Notes from the Breadline: Friends and Other Strangers
(Part I)
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), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook.
On an unseasonably chilly autumn day, Lat and I are sitting in his office, commiserating about the cold. “I’m freezing,” I say, rubbing my hands over the steam rising from the coffee fountain. “Shouldn’t we be enjoying Native American summer right now?”
“Yeah,” Lat responds absently, his eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of him. I wait for a proper response, but he seems absorbed in the task before him. After a few minutes, I get up and stand behind him, peering nosily over his shoulder.
He is downloading a virtual fireplace to his desktop. After a few minutes of virtual tending, it begins to crackle gaily. “Ah,” he says, relaxing visibly. “There’s nothing like a nice fire on a cold fall day … and virtual fires are much eco-friendlier than their wood-burning facsimiles!” He leans back in his chair and arranges his feet on his desk. “Did I mention that I’m watching my carbon footprint?”
“I did notice that your carbon footprint was looking particularly svelte,” I tell him. I stare out at the window, where the trees are being battered by a cold wind. A wave of melancholy, sudden and bracing, washes over me. “The weather has gone as cold as the scent for job leads,” I say glumly.
Lat strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment, and then begins to dig through a stack of papers on his desk. It teeters dangerously and then cascades onto the floor. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Paper avalanche.” After a moment, he extracts a creased copy of the New York Times, which he brandishes triumphantly.
“I was just reading about these job clubs, where people ‘meet to mingle, resumes in tow,’” he says. “And I was thinking: maybe you should try going to one. It could be an excellent networking opportunity!”
Another swell of melancholy builds, gathers into a frothy whitecap, and crashes around me. “That’s what you said about that speed-dating event we went to last year,” I say, trying not to sound peevish, “and that was a total waste of time, in six-minute increments. Besides, I just … I hate those things,” I tell him. “They feel so … forced.”
Lat responds with stony silence, then leans over and minimizes the fireplace. “Get going, sister,” he says sternly. “Find a networking event, and then you can come back and tell me all about it. Until then, no merrily crackling fire for you!”
I sulk for a few minutes, and then relent. In truth, my job search has stalled, and nothing I have done lately in an attempt to jump-start it seems to work. Why not? I figure, trying to muster optimism. At this point, I have nothing to lose.
I spend the next few days searching online (using http://blog.yoursearchlights.org/ — one of the resources highlighted in the Times article — as well as Meetup.com and LinkedIn) for a networking event to attend. Because I cannot seem to find one in the city at a time that works for me (and because the one networking event I attended in Manhattan was both ferociously competitive and, unfortunately, a lot like speed dating) I settle on one in Northern New Jersey. This strikes me as a strategically sound choice: after all, I figure, the attendees are probably either commuters with ties to the Manhattan job market, or people with connections in New Jersey, where (I think hopefully) perhaps the job market is less moribund.
Having selected a meeting to attend, I email the group’s facilitator to RSVP and get some background information. Rhonda (the facilitator) responds on the afternoon of the event, but tells me that this particular gathering is geared primarily toward Human Resources professionals. But she assures me that they “have had attendees from various backgrounds,” and suggests that I “come to at least one networking event and determine then if this is the group for you. As the evening progresses, you can let me know what you think.” Her email ends with a cheerful, “Looking forward to meeting you tomorrow! :)” Discouraged, I consider telling Lat that I have decided not to go. “It’s not a good fit,” I plan to say. “And I’ll probably be the only lawyer there.” I am dialing the phone, however, when it occurs to me that the source of my apprehension is not the potential composition of the group. In reality, I am just not sure whether — after months in the breadline — I can still pass for someone employable.
Once this realization dawns on me, the floodgates open, and I feel a panicky swell of doubt rise — dark and ominous, like a sudden thunderstorm, or diarrhea - and threaten to douse me with something toxic. A list of qualms scrolls through my mind. What if (after far too many one-sided conversations with the cats) my social skills have atrophied beyond recognition? What if I can no longer play the part of a lawyer convincingly? What if people say, “I didn’t know lawyers got laid off!” and I have to explain - again — that lawyers do, in fact, get laid off? What if, despite my explanation, they look at me with pity, nod knowingly, and think “She must have fucked up”? Why, after all this time, does being laid off still feels like something that I did wrong? What if, in mid-conversation, I slip and say “Who’s a good kitty?” in my cat voice? What if we play a game, and no one picks me for their team? What will I wear?
After a few minutes of hand-wringing, I realize that my focus — on these hypothetical wellsprings of anxiety — is all wrong. Why struggle against the tentacles of ambient anxiety when I can identify the actual, concrete sources of my trepidation? Here, I remind myself, are some of the things I have learned: life in the breadline can be isolated. Life without work can feel directionless. Prolonged unemployment makes you question what you have to offer, and why (if it’s as valuable as your student loan bills suggest) no one wants to partake of it. Any one of these truths would be discouraging; in the aggregate, they have the potential to be debilitating. But, I conclude, staying at home and commiserating with the cats is a sure way to turn a perceived disability into guaranteed paralysis. My inner high school football coach materializes for a brief moment. “Get pumped!” he yells. “Run a smooth offense! Size doesn’t matter! It’s all about determination! The only opponent you’re playing is yourself! Now get out there, and prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet!”
Thanks, Coach! I think. Spirits buoyed, I hit the shower. Afterwards, I am still not sure what to wear, so I rifle through my work clothes with the guilty sense that I am waking them from hibernation. I put on my grown-up watch and a skirt, then a different skirt, and then - unable to face the inevitable battle between me and panty hose - settle on a pair of black pants. Suddenly aware that my dawdling has put me behind schedule, I rush into the bathroom, where the bras I hand-washed earlier in the day are hanging to dry. Alas: it seems that I have miscalculated the atmospheric conditions in my apartment. Every bra is still soaking wet.
I run back to my bedroom and paw frantically through my underwear drawer, lingerie flying cartoonishly as I dig through the pile. Buried in its recesses, I find a bra which, though clean, is a tattered relic of its former self; it probably should have gone to live on the farm a while back. “You can retire after this,” I tell it, “I promise. Just do me this one, last favor. I really need your support right now.” Despite my pleas, the strap detaches itself defiantly the minute I put it on. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I snap irritably, and spend the next fifteen minutes tossing my apartment, first for a needle and thread, then a safety pin, and, ultimately, for my stapler. Although I am certain I have seen each of these items recently, I am unable to locate any one of them. I wonder whether, when I leave, they will emerge (animated like the bombastic housewares in a Disney movie) and stage an elaborate musical number about their clever escape.
Glancing at the clock (which, I suspect, is part of the houseware conspiracy), I realize that I am officially running late. After digging through my dresser once more, I stumble upon a solution: the top of my bikini. It may be inelegant, I tell myself, but sometimes you have to go to war with the army you have.
Fifteen minutes later, I am headed north on the FDR Drive — or I would be, but for the wall of traffic blocking my way. (Yes, car haters: I drove.) Sighing, I put my car in park and turn on the radio. The President is in town, the announcer informs me, and motorists can expect “scattered traffic snarls.” I scan the sea of cars: this is definitely a snarl. It wouldn’t be so bad, I think idly, if a Starbucks barista on rollerskates could bring me a cup of coffee! I fantasize for a moment about my hot, cheerfully-delivered cup of coffee, but the dream vaporizes quickly amidst honking and distant sirens. When I look over to the car beside me, its driver makes an obscene gesture involving his tongue and first two fingers. “Fuck you,” I mouth slowly, and flip him the bird. I hope that I am not accumulating bad networking karma.
Traffic crawls over the bridge, but once I get to New Jersey the roadway clears magically, and I pick up speed. The event is being held in a “family restaurant,” or what my friend Liam calls a “flair chain,” and I scan each of the strip malls I pass (of which there seem to be dozens) anxiously, afraid that I will miss it. I am already fifteen minutes late. Finally, I see the restaurant’s festive sign, looming like a beacon in the second of several strip malls on my right. I pull into the parking lot, wrap a bulky scarf around my neck to camouflage the bow that holds my bikini top in place, and run in.
Two bored hostesses, each resembling a flair-laden Christmas tree, greet me. I tell them I am looking for the networking event, and they point to a dining area upstairs. I decide to stop at the restroom first, just to make sure I look presentable.
Once there, I examine my reflection in the mirror. I am wearing work clothes (or some facsimile thereof, not counting the bathing suit) and makeup, and the woman who stares back at me looks unfamiliar - something like me, but in costume. “Hi,” I say, trying for a network-appropriate tone, “I’m Roxana!” Too informal. I try again. “Hi, I’m Roxana St. Thomas. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The woman in the mirror manages a prim smile. Before I can respond, the door opens, and two women walk in. “I tried like fifty fucking kinds of haih-spray,” one says. “Nothing holds my fucking haih up.” My dress rehearsal is over, I decide. It’s showtime.
“Does this scarf look stupid?” I ask the women, before I turn to go. They step back and look me over. “Lose the scarf, hon,” says the woman with flat haih. “Whaddya, cold?” her friend chimes in. “It’s like 60 fuckin’ degrees out.” They exchange a look, and then peer at my feet. When I follow their gaze, I am mortified to find that I am still wearing sneakers.
“Oh, fuck,” I say. I know exactly where my work-appropriate shoes are: at home. By the door.
“Don’t worry, hon,” the friend reassures me. “It’s dark in theah. No one will notice.”
I scowl at my feet for a moment, and then gather myself. “Thanks,” I say to the women. “Enjoy your dinnah.”
On my way out of the restroom and up the stairs, I pass a colorized portrait of Elvis. “Got My Mojo Working!” I tell him silently. He smiles, aloof and perfectly coiffed, back at me. I bound up the stairs quickly, and am greeted by the stares of about a dozen people, who are seated around a table in the otherwise empty room. They look at me expectantly.
“Hi,” I say, smiling brightly. “I’m Roxana St. Thomas.”
TO BE CONTINUED….
______________________________________________________________________
Roxana St. Thomas is a laid-off lawyer living in New York. You can reach her by email (at roxanastthomas@gmail.com), follow her on Twitter, or find her on Facebook. And check out the Notes from the Breadline t-shirt store here.
(90) Comments
Comments
Moishe Firsterberg.
John Sunununu
Ugh.
I appreciate the effort, but not good.
I really dislike this column. It is so boring.
imma let you finish, but not before predicting a bra-fail at a most inopportune time.
Worst. Shit. Ever.
You wanna know what do I think of this column?**dropping pants**
**pointing to rear-end **
This is what I think of your column. Roxana, you're an embarrassment, and that's why I didn't bother reading this article, I'm too busy trying to find ways to win, and to motivating others to win. You have an opportunity to turn this thing around, now stop runnin' around like like a damn fool, get out there and GET A JOB!!!
Is she always in Lat's office now? Why doesn't Lat just come out and admit that he's writing this under a pseudonym?
Roxana, you suck harder than Lat in a truck stop bathroom.
I'm impressed that the prior comments have something to add over and above tl;dr.
I read this shit once, and it was unrewarding. I would rather read a Mystal racial rant that he never proofread or fact checked at all, instead fo the wya he just sorta looks ovre it real quikcly generally. At least then, there wuold be somethign amusing for me do to in trying to understadn waht the hell he was saying. You say nothing. and it is long. find another douchebag smu kid and put him up on here.
The first lesson of good writing is to know your audience. Roxana= fail
This Roxana St. Thomas shtick keeps getting progressivly worse. I don't know why the ATL editors think its funny.
Too long. Didn't read.
I like this column. It is consistently creative and interesting and well-written.
If you don't like it, then don't read it. Posting rude comments about it is not necessary.
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Roxana played football in HS? I'm confused.
17, go fuck yourself you worthless piece of shit. ATL, ban this fucker, NSFW would be appreciated (some of us have real jobs).
16=Roxana (or rather David Lat, writing under his drag nom de plume)
Why are you reading ATL at work 19? If you have a "real job" then close the browser and get some work done.
I have read every word of every column Roxana has ever written and I can say with some confidence that I hate her. I really really hate her.
21 is an idiot who has never worked in an office. Dude's probably just passing time.
Although post no. 17 is tasteless, I concur with Commenter #21: Commenter #19, get to work.
Too long, didn't read
Whatever happened to the shingle-hanging ploy?
Commenter #17 posts on every thread. I'm sure they have banned him, but he keeps changing his IP address.
Just don't click on any link that has "imageshack" in the URL.
Too long; no read.
If Lat is really watching his carbon footprint then why wouldn't he let his computer go into suspend and use less energy? Most likely the energy used to operate his computer was produced from burning coal or oil to create electricity (Around 35% efficient). The electricity was sent through wires until it got to his computer (this also expends heat, reducing efficiency). A fireplace on the other hand is much more efficient as you are not converting heat to electricity but are using heat for heat. Also, in terms of carbon footprint, burning fossil fuels to produce electrity is worse because you are releasing carbon that has been trapped for millions of years below the earth surface. When you burn wood, you release carbon that the tree took from the air as it grew. So your carbon footprint is far less. If you are trying to save the earth, think about what you are doing!
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17 - You need to get a life. And a real job, so you don't spend all day posting tasteless graphics on ATL.
I'm sure Lat and Mystal don't care - you generate dozens of pageviews for ATL each day, so they're laughing all the way to the bank. But the rest of us are annoyed by you.
This is so unnecessary. Will someone please tell Roxana that Vinson & Elkins in New York is hiring litigators with Biglaw experience? See below:
Vinson & Elkins Doesn’t Mind if Columbia or NYU Law Students Have Been Laid Off
Thursday, October 22, 2009 3:31 PM - By Elie Mystal
Roxanne, after reading this column, I now believe that it is indeed your fault that you were let-go by your firm. I've worked with your type before. Showing up late and in sneakers to an event that has the potential to positively impact your career? No problem, because you have moxie and stuff like being punctual and well- groomed, that's just not important.
Sorry to tell you, everything is important. It may not matter as much when the economy is booming and firms can't hire enough associates...well you can figure out the rest.
That said, I generally enjoy your columns. You should edit them down, add some more personal shit, possibly a love angle with this Todd guy who probably violated you in your sleep. (I'd leave that part out.). And you'll have the next nanny diaries or devil wears prada but for the legal set. People like reading about self-asorbed NYCers living amongst wealthy, even more self-asorbed NYCers.
Native American summer? Really?
The following is the worse line in this entire story:
"TO BE CONTINUED…."
35 made me laugh out loud. This recurring column needs to stop. It's terrible and I audibly groan whenever I see it posted.
This really is long and awful.
Why did it take multiple paragraphs to even come close to having a point???
Yeah, I used to be a fan of this column, but no more. It has run its course.
Also, Lat, please admit that Roxana is fictional.
I need one of those virtual fireplaces
thetrademarkcompany.com
Does anyone read this stupid column?
No
At last! Is it finally be dawning on Roxana that she needs to get the hell out of NYC?
At last! Is it finally be dawning on Roxana that she needs to get the hell out of NYC?
This used to be my favorite feature. No longer. I'm tired of every column starting with a discussion between Lat and Roxy.
Does Roxana think she's cool because she's on the inside with Lat?
Roxana St. Thomas is an anagram of 'I am an awful writer'. Coincidence?
45 - That would be the saddest state of affairs that she has thus far endured.
The writing is OK but it looks like Roxana is no longer capable of performing even basic tasks such as dressing herself. If you are looking for a job, you need to be prepared and make some effort when opportunities present themselves. I suspect the entire Breadline series is fiction.
I can't believe I just read this overdramatized horseshit. I really am procrastinating.
I thought this was entertaining and well-written. One of her better columns in recent months.
We need to bomb the breadline back to the stoneage!
-DOJ Secure
How is roxanna able to afford both maintaining a car and an apt in nyc for so many months of unemployment? wouldn't the money pressure alone force her to look for a job instead of "stalling"? either this column is totally made up or roxanna is being bankrolled by mommy/daddy/bf.
hey roxanna, you should look up lawcrossing or lateral link or any of those other sites. There are plenty of big firms hiring litigators in NYC. get your shit together.
I think The Judge needs to issue an opinion in the matter of People v. Roxanna
Although these columns are actually physically painful to read, I like to assume she is a real person and it makes me feel so much better about my own abilities and chances at life --- much like watching an episode of "cops."
Are you actually still unemployed? I am starting to wonder whether you are not employed and simply writing this column in fiction.
This column always presents a paradox: should I click on it to confirm it is terrible as always (thus giving Lat the delusion that people click through to read it) or should I just ignore the damn thing and hope it goes away.
WHY WONT THIS GO AWAY? HOW DOES THIS GET PUBLISHED? WHY WONT ROXANA OR LAT LISTEN TO THE COMPLAINTS AND EDIT THE DAMN THING?
WHY?
Whoever is writing this, Lat or Roxanna - enough with the "I was meeting with Lat" literary device. It was ok once, but now EVERY column begins whit Roxanna unable to come up with any ideas for a column, meeting with Lat, and being given an assignment. It wore thin the second time, now it is ridiculous. Not to mention incredibly lazy.
If you went to a job seeker's social event, just tell us about that. We don't need 5 paragraphs about how Lat came up with the idea.
ABSOLUTELY USELESS. Why don't you fire Roxana, and hire someone that can write in a reasonably proficient manner. I'd like to read about a laid-off lawyer starting their own practice, but NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, written by this twit Roxana.
50 = Roxana/Lat
"Because I cannot seem to find one in the city at a time that works for me."
Because your conversations with your cats occupy so much of your busy schedule as an agoraphobic unemployed person?
I found this post too long and I did not read it.
She lost me at "Native American Summer."
This is the song that never ends, it just goes on and on my friends. You hear someone singing it not knowing what it was. Now you continuing singing it forever just because.......................
Oh freddled gruntbuggley, thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee
YOU SUCK, Roxana St. Lat.
I call bullshit simply because "Roxana" has been unemployed how long now? I forget, but several months at least right?
Point is, these jobless get together things are all over local news, newspapers, blogs, etc etc.
It looks more like an episode of Laverne and Shirley to imagine Lat and Roxana suddenly coming up with the light bulb moment to go to one of these things after a year or so of unemployment.
It's offensive to those that are actually unemployed, Lat.
Lat strokes his 'chin' too much. In every frickin' article. Get another technique Roxana/Lat.
Roxana - you are too funny!!!!! Although, I must say that your NJ accent sounds like the Boston accent.
67 = Roxana/Lat
Cosign 57, it's just painful now.
While this was the best column s/he's produced in a while, that still does not bring it up to the level of being at all worthwhile.
I generally like reading this column. If it is really a work of fiction, then Roxana must be both very perceptive to so accurately describe the feelings of many laid-off lawyers, and pretty rotten to be pretending to be something she's not and passing it off as real.
Having said all that, I must say that this was the worst entry yet. Way too long, filled with unnecessary anecdotes and random musings that obscure the point of this entry.
Still, I hope the next entry is better. I'll read it.
Ok the comments to this column are consistently the best on ATL. I literally laugh out loud at the comments. The column is atrocious for reasons already stated but the comments are golden.
"My inner high school football coach materializes for a brief moment." Hon, not many girls had high-school football coaches . . . .
Now I am a guy, but I find it hard to believe that many grown girls would have such bra problems. The actual job searching diary was interesting, the fem-fantasies not so much.
what is utterly HILARIOUS is the number of people who read this piece every week and every week comment how awful it is ....... why do you read it? !!!!!!!!!!
nevermind the riculousness of the piece - what is really pathetic is all the poeple reading it when they hate it!!!!
"I feel a panicky swell of doubt rise — dark and ominous, like a sudden thunderstorm, or diarrhea..."
Worst. Sentence. Ever.
OK. late (b/c of unforeseen NYC traffic?) and still wearing sneakers.
Wow, she's really given up and wonders why its going so poorly. Hopefully the flower pattern of the bathing suit doesn't show through as she jokingly calls someone a Native American giver.
Kill, grill, and eat the cats. Then write about it.
"Why struggle against the tentacles of ambient anxiety when I can identify the actual, concrete sources of my trepidation?"
Sounds like a high school student trying to use unnecessarily big words to impress her AP English teacher.
Seriously, did you write briefs like you write these columns? Wordy and non-sensical? No wonder you got canned.
Considering Roxana does not actually have a job, it seems like she could have spent a little more time making sure she had an outfit and shoes ready for this thing. I'm just sayin'
Considering Roxana does not actually have a job, it seems like she could have spent a little more time making sure she had an outfit and shoes ready for this thing. I'm just sayin'
too long, did not read
Seriously?! We've all been "there," i.e., had times when we've had to scrounge for a clean outfit. But we get "there" when there's too much going on everywhere else, i.e., on trial, or billing 300 hour months. Roxy's days are not overflowing with things she needs to do. There's no excuse for her showing up to a potential interview in sneakers and a swimsuit. That she did so shows that she has fallen too far. This isn't just unemployment she's talking about in this post, this is someone letting hersef go in a worrisome way. I'm not sure what her health care situation is, but it might be time for Roxy to visit the psychologist/psychiatrist/other professional to help work through some of this.
THIS COLUMN SUCKS!
i don't think she's implying she payed football in high school. her "inner football coach" is just a reference to getting herself pumped up in a high energy/ no excuses fashion 'a la a high school football coach. c'mon people, it's prose not an appellate brief. don't be so literal. and no i am not roxanna, or lat, or roxanna/lat.
84 = Lat/Roxana
84 = Lat/Roxana
85 = Lat/Roxana
83 = Roxana
Am coming too late to this particular column (in light of 10/28 part two), but thought this was well-written [the photo stuff was beneath your ability]; don't let the nay-sayers here drag you down! Sls.
How does crap like this get "published?"
Also, how the hell did RST start out in biglaw and I'm in medium-small law? RST is incompetent and lazy.
My favorite part? Where the UNEMPLOYED person "cannot seem to find one in the city at a time that works for me." Um what? What ELSE do you have to do? You appear to think too much of yourself to take any other job...soooo...?
Ugh, if we must have a column like this, and I can see the relevance in this economy, can someone with a fucking clue please write it?