I hate these parties.
Not because I hate parties—which, sure, I kind of do—but because I specifically hate these parties.
Work parties.
I have to spend at least ten hours a day, Monday through Friday, around these people. Being forced to do so to build up “employee morale” after hours is cruel torture.
Especially on Halloween, when everyone dresses up and over drinks, and, honestly, shit usually gets weird. Right now, I’m watching one paralegal, dressed unlike any angel I’ve ever seen in a biblical painting, grinding on a newish lawyer at the firm dressed like Stewie from Family Guy.
I’m not judging anyone’s good time, but I think sometimes they forget they’ll have to see these people again tomorrow morning.
The women who work here and the dates of the men are all dressed in different variations of the same slinky costume: a mouse, a vampire, an angel.
Even the men have dressed up, some going all out, some keeping it simple, but they’re all in costume, drinking too much, and subconsciously comparing whose dick is bigger.
I went with the easy classic of Maverick from Top Gun—jeans, a white tee, a leather jacket, and aviators. Boom. Costume.
Bonus, I get to people-watch with no one knowing if the firm’s partner is watching them.
Spoiler: I’m always fucking watching.
A good lawyer knows how to play the game, and to be honest, people-watching is the most important part of it. You can learn a ton about your coworkers when you watch them in a casual setting, when they let their guards down and think you’re not looking.
Part of me knows I should walk around the room greeting people, making sure they’re having a good time and engaging with the people I work with. As a founding partner at Schmidt and Martinez, it’s expected of me.
And mostly, I love my employees, consider them a family of sorts. An incredibly dysfunctional family, but family nonetheless. Although I fear we’re tipping into dangerous, unethical territory with our clients of choice, I love this firm and the people who work here.
Instead, I’m standing in the corner, intentionally avoiding everyone and swiping on a dating app I downloaded this morning.
The only explanation for the decision I can give is lately, life has been . . . blah.
Boring and expected. Too serious. A life of high expectations, all of which I’ve met, led to being 42, single, incredibly successful as a founder of one of the most exclusive and sought-after law firms in NYC, but also . . . bored.
Unfulfilled.
Watching couples in matching costumes laugh over orange punch, knowing the holiday season is coming and I’m going into it once again alone, I wonder if maybe that’s what I need.
Someone.
Except, this dating app hasn’t worked much for me, either. Swiping left and right on what is essentially a perfectly crafted resume of the best parts of a person feels . . . disingenuous. Like another perfectly curated puzzle piece to the perfect life I’ve been living.
Growing up, my parents created standards for me. Things I needed to chase, things I felt I needed to attain in order to make my parents proud.
Graduate high school as valedictorian?
Done.
Go to school to practice pre-law and then get a full ride to Yale?
Done.
Graduate top of my class and get a job working for high-profile clients, creating airtight prenups and then finding ways to break them when the inevitable divorce came?
Did that.
Build a successful firm, partnering with one of the best family law lawyers in the city, and building a list of wealthy clients before age 35?
Yeah, did that too.
All of it went according to plan, the perfectly laid out timeline for my life. As a result, my family is proud, I’m well-respected in my field, and the world is essentially my oyster.
In theory, I have it all. I could smile if I wanted a woman, and she’d be mine.
But that boredom.
That boredom of a perfectly well-laid plan being well-executed is getting to me. I think I’m tired of predictable. Tired of easy. Tired of everything feeling surface-level and insignificant.
And these dating apps, where you just see all the good in a person and are forced to make a good impression in the first ten seconds, feel like more of the same.
Unfortunately, right now, the only real choice I have is a dating app, so here I am, downloading to fill the void.
Maybe someone is what I need. Not something serious, just someone to help with the quiet that creeps in during my few non-working hours.
As I’m standing in the corner, hiding from coworkers and employees, there is a presence next to me.
I don’t want to look over.
I can already tell by the way he slides next to me, not saying anything and waiting for me to start a conversation, who it is. And I really don’t want to deal with this man’s bullshit today. So eventually, I let it span a few long, awkward minutes, where I continue to stare at my phone, before I finally look over.
Richard Benson is leaning on the wall next to me, hand in black dress pants, a gray button-down tucked into them, and incredibly expensive shoes on his crossed ankles.
To be quite frank, I don’t like the man.
He’s a weasel.
Ambitious, but not in a good way. It’s the way that tells you he expects things to be given to him, that he doesn’t have to work as hard as everyone else because he is who he is and that should be a good enough reason for everyone to fall at his feet. He chooses clients carefully, refusing to represent anyone who he feels the payout isn’t worth his time, and often siding with clients despite accusations of abuse or neglect against them.
He’s greedy, both for money and power, and thinks my firm is the way to get more of both.
What he also is, is the grandson of my co-founding partner at the firm.
Years ago, Simon Schmidt reached out after I won a highly televised case of a CEO who embezzled from the company he was head of. He wanted a partnership, and he would not stop until I agreed. Within the year, Simon and I were starting Schmidt and Martinez. While it’s a newer practice, we’ve been able to secure retainers with some of business’s biggest names and continue to boast an impressive track record.
Originally, when the firm started, Simon told me he wanted to set up a legacy for his grandson, who was entering the field of law. He had mentioned when he retired, he hoped his oldest grandson would take his seat at the table.
I’m pretty sure his grandson is pushing for it to happen this year, the last year he would be within range to become the youngest partner to date.
I currently hold that ranking, having started the firm seven years ago at 35, but Little Dickie would fucking love the chance to rub it in everyone he meets’ face. For that to be another shiny jewel to put in his crown.
I look him up and down silently, using my eyes to portray my deep dislike for the man, something I’ve been trying to do for years.
Unfortunately, he’s like a puppy who never gets the fucking hint. Instead of giving me a simple hello and walking away, he’s staring at me with an expectant smile.
Trying to talk, to schmooze, to get on my good side.
I’ll pass at the mere thought of being good with him.
“What are you supposed to be?” I ask, using my phone to gesture at him.
“What?” His face looks confused, like he doesn’t understand the question.
“It’s a Halloween party. What are you supposed to be?” I raise an eyebrow at him. The additional question of are you stupid? implied.
“I . . . uh . . . a lawyer, I guess?” he asks, scratching his head. I hear the hair is fake, not that it’s any of my business. “Not gonna lie. I didn’t expect people to actually dress up for this thing. I thought we were all a little too . . . old for this.” He looks at me and my basic costume, and right before he can hide it, I see it: the judgment.
And that right there is why he will never be a partner.
Not on my watch, at least.
He’s a shitty liar.
He can’t hide his judgments, of which he has many.
As a lawyer, it’s our job to convince people of things—innocence or guilt, worth and cost, and what justice is. It’s the job of the judge or jury to make the final judgment—if we played the game right, we’ve steered them to the right decision.
But it’s never our place to judge.
That’s where most lawyers—most people—get it wrong. They think at any place or time, they have the right to judge those around them. To make assumptions based on momentary glimpses into someone’s life. To decide if they are worthy or not, if they should be treated with kindness or malice.
Growing up, I was taught never to judge, and I’ve pulled that mindset with me into my career.
It’s served me well.
“The invite said to come in costume,” I say, tipping my chin to where his own grandfather is wearing a black suit and a bowler hat, his mustache groomed to be a surprisingly good caricature of the Monopoly man. “Not to mention, you were here last year, no?”
“Yeah, well . . . whatever.” He looks around, taking in the party. I lift my phone to go back to my swiping and back to ignoring this asshat. “So, how’s it going?” he asks, and once again, I slowly lower my phone and stare at him. I let a few uncomfortable seconds pass, and he squirms a bit.
Okay, so that part is fun.
Watching this douche try to schmooze me and letting it fall flat? Watching a man who probably has never been outright denied a thing in his life struggle to get my approval?
Worth it.
Richard tips his chin to my phone, where the dating app is still on the screen.
“You looking for some ass to tap?” he asks, and with his question, I continue to stare at him, my eyes going wider in genuine shock that those words came out of his mouth.
I may be in my forties, but I’m pretty sure there’s no way men still say shit like that. It has to be just dumb shit men with podcasts and in old 2000s movies say. Right? When I once again continue to stare at him, he keeps talking, digging a hole. “I know some chicks in the East Village. I could call them up, set us up for a private meeting.” I blink a few times, trying to decide if he’s being for real or not.
When he continues to stare back at me, I realize he is 100% serious.
“Dick, you know prostitution is illegal, don’t you?” I say, and glory in his face going red.
God, it really is a fucked up kind of fun to make this asshole uncomfortable.
“Nah, not prostitutes. God, no. I don’t pay for sex, I swear.” His hands are lifted like he’s afraid I’m going to come for him. The level of protest and the speed at which it comes out of his mouth are questionable, though. “Just some chicks I know. They’re always up for a good time.” I give him a look I know he interprets as “sure, right,” because he keeps talking, defending himself. “I swear, man. They’re cool. Just . . . if you’re looking for some fun.”
Yes, because the kind of fun I want to have includes my partner’s grandson and women he’s already fucked before. Sounds like a blast.
“Don’t you have a girlfriend or something?” I ask, remembering Simon telling me he was dating some cute young thing. He’s never brought her to any events, so part of me thinks she may have been made up to make Richard look better.
“Nah, that’s old news. She was just filler.”
“Filler?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, you know. Someone you see on the side, reliable piece of ass,” he says. God, he really is a piece of shit.
He’ll be a partner in this firm, holding my name over my dead fucking body.
“Got it,” I say with a tight smile, lifting my phone again. I watch from the corner of my eye as he opens his mouth to keep talking.
Another reason he’s a shit lawyer: he doesn’t know when to stop, and he can’t read body language for shit.
Thankfully, Misty, the blonde paralegal who clearly got into the field with a purpose, walks over and loops her arm around Richard’s.
I would guess the girlfriend—or ex-girlfriend, for that matter—had no idea of the clingy paralegal who works late nights with Richard, sometimes long after everyone else in the office has left.
Another reason I don’t like the man—he’s stupid as fuck. There are fucking cameras in the office, meaning everyone who has access to the CCTV footage can see what they’re doing.
Not that I wanted to see what I saw two weeks ago, I think, fighting the gag at the memory.
“Hey, baby, so glad you made it,” she says with a purr, and he smiles at her in a way I never want to be forced to see again. Like he wants to eat her whole and then brag about it.
I audibly gag at the look.
Richard swings his face to me, intending to tell me off like he would any other person, I’m sure, but then he remembers who I am and what I mean for his future.
I raise an eyebrow in challenge, but he, unfortunately, backs down, giving me a tight smile and a wave before walking off.
Leaving me to my mindless swiping in peace.
