I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell (8 page)

We get to the firm, and Brian and I get out of Betty's car, and then she turns ff the car and gets out herself. She looks up at the building (Fenwick has all of a ten story building in Palo Alto), then looks right at me and says, "It looks like I left the lights on in my office. I should probably go turn them off. What do you think?" I am oblivious to the implied meaning here, and look up and say, "Whatever, who caresthey're halogen, it'll cost like 3 cents for the night. Forget it." Betty gets a mildly frustrated look on her face, and still staring right at me, says, "I need to go up to my office and turn off my lights. Maybe you should come up there ... help me out." Did I ever mention how retarded I am when I get drunk? Well, I missed that signal too, "No, whatever, they're fine, don't worry about it." She kind of pauses for a second, looks right into my eyes, and says, "DO YOU ... want to come ... HELP ME ... turn off the lights ... IN MY OFFICE?"

Bingo. That one registered.

What did I do? Did I go with her up to her office and fuck the shit out of her? Did I dot her eyes right on her desk? Did I show her that this 24 year old knew exactly what to do with that 40 year old?

No. In perhaps the single stupidest move of my life, I quickly said no, jumped into my car, and tore out of the parking lot. The irony here is so fucking thick it's ridiculous. There is no category that Betty falls into that I have not slept with before; I have hooked up with women as old as Betty, uglier, more married, more children, everything. Shit, I have a hard time counting the times I've turned down sex at all, unless the girl was ugly and my friends were around.

So why did I chicken out? Why did I pass up such a sure thing? I DON'T KNOW!! That's the worst part. I can't figure out what happened. It's like for about 5 minutes of my life, I was a moral puritan. The next weekend was the firm retreat at Silverado Ranch in Napa Valley. My roommate and I drove up Friday afternoon, in my car, checked into the hotel, and then met everyone in the reception area. Starting at around 7PM, there were cocktails and hors d'oeurves, and then at 9pm the Charity Auction was starting. I get to the reception promptly at 6:58 to find numerous well-stocked open bars ... and no food. OK, there was some shrimps perhaps some baklava, and maybe even a petit four or two, but nothing substantive to eat. Well, HELLO, what do you think is going to happen? Did no one involved in the planning of this thing ever hear of the behavioral effects of alcohol on an empty stomach?

By the time the auction started, I was so drunk I was walking around carrying, seriously, two bottles of wine in my hands; red in my left, white in my right, taking alternating swigs from each. I sat, clutching my wine bottles, at a table right next to the stage, with my roommate, about maybe 5 or 6 other summers, and a few junior associates. The charity auction was only for the 400+ firm people associated with the firm (and their spouses), and was all firm-specific items. Things like the managing partner would cook you dinner, you could throw things at some other partner, a chair from a partner's office, etc. I forget where the money was going, probably to Our Sisters of the Festering Rectum Orphanage, who knows? Most of the things were stupid, so I just sat there and solemnly poured wine into my face. Then an item came up, which, in my drunken stupor, I simply had to have: The hiring partner, John Steele, would chauffeur you around for a night in his Cadillac. Beautiful, I thought in my inebriated stupor, if I buy this, they have to give me an offer. That's how drunk I was.

The bidding started at $50. It slowly went to 60, then 80, then 100, so I got bored, and just stood up on my seat and held my paddle up. The auctioneer took this as a sign to just start yelling out ever increasing numbers, never even looking at the other bidders. The bid got to around $600, with no one bidding but me, and I yelled at him to quit. One or two other people might have thrown a bid in there, when John Steele got on the mike and said that if a summer won, he'd pay half. This, predictably, doubled the bid immediately.

When the bidding hit about $2000, I thought I had it won. No one else was bidding, when all of the sudden, Aparna, another summer who was
good friends with me, knew the condition I was in (shit-housed drunk), and knew that, given my egomaniacal personality, I would not stop bidding, ever, no matter what, regardless of the price. So, with the help of a few partners bankrolling her, she started slowly bidding me up. 2200, 2300, 2400 ...

The next thing I know, I'm on stage, and I grab the microphone from the auctioneer, and start yelling at her. I'm doing it in a teasing way, but I'm like, "Aparna, what are you doing? You know you can't afford this. You're just trying to mess with me. I have to win this; it's the only way I'm getting an offer." This sends the crowd into fits of laughter. I wasn't even trying to be funny, but hey, put some liquor in me and you never know what's going to come out.

He kicks me off the stage, the betting gets up to about 3300 or so, I climb back on stage, wrestle the mike away from the auctioneer, and start yelling, "This is not fair. You have partners bankrolling you, I only have a few scrubby summers in my corner. Seriously, Aparna, I need this. QUIT!" Again, eruptions of laughter.

The bidding eventually hits $3800, and this time the auctioneer says, "Alright Tucker, come on up here. I know you'll come up anyway." I get on stage, and eventually have to make the call, do I go to $3900 or not?

Microphone in hand, in front of everyone, I say, "Fuck it-go ahead." The funny thing is, people not associated with the firm think this is why I got fired. Not at all; the managing partner came up to me afterwards and told me it was the funniest thing he had ever seen at a firm event. The name partner, Bill Fenwick, told me, literally, I did Kentucky proud. Another partner I didn't know told me I was awesome. For the rest of the night, I was a star. Believe it or not, that's the absolute truth.

We end up back at the hotel, and the summer associates and some other junior associates go to someone's suite, and we're playing cards, drinking, and socializing. It was about this point that I blacked out. My last clear memory is trying to convince some summer to beat up an associate, because he was cheating at poker. The next day, Eric told me that I tried to hook up with Aparna, but all I could manage to do was pass out on top of her. It was that kind of night.

I wake up the next morning, it's like 11am, and I feel like a bag of ass. All the summer associates were supposed to be at the morning lecture
given by the managing partner, and some other guy. They were there, I was not. I throw something on and make it there right as it's finishing.

Someone tells me that Gordie, the managing partner, asked, on the microphone, if I was there when it began at 9am. So I go up to him afterwards, and say, "Hey! I made it ... eventually." He smiled, shook his head, and said, "There's always one."

Fast forward to Monday. I'm sitting in my office, bored out of my mind, when I decide to write my friends and tell them what happened over the weekend. So I compose the now infamous email. Here it is, exactly as I wrote it that day Oust so you know, it's pretty much the same as what I wrote above]:

--Original Message-From: Tucker Max Sent: Monday, June 05, 20002:51 PM To: [name removed]

Subject: The Now Infamous Tucker Max Charity Auction Debacle ...

Here is the story of what happened to me this weekend at my firm's retreat. That's the last time I ever drink before an auction:

My roommate and I decide to leave for the Silverado Ranch by car instead of taking the bus at 2 pm. You have not lived until you've ridden through three hours of Bay Area traffic with Slingblade at the wheel. By the time we got to Silverado, he was madder than fire . The first reception starts at like 6pm. There are finger foods, etc., and lots and lots of wine and beer. Not really liking any of the food, I start drinking. Heavily. By the time I know what's going on, I'm talking to the name partner, Bill Fenwick, in a redneck accent. Of course, he is from Kentucky, so we talked about basketball for an hour. It was great.

About 9pm the charity auction began. There were lots of "Fenwick" type items, like a dinner cooked by the managing partner, etc. One of the items was an entire night chauffeured by the hiring partner, John Steele. In inebriated stupor, I thought that if I won this, then they would have choice but to give me an offer. The bidding starts at $50. People are bidding here and there, but I get tired of all the slow bidding, so I stand on my chair, and hold up my bidding card. Without getting down. So the auctioneer takes this as a cue to just start yelling price increases, without
even identifying other bidders.

When the price hits about $800, John Steele says that he will pay half if a summer associate wins. The bidding automatically doubles (John is a litigator). As the price gets to $2000, I think I have the thing won. I get the "going once" call, and then this other summer, Aparna, goaded on by some partners, decides that she has to beat me. So the bidding hits $2600, and before I know it, I'm on stage, taking the mike from the auctioneer, and yelling at Aparna to stop bidding. My exact quote, "Aparna, seriously, stop. I have to win, this is the only way I'm getting an offer." So that just inspires more partners/attorneys/recruiting staff to contribute to Aparna's pool. When the bidding hits $3400, I start yelling, on the mike, about how this isn't fair, because she has partners bankrolling her, but I only have a "few scrubby summers in my corner." I keep trying to bid only like 5$ more than her, but the auctioneer gets all mad at me, and is making me bid in hundred dollar increments. When her bid hits $3800, I get back on stage. After some banter, the auctioneer asks me if I want to bid $3900.

I ponder this for a second, and in front of the whole firm and spouses/ significant others, with the mike in my face, say, "Fuck it-go ahead."

I won the auction.

Now, as you can see, the email is exactly what happened. I left almost nothing out. I may be an obnoxious asshole, but I don't need to exaggerator lie in my stories; they are funny enough as it is. I sent this to about ten friends, and thought nothing else about it. They didn't even think it was that great; I had had some much better ones that summer (like the one about the SOMA party, and the one about this Korean girl who raced me home doing 120mph on the 101 ... you get the picture).

That was Monday. Wednesday comes, and around 4:30 John Steele Asks me to come to his office. I stroll up there and notice my key card, which you have to have to operate the elevators or doors, isn't working. This means only one thing ...

I get into is office, and he's in there with some other lady I've never seen before. John introduces her, some HR lady, and then proceeds to tell me that I have an option to either voluntarily withdraw from the firm or get fired. He cited certain things I had done that led them to this course of action, like my "porn line" comment and some other stuff like that, but said nothing about the really bad stuff I did. If I withdraw, he
tells me they will pay me a large separation sum, pay my rent for the summer, and pay the for the item I "won" at the charity auction. In total, this is close to $20,000, plus I get to keep what I've already made in the not quite four weeks I was there.

If I get fired, I get nothing.

I'm a little bit in shock, but not really; one of the associates at the firm, who is no longer there, heard about this, and gave me a heads up the day before. I took the money, thanked them, and headed out. It all went rather pleasantly, considering.

Granted, I had acted a little reckless, but I was nonetheless confused . I figured I wasn't getting an offer, but I didn't think I was going to get fired, and the reasons he gave me for them letting me go were bullshit. They had plenty of reasons, don't misunderstand, but the ones John named did not seem like reasons to fire a summer associate. The next day, I got two calls, both from associates at the firm. One talked to me on the phone, the other met me for lunch a few days later. They both thought I had been dealt with the wrong way, and independently told me basically the same opinion: I got canned mainly because of the Betty incident, and not because of the charity auction. The one who met me for lunch claimed that he had talked to a "very important partner" in the firm, and he was told that, given my track record of outlandish behavior, the firm was scared I was going to eventually sleep with Betty, or even do something worse than that, which would make me either a huge liability (if I, say, got drunk and set the building on fire) or invincible (if I slept with Betty). Why would it make me invincible? Because if she slept with me, and they didn't give me an offer, then they could be liable for a sexual harassment suit. Not that I would ever sue them if that happened, but considering my behavior that summer, I can understand why they viewed me as a liability.

I was never able to verify these theories, but they made sense to me. To me, the most delicious irony is that, ultimately, because I didn't sleep with Betty the firm was able to get me out. Can you believe that? Because I didn't fuck her, I fucked myself. But that's not all. About a month later, my email started popping up. Everywhere. Paul had forwarded it to Linda Brewer, a Dukie at another Silicon Valley firm, who forwarded it to some other people ... you get the picture. That email went around the world, several times, and at last count went through like 100+ firms. The next thing I know, my Inbox is filled with these forwards, and my friends from all over the country are calling
me, like, "Dude, what happened? Is that you?" My favorite random email I got was from some guy who wrote: "Mr. Max, with the hope of a six year old on the night before Christmas asking about Santa, I ask the same question: Do you really exist?"