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The Curious Case Of Randy (Part 1)

Tuesday, September 23, 2008 10:07 AM - By Hope Winters

randy yellow hat.jpgFirst of all, never ever shoot your cerebellum up with botulism two days before a deadline. God. My head hurts. Yet, I rise …

Here we go.

“Listen, go work somewhere where people like you… I mean, really like you. Then, you can screw up, and it doesn’t even matter. Hope, just go somewhere where people like you, and you’ll be in. Nothing else matters.”

Sage advice given to me from a senior associate at the Pants Down law firm. I mean, he was forced to eat white buns at his desk, the only staple stashed in desk drawer, because he never, ever left his office — not even to get lunch. But he was brilliant, the golden child of Litigation. And he knew this firm was pure evil. He wanted me to escape while I was still young enough.

So, after putting in a few years at Pants Down, I decided to leave. In addition to fending off the advances of creepy middle-aged male partners, I had become increasingly fed up with the partners there, in general.

Plus, at the end of every single day, I was so completely drained. Had I been a mother required to feed a child, my breast would have just dried up. I just had nothing left to give. Anyone.

I was ready to jump.

So, I decided to go to a firm that was less prestigious and international, but that was fine by me. I liked it better anyway when the world was round, not flat. And I was really sick of reading The Economist. There are just way too many countries. More importantly, I was excited to go to a place where the partners actually cared about me and what I wanted to do with my life. And my friend Molly, who had recently left the firm, was really happy now.

She e-mailed me from her new firm: “Listen, Hope. I came to Pants Down because I thought the people were kind of eccentric, interesting — not the super stuffy lawyers you usually find. Now, actually, after seeing all their erratic crazy behavior, I want boring, dull, bland. That’s fine by me.”

I e-mailed her back: “I know. These people are nuts. I mean, who goes to a ‘pool party’ and jumps in the pool in a bikini in front of their colleagues - especially with unshaved armpits? So gross.”

Query: What woman doesn’t shave her armpits? And, if you opt not to shave your pits because you fancy yourself some Nicaraguan rebel leader, then please, keep your arms down. The summer associate pool party was my breaking point — I had to get the hell out of here. These people were just too weird. And the partner for whom I worked was mean as hell and had an old school mustache. That also was weird.

Well, the new firm proved to be everything I expected. They cared about me. Too much.

Read more, after the jump.

They stationed me in Corporate, where the work was slowing down at a precipitous pace.

I was bored. So I left the 14h floor, where Corporate resided, and began visiting my new friend, Jessica, in Litigation on the 8th floor.The 8th floor was booming. Jessica became annoyed with my banal chit chat, but sometimes she would engage. Conversation with Jess was my only respite from an otherwise insufferable day (there is nothing worse than having to “look busy” when you’re not). And that’s how I came to meet Randy, the top dog, the head of the Litigation practice.

Randy was the rainmaker. As such, he was kind of invincible and could do whatever he wanted with guaranteed immunity.

And he did.

Randy was short, frail, kind of nervous and nebbishy — a Woody Allen type, if you will. His office was covered with Ivy League degrees, antique maps, and family beach photos. He instantly took a liking to me. We talked about movies and Anthony Lane’s film reviews in the New Yorker. Randy and I shared a passion for the big screen. Plus, I kind of liked him. He was really interesting, and he could talk about something other than section 6.03 section b, little i. Blah. Blah.

I liked his office, too. He had a really cool antique globe, and I used to spin it round and round, landing my index finger on somewhere exotic like Palau or the DMZ, pretending to be somewhere exotic or dangerous.

Our talks, however, were short lived. As the economy picked up, as it invariably does, my workload increased, and I was back at my desk doing my due diligence and submitting my corporate filings — working late at night for deals that would likely collapse. An exercise in futility. But at least I was making my billable hours. I holed myself up in my office so I could get out by nine and grab a cocktail. Or five.

But suddenly Randy started roaming the halls of my floor. Everyone gave him strange looks. Why in the hell would someone from Litigation be on the Corporate floor? At least every other day, he would poke his head into my office and talk about nothing — movies, Philip Roth, his freak-show daughter — nothing related to the law. I played nicey-nice. I had to — Good Lord, he ran Litigation. All these interruptions started to annoy me, but I feigned enthusiasm at every aspect of his boring life: a minivan, Harvard tuition bills for the unappreciative daughter, a second wife he was already bored with, and soccer games. My life was far more interesting than his, but I didn’t talk to him about it!

One night, when I was working late on yet another arbitrary deadline, he stopped by my office. And, this time, he shut the door and sat down in the chair directly in front of my desk. Weird. But, I convinced myself, this was just normal partner behavior. I mean, they cared about us here, right?

Out-of style wrinkled Dockers, robin egg blue oxford. No jacket. No tie. Hmmm. I didn’t get the memo that we were now on business casual. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll wear tank top and flip flops to work. Anyway, as he eased back onto the chair, placing his hairy knuckles on his knees, he began to tell me the story I never wanted to hear — from anyone.

“Hope.” He paused. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Yes?” I squinted. This man had made me squint so much that I had developed a deeply furrowed brow, desperately in need of Botox (which, by the way, he should have to pay for — he created it).

“Well, I have this problem…..” He placed his hands tightly against his heart.

“My chest has been hurting a lot…. And …. “

“Well, did you go to a cardiologist? Maybe it’s your heart?”

“Yes. I did. They ran an EKG. They ran all the tests….. but they found nothing.”

“Really? I wonder what it could be.”

“Well. I have a rare condition. Actually, an endocrinologist figured it out.”

“Really?”

breast pumps.jpg“Yes. The thing is… ” He starts to whisper and lean closer, as if someone else is in the room.

“My hormones are all messed up. Turns out, I’m not producing enough testosterone ….. and I’m actually experiencing something in my chest that only women go through. Lactation, if you will.”

LACTATION! What in the hell is he talking about?

“You’re producing milk?” I stared at him incredulously.

“Well. I’m not actually ‘producing’ it, but I suppose I could if I wasn’t on medication.”

What did he expect me to do with this revelation? I’m not a mother. It’s not like my breasts ever produced milk. I mean, did he think I was a member of La Leche? As if. I hated them when I worked on the Hill. So pushy and sanctimonious. And now I had to deal with his lactating manboobs?

I tried to be matter of fact. “How do you treat this condition?”

“Hormones. Testosterone. And, lots of it. I’m on all these pills now.” He threw his hands in the air.

I rubbed the bottom of my chin. It had a few whiskers on it. Maybe my testosterone was too high too. Maybe I needed a testosterone check. I mean, I do cuss like a sailor, can drink any man under the table, and my sex drive seemed to be a bit much as of late.

“Testosterone pills? Like, how many do you have to take?”

“Well, right now three. One with every meal.”

I wanted to end this conversation and finish the bloody filing so I could go out and get wasted.

“Well, I hope it helps and you feel better soon!” I gathered my papers and stared at my laptop.

“Well, my chest isn’t hurting as much, but there’s this other problem.”

Good Lord.

STAY TUNED…

Update: Read Part 2 over here.

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Posted in: Breasts, Romance and Dating, Sexual Harassment, Weirdness

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