The Album: Book One (33 page)

Sarah hugs my waist and mumbles into my chest. “Oh Chris, I wish things could be different.” She takes a step back and wipes her eyes. “That’s it – I’m breaking up with him! Can you give me a few weeks?”

“Sure. You want me to rough him up?” I tease.

Sarah slaps my arm and laughs. “Uh, no. Just give me some time to break things off and then we can be together.”

“I can live with that. But Sarah,” I say, stroking her cheek.

Sarah runs her hand down my chest, stopping inside my jeans. “Yes Chris?”

“You owe me a pity fuck for these pink walls.”

January 19, 2004

G
ROWING UP, THE
first day of school was always exciting – showing off my new Nikes and black JanSport. Even in law school, I always loved the first day class – making an impression with new professors and showing off my navy JanSport.

But the first day at a new job is a nightmare.

I woke up at exactly six a.m. I dressed, had some orange juice and Pop Tarts, and still made it to the lobby by eight a.m. The apartment lobby is quiet this time of the morning but outside, the city is roaring. Several yellow taxis stop outside, idling for a moment and then zooming off. Do New Yorkers really take taxis to work? In Austin, cabs are reserved for drunks and people heading to the airport – not so much a sign of luxury but rather a means of transporting some sorry ass.

The doorman, Declan Fitzgerald from Riverside, hands me a NY Times. “Good morning, Mr. Brooks. Would you like me to call a car?”

What the fuck is
a car
? That’s a new one . . . yes, call me a car, preferably Kit from
Knight Rider
.

“No thanks.” I take the paper and stuff it in my briefcase. “The subway’s fine.”

Declan nods while opening the front door. “Have a good day.”

It’s awesome having a doorman – it’s kinda like a mix between a fraternity house mother and a butler. Sarah informed me that Declan gets paid very well, and with all the tips and bonuses, probably hits a six-digit salary.

I place my hands in my coat pockets and start walking in the direction of the nearest subway stop. The
4/5
will take me to 42
^nd
Street and then there’s a short walk to 5
^th
. Grant and I did a test run on Saturday and the commute only takes twenty minutes.

I descend the subway stairs at Lexington, almost slipping on an icy patch –
oh fuck, I slipped
. I hobble to the turnstile, bumping into a few people in the process. They shoot me evil stares as they push past me. I dart to the tunnel, rumbling from an incoming train. It’s a
4
, fantastic – but the doors are closing. I hurry to the train, only to be pushed to the side and left standing on the platform.

Another twenty minutes pass and I finally hear the roar of a train. As it screeches to a stop, I measure up my competition. One guy looks pretty tough, and one woman is holding an umbrella like a weapon. Holy shit, the train is packed! No one can squeeze in there . . .

Oh, except that guy. Fuck. The subway rockets through the tunnel, leaving me stranded on the platform once again. Jesus, this sucks. I wait another fifteen minutes when a man approaches me at the yellow line. He nods politely, but this shit is war – I clench my jaw and keep my game face.

A train rolls slowly into the stop, not nearly as crowded as the others, but the man next to me starts his engine. The doors open and I slam against the opening, banging my shoulder. I look down at my gimp ankle for one goddamn second and the car starts to fill. Shit! I push my way through, shoulder bumping and tripping some dude in a bigass hat. But I made it – I fucking made it.

It takes me nearly five stops to realize that this is a
Local 6
train and I debate whether I should get off and catch a
4/5
. But the idea of being packed like a sardine . . . the train stops. The lights flicker and the fucking train stops in a tunnel.

The intercom announces, “Frome blah tinker tat, mekky pa rinca minutes.”

I turn to a teenager and ask, “What’d he say?”

“He said you’re fucked,” he growls, placing headphones on his ears.

After thirty minutes, the train slowly starts to move. Slowly. Slower. Shit. Finally, the conductor announces 42
^nd
Street. I move to the door, but yet again, I’m being elbowed by a dozen people for no reason. We all wait anxiously for the doors to open, a group of tired straphangers, wanting desperately to be released from underground captivity. One minute, two minutes, three minutes – the doors open ten inches. I turn my body sideways and squeeze through the opening. Stumbling to the platform, I grip my briefcase and then raise my elbows. I take the stairs two at a time, darting past all the
6
train survivors. When I reach the final set of steps, I watch a woman struggling to get her stroller up the stairs. People run past her, ignoring her frustration. The little girl in the stroller swats her hands and kicks her feet, clearly as annoyed as I am.

But my mama raised me to be a gentleman, no matter how late I am to my new job. “Let me help. Why don’t you carry the baby and I’ll carry up the stroller.”

She smiles, relieved and delighted by the chivalrous act of a stranger. “Thank you! Come on, Libby,” she says. The woman removes the cute little girl and climbs the stairs – I follow behind her, cursing at the lazy assholes bumping into me and rolling their eyes. We reach the top and I place the stroller on the sidewalk.

The woman places the baby back in the stroller and smiles. “Thanks again, so nice of you.”

“No problem,” I say, dashing off toward Fifth.

I finally make it to Jenkins, Shaw and Davis at 11:35 a.m. – two and half hours late. Sixteen blocks, a slower than fuck subway train, a bruised shoulder, and a new understanding of why New Yorkers are perceived as unfriendly assholes, places me disheveled and flustered in the lobby of my new job.

I hurry to the visitor’s desk to get my ID card and security code. The paperwork and photo were taken last month when I was here, so there shouldn’t be any delay. “Good morning, I’m Christopher Brooks – a new hire for JS&D,” I say.

The woman behind the desk scans a clipboard and shakes her head unapologetically. “You might be a new hire, but you’s late. Franklin took all non-issued ID cards to the fifth floor,” she barks.

This can’t be happening – not now.

“Tammy,” I say, reading her nametag. “Is there any way we can get that ID card? Or maybe I can have a visitor’s pass for today?”

“You ain’t gettin’ that ID today! Gimme your license and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yes ma’am!” Fuck . . . where’s my wallet? “Shit,” I mumble, patting down all my pockets.

Tammy narrows her eyes and frowns. “Is there a problem?”

“My wallet was stolen – damn, this morning keeps getting worse.”

Tammy picks up the phone and taps at the buttons with her long red nails. “This is Tammy Martin from security – there’s a Christopher,” she pauses.

“Brooks,” I answer.

“Christopher Brooks – a very
late
new hire with no identification . . . um huh . . . yes . . . I’ll do that.” She hangs up the phone and smiles. “Why didn’t you tell me you’s from Texas? I got family in Houston.”

“Oh? Well, Tammy – I’m Christopher Brooks from Texas, and I’m very late to my first day.”

“Yes you are! Poor thing.” She removes a label from the stack and writes my name on it. “Wear this today and come see me in the mornin’.”

I’m not sure if this is one of those times when I should offer a cheek kiss, so I just smile and slap the sticker on my suit. “Tammy, darlin’ – you’re an angel.”

She brushes me off and laughs. “Go.”

I rush to the bank of elevators and wait impatiently. Maybe my city smarts have kicked in because when the doors open, my elbows go up and I push my way in first. I stand quietly in the corner and watch the floor numbers light up.

By the time it reaches the 15
^th
floor, the elevator empties. I pound my head against the wall, breathing deeply. Today is a test, one that I’m failing. The elevator opens to the first floor of JS&D – the associate level. Marcia Phillips from HR waves me over to another set of glass doors.

When I reach her, I extend my hand and turn on the charm. “Ms. Phillips, please accept my apologies for being so late. It wasn’t my intention to end up on the Local 6 train, nor did I plan to get robbed and tackled. I can assure you, it won’t happen again.”

She smiles and shakes my hand. “Mr. Brooks, it’s fine. Let me show you your office – and then you can join Mr. Shaw and Mr. Ford in Conference Room Seven.”

I exhale when she’s not looking and follow her to my office.

“We’re very excited to have you working for us.” Marcia looks at me from over her shoulder while moving to the wall of offices. “The firm prides itself on having a diverse attorney base, and you’re quite an asset,” she adds. Huh. I’ve never been congratulated for being late.

“Okay, so here’s your office and your key. Don’t lose it,” she warns. “Jimmy will be by later to set up your computer and issue your company Blackberry. Don’t lose that either.” Funny.

“Thank you, it all looks great,” I say.

“You should get to that meeting – I’ll introduce you to your secretary and paralegal staff this afternoon. Welcome to JS&D.”

I toss my briefcase on my empty desk and race toward the conference rooms. Number Seven is immediately in front of me – I pause, and then knock on the door.

“Come in,” the deep voice bellows.

I open the door to be met by Mr. Shaw, the equivalent to a Confederate Colonel, and a tall guy with the confidence of a cocky bastard. Great.

“Chris? I’m Adam Ford – welcome to JS&D.” Adam extends his arm and shakes my hand firmly. His eyes quickly dart to my stickered nametag and he smirks – noticeably amused.

“Thank you. I’m honored to be a part of this firm,” I say.

“Mr. Brooks, Adam is a junior partner and will help you transition into the firm. He doesn’t talk much and he’s not very friendly – so good luck.” Chuckling, Mr. Shaw pats my shoulder and waddles out of the conference room. Adam’s stoic face doesn’t change – he doesn’t find much humor in the introduction.

“Is he joking?” I ask.

“No. Let’s get lunch.”

Jasper’s Chophouse is the shit.

Adam and I took a cab to an Irish pub a few blocks from the office, and I thought
that
was pretty cool. Back in Austin, lunch usually consisted of a can of Dr. Pepper and Snickers, and on the rare occasion, some Whataburger.

I was pulling out a chair to sit down at a table when Adam shook his head and said, “Come on.” He kept walking toward the back of the pub and then stopped in front of a red door. Adam knocked once and the door opened. We followed a maître d’ down a spiral staircase and into something resembling a speakeasy during the Prohibition.

Jesus Christ, this place isn’t just a restaurant, it’s a fucking time capsule. The floor to ceiling mahogany makes it dark and shady, and the smoke and quiet chatter could
almost
be described as sexy – if it weren’t for the two dozen men in suits throwing back martinis and smoking cigars.

We’re led to a booth made entirely out of leather, even the tabletop is leather. The green lamp barely emits enough light to see the drink menu, but the drink menu has three options: gin, whisky, and bourbon.

“This place is different.” I take my coat off and hand it to the maître d’. He gives Adam a ticket and then takes our coats back to the secret entrance.

“Yeah, I had a client meeting here a few months ago. It’s like an old-New York supper club – there’s even a cigarette girl,” Adam claims, motioning to the only woman.

 He’s cool. And in two seconds, I’m going to reveal how un-cool I really am.

Embarrassed, I say, “I don’t have my wallet. Actually, I think it was stolen.”

Adam hides his amusement by looking down at the menu. “How’d that happen?” he asks.

“In my defense, I think it was stolen when I was helping a lady with a stroller get off the subway.”

He raises his head and sneers. “She’s probably the one that stole it. It’s like another world underground, you gotta be a dick down there.”

“Oh, I figured that out after my third attempt at squeezing through a closing subway door. I tackled some bastard in a top hat though,” I say proudly.

Adam dips his head and cocks his eyebrows. “You mean a Hasidic Jew?” Laughing, he asks, “You drink gin?”

“Can I drink during lunch?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

I study his facial expression through the layers of smoke. “Is this a test?”

“Do you want it to be?” he challenges.

A waiter approaches our table with a platter of raw meat. “Good afternoon, gentleman. Would you like to choose your steak?”