Ed. note: Welcome to the latest installment of “Notes from the Breadline,” a column by a laid-off lawyer in New York. Prior columns are collected here. You can reach Roxana St. Thomas by email, at roxanastthomas@gmail.com, or find her on Facebook.

On a long-ago episode of the Simpsons, Homer accidentally ingests (or so it seems) a piece of poisonous blowfish at the local sushi joint. Dr. Hibbert tells him that he has 24 hours to live, and attempts to prepare him for his inevitable reaction. “Now,” he says, “a little death anxiety is normal. You can expect to go through five stages.” He lists them: the first is denial, the second is anger. After that comes fear, which is followed by bargaining. Homer experiences the stages contemporaneously, as Dr. Hibbert reels each one off. When he comes to the last one — acceptance — Homer says, “We all gotta go sometime.”

“Mr. Simpson,” the doctor replies, “your progress astounds me.”

To be clear, being laid off is nothing like eating a poisonous blowfish, and, of course, it is absolutely nothing like being told that you may have a scant 24 hours to live. As a preliminary matter, you will almost certainly survive it, and there is no reason to greet the news of your layoff with hurried plans to go skydiving, tell your parents that you forgive them, have one last beer with Barney, or do any of the other things you meant to get around to but never quite did. But you may, nonetheless, go through certain stages in your voyage from open-mouthed stupefaction to serene resignation.

The first stages, after the jump.

In this regard, I was an underachiever in all respects, managing the stages with none of the alacrity or grace of Homer Simpson. For one thing, I lingered in denial for what now seems like an embarrassing interlude. By way of explanation, I should note here that I was not in denial about the event itself; being laid off is a straightforward affair, which (unlike many issues encountered in the law) does not lend itself to multiple interpretations. Rather, I was in denial about how abruptly, after being laid off, a lawyer’s expiration date arrives. Perhaps more importantly, I was unaware of how sudden — and unceremonious — the journey from ostensibly respected professional to wilted vegetable can be.

Why, you might ask, should I have been in denial at all? While the news that I was “being let go” was unwelcome, it was not surprising; as friends were quick to remind me, I had spent the preceding month wondering aloud how long the firm could continue to pay associates whose billable hours seemed to be plummeting in near-perfect synchrony with the Dow. In hindsight, I realized, the coldly logical reasonableness of being let go in the midst of a looming depression may have actually given rise to the false belief that we would be treated a bit more gently. After all, being laid off in an economic downturn was very different than being let go for nebulous, or not so nebulous, “performance related” reasons; we hadn’t fucked up a major filing, overlooked bad law in a brief, failed to show up for a deposition, or gotten drunk at the office cocktail party and announced to the managing partner that he was a fat asshole. Rather, as the firm had acknowledged, we were the victims of circumstances beyond our control. Surely, we would not be pushed out of the nest without a worm or two to tide us over. Effort and good intentions, I allowed myself to believe, would be rewarded, or at least acknowledged.

Armed with this foolish misapprehension, I embark on my last two weeks of work. “Why are you even coming in to the office?” Giovanna asks me incredulously. “I have to get my files in order, for whoever takes over my cases,” I tell her. “Besides, I may as well look for work from here.” And look for work I did. First, I field calls and emails from friends and family to whom I had announced that I was “between opportunities.” This involves explaining, to nearly all of them, why the suggestion — delivered with a “Eureka! I figured out how to clone the dog!” sense of sudden, unexpected brilliance — that I “hang a shingle” was not particularly viable.

Next, I call a few of the recruiters I have worked with in the past. Patrick, the first one I call, hears that I am in the market for a new job and blurts, “You too? Jesus Christ, it’s like the fucking apocalypse out there.” After a momentary pause he says, somewhat sheepishly, “Um, did I say that out loud?” “I think that counts as an excited utterance,” I tell him. “I take it no one is hiring?”

Well, Patrick tells me… no. But, he adds, I shouldn’t let that discourage me. There are exceptions to every rule, and the only way to find them is to blanket the tri-state area with resumes. “I assume you have a few months,” Patrick says. “It’s not a lot of time, even under the best of circumstances, but you never know.” Actually, I tell him, I have a few weeks — two, to be exact.

“That’s disgusting,” he replies. “Have you considered relocating? I think you would really expand your opportunities if you looked for jobs in another state, or, you know, some firms are still firms hiring in Dubai and the Emirates.” I wonder if he is preparing to pass the phone to my mother. “It pays more than unemployment!” I imagine her saying. I begin to feel like the panhandlers who announce to every passerby that they are hungry and need a quarter for pizza; if you actually offer to buy them a slice, it turns out that they don’t want pizza at all. They may be starving, but they are still choosy. “I don’t want to move,” I tell him. “I grew up in Brooklyn; I don’t want to go to Dubai.”

Patrick is understanding. “Just keep it in mind,” he says. In the meantime, he is happy to give me suggestions, but, he advises me, I should submit resumes on my own, without a recruiter. If firms are willing to consider hiring an associate at my level, they will only be deterred by the necessity of paying a large fee. The task ahead of me suddenly seems impossible. “Try not to worry,” Patrick tells me. “Send out as many resumes as you can. In two weeks, you can tell the firm that you’ve sent out a hundred and fifty applications and still have no leads. I’m sure they’ll give you a little more time.” I have a similar conversation with another recruiter friend, Lucy. “If you don’t find anything in the next few weeks,” she says confidently, “just tell them. They’re not inhuman; I’m sure they’ll give you a little bit more time.”

I download a list of Am Law 200 firms and start trolling for job postings and contact information. The work is tedious and discouraging. Most do not seem to be hiring, or at least have no positions listed; those that are hiring seem to be interested almost exclusively in very junior bankruptcy associates. I realize that my approach might accurately be described as “scattershot,” but I don’t know what else to do. I send one resume after another into the application supernova, which swallows them and occasionally burps out an automated response. “Thank you for your interest in ______,” they begin politely. Then — to paraphrase — they continue, “We are currently reviewing our hiring needs and will contact you in the unlikely event that our firm does not go out of business or fire 230 associates in the next two weeks, or if we decide to hire someone who is not a 26-year-old with two years of bankruptcy ‘experience.’”

Having long been interested in government work, I also go to the USA Jobs site and apply for every position for which I might (even arguably) be qualified. Like his counterparts in the private sector, Uncle Sam advises me that he will contact me once he has a better idea of his staffing needs and budgetary capacity for the upcoming year. What happened to the unprecedented expansion of government? I wonder. Aren’t we supposed to be experiencing a New Deal of sorts? You want “shovel-ready”? Look no further, Uncle Sam, I want to say: I am the living embodiment of shovel-readiness. Finally, a friend who works in Washington tells me the unfortunate news: the government may fill discrete positions here and there, but most federal agencies will not conduct large-scale hiring until October 2009.

As the days tick by, it becomes undeniably clear that I will not find a job in two weeks. I lull myself into believing that I may be able to beg my way into a little more time at the firm teat. “If I were you, I’d go into work with a gas can,” Cliff writes to me. “Or maybe you can steal all the “R”s off of the keyboards… that’ll show ‘em. Either way, I have two words: long lunches.” No, I tell him. “I haven’t given up on talking them into even a slightly mo e gene ous seve ance, so I’m going to hold off on the gas can.” Even as I write this, I realize that I have no position from which to negotiate, and nothing to bargain with. Why should they give me anything? I call Bo, a friend who is a partner at a Big Law Firm. “Do you think they’ll give me some extra time if I tell them that I’ve sent out 8,000 resumes and still have no job prospects?” I ask him anxiously. Bo sounds dubious. “Well,” he begins, “if they come to you and say ‘sign this waiver,’ you might have a leg to stand on.” I tell him that I have not been asked to sign a waiver. He responds tactfully. “I think you should be prepared for them to tell you to fuck yourself,” he says.
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Roxana St. Thomas is a laid-off lawyer living in New York. You can reach her by email, at roxanastthomas@gmail.com, or find her on Facebook.

Earlier: Prior installments of Notes from the Breadline