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Every Day Life: Attorneys and Cornish Hen

The Professionals

At my first job in the US I met a fellow Australian. Nigel loved New York, especially Manhattan. I liked Nigel. And so it was that Nigel became my mentor and guide on things New York.

On the weekends I'd travel down from Connecticut where I was then living, and stay at Nigel's impeccably decorated apartment near Gramercy Park. He'd take me to a new part of Manhattan every Saturday.

One day I asked him about the Lincoln Center - a large arts complex on the West Side, home of The Metropolitan Opera, The New York City Ballet, The New York Philharmonic Orchestra and several other resident performing arts companies.

"What's it look like, Nigel", I asked. "Like Chadstone, daarhling", he drawled.

Or I'd ask him for directions. "Which way is Ninetieth Street, Nigel?" "Oh thataway - towards Canada dear".

Nigel was fun. And very informative.

After some months, the place where we both worked relocated to Connecticut. We were both devastated. We were used to working in the heart of it, on Fifth Avenue not far from the Rockefeller Center. Now we were going to the suburbs. We sobbed.

"Nigel, I feel dreadful!" I told him. "Well I feel like someone is making me wear polyester daarhling," he answered.

The things that Nigel loved about Manhattan were the same things that all of us Manhattanites love. The buzz, the humour, the people, the culture, the opportunity. But there was something else here for Nigel. He absolutely adored the complete lack of professionalism of the place. A sign in his office read, "You're in America Now - Lower Your Standards".

He just loved the way that buildings fell apart due to shoddy workmanship, how the subways broke down, how people at work would scream at each other using every profanity in the book, and later forget all about it.

Nigel enjoyed annoying hell out of his American colleagues when commenting on their work. "This would just NOT DO where I come from daarhling". Or "We have proper doctors <substitute profession > in Australia.

So with my early training on ways New York, and with over ten years living here, you'd think I'd have become used to the lack of professionalism that Nigel had pointed out to me, and which I so readily observed.

Not so. It gets to me every time.

Like last week. I had occasion to consult an attorney. Flash mid-town office, professionally groomed and dressed, she led me to the consulting room. It was so overheated I had to say something. She agreed and gave a few kicks to the heating unit. It rattled a lot but continued to pump out warm air.

We took off our jackets and cardigans and fanned ourselves with legal documents. The consultation started. I was careful to note the time - no way was I going to pay $500 divided 60 times six for the time she'd spent attempting to bring the temperature down to below 90F.

It seemed to be getting hotter. She got up with a sigh and attempted to open a window. Flakes of rusted paint floated onto the boardroom table. Soot dislodged and attacked her lungs. "It's OK," I said, "I like it warm, I'm Australian". Anything to get back to business.

"Fucking shit of a thing!" she screeched at the heating unit. "Fucking crap!"

Maybe I'm exaggerating the professionalism of Australian lawyers. After all, it has been a while since I've consulted one. But I'm pretty sure that they don't talk like that. Or do they?

After the consultation and on my way back to work, I decided to buy my staff some computer books for a present. I had noticed a large Barnes and Noble bookstore on my way to the attorney's. I found it again and spent a pleasurable fifteen minutes browsing the shelves. At the checkout I remembered I needed to go to the bank, so I asked the associate (that's what we have to call shop assistants now), for directions to the closest CitiBank ATM.

"Down there," he replied, waving vaguely to nowhere in particular. "You mean down the escalator?" I asked. "No no no!" he snapped, "DOWN as in DOWN. Through the doors and keep walking." I thanked him and paid. He farewelled me with a "Have a nice day, Babe".

I remembered my first holiday job in Melbourne. It was at Georges - an up-market department store at the Paris end of Collins Street in Melbourne. It's gone now, but in the sixties it was very refined, and expensive. There were chandeliers, soft carpeting and manned elevators paneled with oak. The shop assistants were the lowest of the low. We worked six days a week from 8:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. and had to be impeccably groomed at all times. We had to stand all day, with perfect posture. If you so much as leaned against the wall for one second you were instantly dismissed.

How did we address the customers? I can't remember. But we certainly didn't lecture them on the meaning of the word "down" or call them "babe".

And in case you actually read the title, and are wondering what Cornish hen has to do with the price of fish, I'll tell you. I was going to write about my new source of sustenance - FreshDirect.com - but I have just realised that daylight savings has ended and I have no idea as to whether it is an hour earlier or an hour later than it feels.
And so, till next week,

Kate Juliff
New York
October 2005