April Fooled

The joke is on me, when I think about it. I got everyone, but most of all, I got myself.

For April first, I posted a simple statement to my Gtalk status message and on Twitter. I would be doing pro bono work in Maryland during weekends for the next few months. I had multiple people congratulating me and asking me what exactly I would be doing. To date, only W.T. has not questioned it, but he is so filled with cynicism, I am hardly surprised. Even C.S. a few weeks later asked me what was up with that message, and expressed hopefulness I would be practicing law.

And therein lies the joke, not that I fooled people, but that they were utterly willing to believe that I would practice law. I have failed. Despite my best efforts to convince the masses I will never do this, as soon as I give a hint that I would practice law, they believe me.

(This is an appropriate time to digress and mention that, for all that people disbelieve me, this they accept? Tarnation.)

And maybe it is because I keep doing the unexpected, or at least go against the norm, and I've had such a strange arc to my life, that makes me think it would make a good situation comedy. I could redeem the mass of Asian-America and hopefully scrub the memory of All-American Girl from our collective memory, or fuck it up even more and completely guarantee no Asian-American will ever have a starring role on a situation comedy in America, ever again.

That April Fool's joke, plus a fair amount of contemplation, reminded me of who I was supposed to be at this point. It is half past ten at night as I type this, and I am just randomly typing on this blog. I often swear that I was supposed to be working on my second novel, teaching at a third-rate college during the day, raising a family, at this point in my life. At the same time, I could be toiling away at some mid-sized firm, wallowing in tedium and motions, writing memoranda to partners that I easily could have reduced to a page, but have to make fifteen pages in case someone has the foresight to check, which they will not.

I sport salt and pepper hair, going prematurely grey at twenty-eight. My stress tic is in full swing, sometimes going for thirty, forty seconds at a time. I probably look even younger, though more haunted, due to the poor eating habits, lack of sleep, and lack of laugh lines around my eyes.

I gave up video games a long time ago. Same with reading for leisure. The last thing I would want to do is more reading. I get enough of that at work. Besides, I am too busy trying desperately to keep my relationship with one of my fellow associates from going down the toilet. After all, we are both stressed, and what with the way the economy is going, all it would take is for one of us to get laid off. The other would probably cut ties pretty quickly, just to keep sanity afloat.

I work in a nice enough building in Baltimore. There's a guy on the street I see every morning on the way into the office. I used to throw him some change. Now I just don't care. I keep my head down, and my earphones loud. Probably Linkin Park.

It is not all bad. The support staff are remarkably understanding. They tolerate me because I still know enough to not piss them off. The partners treat me as fungible. My work is acceptable, or so they tell me, regardless of whether it is or not. To them, I could be one of any of the associates, and really, all they see me as now is ballast, ready to cast off to keep the rest of the firm above water.

About the only thing I take joy in is getting published in legal periodicals. Somehow, I've hit a nice streak and have been published in some minor journals over the past year. Maybe that, more than anything, keeps me employed. At the same time, I throw myself into these articles, researching them mercilessly, touching them up constantly, pondering the correct wording of a phrase. It is not much, but for now, it is what I have, and really, since I will be published again within the next couple of weeks, it will be something I have to look forward to. One of the few things.

I imagine him, right now, verging near eleven at night, still in the office, staring into his monitor, putting together the last few cites for another article, or wrapping up a memo, re-reading a case to make sure it applies. Maybe he is answering partner and client emails that he did not have time to get to during the day. Whatever he is going, I see him reaching into his drawer, taking a sip of bourbon, and smiling as he thinks about his April Fool's joke, where he posted that he had accepted a position as a technical writer, effective immediately, and everyone believed that he was quitting.