Mr. Pratt steers me like a show dog through the hallways, stopping to knock at each door. The two “junior” partners are both in their fifties; Mr. Walker is round and balding, while Mr. Price has salt-and-pepper hair and impressive jowls. They both glance away from their laptop screens, cough out a distracted “pleasure to meet you” without getting up, and go right back to work. The four associate lawyers—Misters Ingersoll, Morton, Kemp, and Mendoza—are only slightly younger and more gracious. It’s exactly the sausage-fest that I expected.
Lucky for me, it’s also clear that my new coworkers are way too busy to care whether I’m a young woman, yet another old fart, or a flying purple people-eater. All they see is an extra set of helping hands. That attitude may become a pain in the ass if I ever need something from them. But for now, them aggressively minding their own business is downright refreshing, compared to Mr. “please call me Larry” Pratt and his creepy wandering hand. He obviously wants to bury his face in something other than his work.
Finally our tour is over and we end up back in the lobby. “Last but not least, my dear,” Mr. Pratt announces, “this will be your office.” He points to a narrow whitewashed door, across the hallway entrance from the reception desk, that I had assumed led to a broom closet.
My eyes widen. Holy shit, I get my own office? With a door and a desk and everything?
“Normally we have two or three interns who share that room, but for now, you’ll have the place to yourself. Don’t hesitate to knock on my door if you get lonesome.” His leering grin kills any excitement I may have felt at my new private domain.
“I’ll be sure to come by if I have any questions,” I say, forcing my face to stay blank. Translation: I’ll only talk to you if everyone else in the office has suffered a gruesome death. Maybe I’m the only intern because the other ones gnawed off their legs to get away.
His hand finally leaves my back, only to land on my shoulder like a giant leech. “I promise I’ll let you get to work now. But I want to take you out to lunch today. Just the two of us, so we can get to know each other. I like to know all my employees . . . especially the ones who are as pretty as you.”
Over his shoulder, I see Trina stand up and start frantically cutting her hand at her neck, giving me the universal gesture for Abort! Her eyes are wide and her mouth is pulled down in an exaggerated grimace of horror.
I quickly look back at Larry before he follows my gaze. “Uh . . . you know, I’d love to, but I brought my lunch today. I mean, I always bring my lunch. Saves money.”
“You can put your lunch in the fridge and save it for tomorrow. Don’t worry about the money—this is my treat, sweetheart.”
One more minute with him and my skin is going to crawl right off. Would that get him to leave me alone, or would he just compliment my bone structure?
“I actually already told Trina that we’d eat together,” I blurt. Thank God she said her name earlier, or this lie would be even more unbelievable than it already is. “We were going to talk about . . . you know, girl stuff.” Babies. Boys. Makeup. I have a tampon in my purse and I’m not afraid to use it.
Mr. Pratt frowns, looking annoyed and confused. But all he says is, “Well, that’s too bad. Let me know if you’re ever in the mood for male company.”
I nod solemnly at him. No, it isn’t too bad. It’s the best thing ever.
With one last damp squeeze of my shoulder, the slimy creature finally retreats to its lair. Trina waves me over to the reception desk as soon as his office door clicks shut. Now that she’s on her feet, I realize that she’s freaking tiny. I am by no means tall, but she stands maybe five foot one, even in her heeled sandals.
“Sorry if that was weird,” Trina says softly. “I figured you wouldn’t want his hand on your knee for a whole goddamn hour. And even if he insists on paying, it’s always a trap. Turn him down and he acts like you’re the rude one, but if you let him spend money on you, he starts thinking it’s a down payment, if you know what I mean. Obviously, you should start packing your lunch for real, but for today, you can share mine. Gives me an excuse to buy chocolate out of the vending machine later. I hope you like linguine with garlic sauce and feta cheese . . . stinky breath will keep him out of your face. It’s a real life-hack.”
My head is spinning with Trina’s mile-a-minute diatribe. What the hell have I gotten myself into? I moved here to work hard and become a successful lawyer, not to fend off dirty old men all day.
“This isn’t a situation you should need to life-hack,” I finally sputter. “You . . . we have the right to do our jobs without having to jump through all these stupid hoops. Creating a hostile work environment is illegal.”
She shrugs, turning her palms up. “All very true. But what are you gonna do about it? There’s nobody to complain to when the big boss is the rotten one.”
And such a small company wouldn’t have a human resources department. Or even any real legal protection against employee sexual harassment. Still . . . “There must be something we can do. This is fucking ridiculous.”