back"--but all he did was smile and say, "Welcome back." Uh, nice try, dude. Your buddy-buddy manipulation tactics aren't gonna work on me, 'kay? I got up and slammed the door in his face.

Then, even before I could sit back down, Krutcher called to tell me to go report ASAP to a new lateral named Alex for the download on a new deal. I took off right away to let this Alex know that I was his right-hand guy, period. (Lesson: Make yourself indispensable to your supervising partner from minute one. Anticipate his every thought. Do what he wants before he asks. Learn where he eats. Know where he parks. Follow him home sometimes. You're welcome.)

When I rounded the corner to Alex's office and saw a couple of secretaries lingering outside, I knew this was where I was meant to be. One of them had a hot, inflatable-Barbie vibe going on, and the other was a semi-hot little Pacific Rim number. I could tell before they even looked up that they were into me. I announced that I was here to see Alex and that he needed to see me right away, so they should chop-chop. PacRim started saying something, but I cut her off and told her, Sorry, babe, I don't have time to flirt now--so just be a doll and go tell Alex that his new rock-star-slash-best-friend has arrived. That's when Barbie started laughing.

PacRim smirked and extended her hand. "William, right? Hi, I'm Alexandra Chang. Let's get you up to speed on the deal."

WTF??

This had to be some kind of freakin' joke. Half-expecting Dubrov to pop out with a camera, I followed "Alex" into her office for the run-down on the deal. And that's when I almost vomited: It wasn't a billion-dollar merger deal. It was a small-change bankruptcy. For a freakin' tampon company. Tampons.

I was about to explode when it dawned on me: Hello, the firm was probably just testing me. Nice try. So, I told Alex that I was ready to kick ass and asked her if she was the only billing partner on the deal.

"Oh, I'm not a partner. I'm of counsel. There is no partner on this deal."

That's when I almost vomited. Again.

Of counsel? Not even an income partner, but of counsel?? Forget it. I don't roll with also-rans. Even semi-hot ones.

I left Alex's office immediately and stormed into Krutcher's, making sure to leave the door open when I said, "Uh, dude, do you know who I am? I'm one of this firm's superstars. I was wait-listed at Harvard. Twice. I should be working with the masters of the universe, not wasting my time on some two-bit b.s. bankruptcy for a freakin' lady-device company "supervised" by some pathetic glorified twelfth-year-associate. Are you effing KIDDING ME??"

Krutcher just sat there, smirking. After a few minutes he leaned back in his chair and grinned. "Funny, now that you mention it, I think we do have something else more ... up your alley. Let me make a couple of calls."

Finally, someone who gets it.

That was three weeks ago. Since then, I've been home four times. My boy Krutch stayed true to his word, and within 24 hours I was moved from the loser nondeal to a sick merger. Multi-bil' blue-chip all the way, bro', with a killer, insane time line. I've been put in charge of document review for the whole freakin' thing--so, basically the whole deal is resting on my shoulders. More or less.

Yeah, I think it's pretty clear that coming back to the firm was the right choice. I mean, look at me now, sitting here at 2 a.m., surrounded by work that the firm clearly knows I can do better than anyone else. I was just about to order up another Diet Red Bull when Dubrov sticks his rat-face in my office. He's been working as much as I have in the past few weeks, maybe more (don't quote me on that--I'm serious, don't). Dude looks like a freakin' corpse. So I ask what he wants, and he just stares at me and whispers, all dead-like, "Do you ever get the sense that you're scrambling up a ladder as fast as you can, and all that's gonna be there at the top is ... an empty room?"

Uh, WTF, dude? Empty room? Wha? I look at Dubrov, ready to tell him to get lost, when suddenly I feel a pang in my stomach. Could he be right? What if there really is more to life than just winning the Big Law game, and we're all setting ourselves up to be the butt of some cosmic freakin' joke? What if there's no--

And then I remember that I had chorizo tacos for dinner. Hello, no wonder I had a stomach pang--duh. Freakin' Dubrov. He had me going there, for a second. See, that's the thing--if you want to win the Big Law game, you have to watch out for manipulators like him who try to tempt you into falling for this whole empty-room mind-warp trip. If you're not careful they'll suck you in, and before you know it you'll be bouncing some kid on your knee and grilling burgers with your "family" on Saturday afternoons instead of rocking it at the office eight days a week, gunning it like a bat out of hell on the road to kick-ass-dom.

And you know what, even if there is nothing but an empty room at the top of this "ladder," guess what, bro'? Mine's gonna be the biggest one you've ever seen. Bigger than yours, and sure as hell bigger than any of these other jokers' around here, even Krutcher's. So, chew on that, bro'. Chew on that.

Now back off. It's almost dawn and I have a deal to close.

William "P-Dawg" Astor IV is a pseudonym for a formerly former associate at a large national law firm.

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