Read Part I, from Newest York’s 4th issue, here.

7:00 AM: I am, once again, violently thrust into the world of the living. I have yet to open my eyes, but I can feel that four tiny feet are jumping on, over, and–I swear to you, readers–inside of the bed at a speed and rhythm that would seem to defy our conventional understanding of physics. It’s the twins, Sam and Nina, my nominal pride and joy, who will be celebrating their fifth birthday in a little over a week. They’ve recently declared that our home will have a strict 7:00 AM wake up time and, in spite of my repeated objections, have been enforcing this rule with a zeal typically associated with fascist movements and suicide cults. I wonder if I would find parts of this charming if I liked them more.

I turn over to my wife, Rachel, who has somehow managed to sleep through this whole ordeal. What I would give to learn her ways.

7:05 AM: I grab my work phone off the bedside table and start going through my Inbox. It’s the usual deluge, more or less. Shitty, to be sure, but nothing I haven’t seen at this point in my career. It’s a good thing I’m up a bit early today, as this deal I’ve been working on the past few months is supposed to close this morning, and the whole team’s been instructed to be in the office by 9:00 AM sharp for the closing call, which I happen to be leading. 

Our client sucks, even by the standards of multinational corporations. From day one, they’ve been over the top demanding. Especially for what I would consider to be, at best, a mid-size acquisition. I don’t make many mistakes, yet the few I have made have been meticulously cataloged and cited in support of their claims that our firm simply “does not value their business.” I would love for today to be a mistake-free day, if at all possible. I roll out of bed and stumble into the bathroom for a quick shower.

7:30 AM: I’m back in my bedroom, carefully considering my clothing options, as if I’ve found myself in an alternate universe where I haven’t basically worn the same thing every single day of my adult life. It’s probably for the best, both for myself and society at large, that I have to work within these constraints. Left to my own devices, I can end up making some pretty outlandish sartorial decisions.

I do, for the record, love my kids. This does not change the fact they’ve been annoying the hell out of me lately. Just yesterday, Sam told me (totally unprompted, mind you) that he loves his mother more than he loves me. And this was mere moments after my third consecutive reading of Larry the Lamb Goes to the Dentist, considered by most to be the weakest entry in the Larry the Lamb trilogy. 

I can admit that Sam’s stance isn’t entirely without merit. He and his sister spend much more time with Rachel, and I know she’d be deemed the better parent by most objective metrics. But, I mean, I can start pointing out his flaws too if we’re playing that game.

7:40 AM: In the kitchen. Readers, where do you stand on the breakfast question? Is breakfast over? Is the supposed decline of breakfast just an artificial narrative being pushed by Big Lunch? I am eagerly anticipating some hot takes in the Comments section.

I briefly consider making eggs. Unfortunately, I have little time, exceptionally high egg standards, and too much respect for myself and for eggs to subject myself to a subpar egg experience. I force down a KIND bar (ugh) to tide myself over until I can grab something from one of the breakfast carts by my office.

Rachel walks into the kitchen wearing a blue silk nightgown and the unfocused gaze of the exhausted. We have a part-time nanny, which has proven to be essential, but there’s no use in pretending there’s been an equal distribution of labor when it comes to the kids. Or anywhere in the vicinity of equal. When did our dynamic become so retrograde? And when did it stop registering as retrograde?

I approach Rachel and move in for the goodbye kiss, but she turns her head before it can land.

“My breath smells terrible,” she says, continuing to look away from me.

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

I’m surprised by how agitated I am. “Oh really?”

She turns and looks me right in the eye. “Yes, really.”

We appear to have reached an impasse. I look at her for a moment, then carefully lean in and kiss her on the cheek. 

“Tell the kids I said bye.”

She nods.

7:45 AM: I’m in the car (ten points to those of you who correctly guessed a silver Honda CRV) on my way to the Irvington Metro-North station. In spite of my best efforts, my thoughts keep turning to the rapidly deteriorating state of my marriage. 

Rachel, readers of my prior anonymous account might recall, inexplicably agreed to go on multiple dates with me way back when I was a junior associate at the firm. We were probably on track to become exclusive until an impossibly stupid work situation forced me to cancel our Valentine’s Day dinner plans about an hour before we were supposed to meet at the restaurant. As a matter of principle, she had to end things, and I was still a decent enough person at the time to recognize this. I didn’t see her in person for years after that, though I remained an avid follower of her various social media accounts. 

About five years later, we ended up reconnecting at a fundraiser for Lauren Ashcraft, a democratic socialist (oh, to be young) who launched a longshot bid to represent New York City’s 12th district in Congress. While things did not work out for Ms. Ashcraft, she can take solace in the fact that she, as much as anyone else, helped to facilitate the romantic pairing of a corporate lawyer and a vice president of market insights. Would Marx have been for or against this? I don’t know. I never actually finished Kapital.

We picked up right where we left off when we got back together. Things were mostly great those first couple of years. Solid, more or less, the next couple of years. Now? Well, where we are is very far from where we were. It’s always tempting to blame the kids, but I’m increasingly of the mind that the decision to have kids was itself in recognition that a certain stage of our relationship was well past its peak. It was time to march determinedly into the next phase of our lives, one in which our primary identities would be mother and father in a nuclear family unit. Rachel, at least on the surface, accepted this shift almost immediately. I remain a work in progress. There’s a fundamental sadness to it, for sure, but we have our good days.

7:55 AM: This traffic is ridiculous–probably the worst I’ve seen in some time. Hmm. I really can’t miss my train.

8:01 AM: I pull up to the train station just as the train arrives. It’s gonna be a photo finish, folks. I park the car, sprint to the train, and make it through the doors a second before the train leaves, as always, at exactly 8:02 AM.

8:02 AM: I look for an open seat. Whenever I’m on the train to or from Irvington, I find myself trying to guess the neighborhood each person lived in when they were in the city and how old they were when they decided to leave. I’m picking up strong Dimes Square vibes this morning. You’d think the fact we all ended up in Westchester would serve as a sort of social equalizer. Yet I still can’t shake the feeling they’re all hanging out without me. 

A less honest man might tell you that Rachel and I were intent on staying in the city, even with kids, and it was only after we’d reached our breaking point that we gave up and decided to consider other options. Truth be told, we were looking for places in the suburbs the moment we found out Rachel was pregnant. By that point, we had both been so busy (work-wise, life-wise) for so long that our long-professed love for the city was more of an official stance than something either of us felt on a visceral level.

I finally find a seat toward the very back of the train. In the seat directly across from me is Andrew Martinez, another partner at the firm. It’s clear that I’ve seen him and that he’s seen me, but we immediately come to an agreement that it would be in neither party’s interest to acknowledge these facts. I actually went to law school with Andrew, and he started at the firm only a year after I did. This means I’ve known him for longer than just about anyone else I see on a regular basis. I like to imagine there’s at least one timeline in which we’re really good friends.

8:20 AM: I pull The Three-Body Problem, the first book in Liu Cixin’s critically acclaimed science fiction trilogy, out of my messenger bag. Everyone I know who’s read these books describes them in life-affirming terms. I’d give you my own opinion if my brain didn’t shut down every single time I try to get through the first few pages. Add successfully completing a work of fiction to the list of things rendered impossible by my years of service on capitalism’s frontlines.

I’m a bit out of practice with the mental journaling, so I’m just now realizing there’s a lot of context all of you, especially those of you who haven’t read my first anonymous account, would probably find useful. I’ve been with the same law firm for fifteen years (my practice mainly focuses on M&A and capital markets) and was made partner a few years ago. It’s…fine. I guess. Definitely not my expected path. I’ve had other opportunities over the years, some as in-house counsel, some outside of the law entirely, but I could never quite stomach the pay cut I would have had to take. When you’re working crazy hours, you spend a lot of money to make it feel like you’re working those crazy hours for a reason. Eventually, you end up getting so accustomed to the lifestyle that the prospect of making even slightly less money seems outrageous. And, well, though I’d say that I’m reasonably good at my job, I’m under no illusion that I’m a generally capable person. On those rare occasions I’m forced to try new things, I’m usually pretty bad at them. 

8:50 AM: The train arrives at Grand Central Station. Only ten minutes until the closing call, but my office is just two blocks from the station, so I should be good.

8:59 AM: I am so not good. I’ve been stuck inside of our building’s elevator for several minutes. It sounds like the maintenance people are trying to explain what’s causing the delay, but the speaker’s poor quality combined with my spiraling mental state makes it impossible to understand any of the words they’re saying. Of course this happens. How did I think this could have possibly gone any other way?

9:05 AM: The elevator doors open to the 40th floor, where I work and where most of the firm’s corporate group is located. I speed walk to Kevin Nealy’s office and open the door. The call’s already begun. Kevin and the various associates who work under us are already in the room. 

Though I was made partner a few years ago, there is a recognized distinction at our firm between equity partners, such as Kevin, who own a stake in the firm and receive a share of its profits, and non-equity partners, such as myself, who do not. Anyone savvy quickly understands where the true power lies. While any associate who is interested in continued employment would do well not to piss either of us off, it would be exponentially worse for that associate to piss Kevin off. Which I get. I wouldn’t want to piss Kevin off either. There’s a reason why we’re meeting in his office and not mine, despite the fact I probably did ten times as much work on this deal.

As I walk into the room, Kevin stands and looks at me with a sort of performative bemusement. Kevin’s an exceptionally tall man, and he’s never hesitated to use his height against me.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to join us,” he says. To the casual observer, nothing about what Kevin said or the way in which he said it would suggest any kind of hostility. But it’s the eyes, chico. The eyes never lie.

“Yeah, something was going on with the elevator. I was stuck in there for like ten minutes,” I respond, hyperaware of how lame I must sound.

“Uh huh. Well, the associates have a handle on things, so crisis averted.”

Kevin sits and returns his attention to the call. The associates, none of whom have verbally acknowledged my presence, do the same thing. It’s hard not to take it personally, though I understand the impulse to follow the lead of the most powerful person in the room.

I happen to know that Kevin voted against me being admitted to the partnership. From what I’m told, his objections had nothing to do with my work product, which he begrudgingly admitted was good. No, his concern was he wasn’t convinced I would ever be able to embody the firm’s culture. I find this interesting, given that, as far as I can tell, the firm’s culture consists of divorce and the single-minded pursuit of wealth at the expense of all competing interests (e.g., meaningful personal relationships, giving back to one’s community, hobbies). 

The closing call seems to be reaching its conclusion. The buyer and seller have provided all the necessary signature pages. The notoriously anal financial institutions helping to finance this deal appear to be satisfied. And just like that, we are officially closed. Two of the largest microprocessing companies in Central America have joined forces to create a single, substantially larger microprocessing company in Central America. Peace for our time.

9:15 AM: I head back in the direction of my office. Next to me is Sunita, a senior associate who I’ve worked closely with on most of my important deals during the past year. I ask her if she has a moment to chat. She gives me a neutral smile and, after a very brief moment of hesitation, tells me we can talk in her office. I keep my eyes firmly planted to the ground as I walk by her side.

We step into her office.

“Good to have that one done, right?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she responds. “It’s been a crazy couple of weeks. There was this and also that UBM divestment I got pulled into a few days ago.”

“You must be running on fumes,” I say. 

She smiles. “Something like that.”

“Not too tired to celebrate tonight, I hope?” I ask.

Her smile begins to fade. “Hmm. We’ll see what happens.”

There has clearly been a miscalculation on my part. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep. I meant celebrating with the rest of the team.”

“It’s fine,” she says, while giving no indication that it is, in fact, fine.

I could probably still exit this conversation with minimal social repercussions. That path does remain available to me. But something, maybe a dormant self-destructive tendency choosing to manifest itself at the worst possible time, compels me to speak from the heart.

“I guess I still kind of miss you.”

She doesn’t respond.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s fine. It’s fine. Are you okay?” 

I am taken aback by how genuinely sad she is for me. I never quite know how to deal with pity. 

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

More silence.

“I’m going to head to my office.”

9:20 AM: So I guess I have some explaining to do. I’m not going to deny I’ve always been very attracted to Sunita. But everyone’s attracted to Sunita. You would also be attracted to Sunita, and I say this knowing nothing about your sexual preferences. I also won’t deny this attraction is one of the reasons I’ve chosen to work with her so closely over the past year or two. But I swear my intentions, at least at the beginning, were honorable. Really, the main reason I sought her out is the firm-wide consensus that she’s extremely good at her job. 

There’s an inherent level of stress you just have to accept when you’re working on a transaction of any real significance. It does not, for the record, get any easier as you move up the ranks. Quite the opposite, in fact. You may have heard the saying that becoming a partner at a big law firm is like winning a pie eating contest where the prize is more pie. Well, it’s true, and I think I’ve always known it’s true, but when—wait, haven’t I covered all of this already? Go back to 8:20 AM if you’d like a refresher on how and why I ended up in this situation. 

Anyway, I say all that to stress that strong senior associates like Sunita–associates who can pretty much run things on their own without the need for adult supervision–are highly coveted. This is true, at least in my experience, even when you have little to no interest in having sex with them. I say this as a former senior associate, highly coveted at the time, who I’m confident nobody wanted to have sex with. 

I won’t spend much time detailing how our professional relationship, over time, evolved into a romantic one. The specifics–waning passions in an existing relationship, long nights spent working in close quarters, a series of escalations over the course of a holiday party–are likely familiar to anyone with access to a television. I will admit I was the one who made the first unequivocally romantic gesture, just minutes after the end of the aforementioned holiday party. 

Things were hot and heavy, as they say, for several months. Then they abruptly ended for reasons that still aren’t entirely clear to me. Maybe Sunita had no interest in being a homewrecker. Maybe she knew I would never leave Rachel. Maybe I didn’t have the sexual competence to sustain what was primarily a sex-based relationship. If I’m being honest with myself, the most likely explanation is she realized she could do a whole lot better, which, yeah, no shit. I saw it as inevitable, so I didn’t even try to convince her to stay. It wasn’t until after she’d ended the affair that I realized being with her was the one thing in my life I’d been excited about in quite some time.

For the record, I know this is all super cliché and gross and sad.

9:21 AM: I slink into my office. It’s bigger than the one I had when I started, but it’s also much farther away from the bathroom, so I’d call it a wash on net. I would describe the vibe as mid-century generic corporate, a label I would also apply to the rest of the firm’s space. A few years ago, not long after I became a partner, there was a partnership-wide vote on whether it was time to engage in a comprehensive renovation of our space. You might be surprised to hear that keeping things exactly as they are won in a landslide. Or maybe you’re not. I’ll admit I kind of expected a different result. Obviously, I underestimated the number of people committed to what I’ve always considered to be the absence of an aesthetic. 

I wish I could tell you that after a deal has closed, I’m able to take it easy and relax for the rest of the day. This is absolutely not the case, which shouldn’t be a surprise to those of you who’ve been paying attention. 

Another one of my clients, a large marketing firm based in Germany, has entered into discussions to sell one of its subsidiaries to a small but rapidly growing analytics company. I told our client I would send them a draft Letter of Intent, a document that essentially sets out the expected terms of a transaction, by the end of the day. Though it’s expected to be a small deal in terms of monetary value, the anticipated structure is surprisingly complex, so this might take more time than normal. I turn on my computer, find the least bad precedent document available to me, and will myself to be productive.

9:30 AM: I’ve only begun to work in earnest when Judy, my 70 year old administrative assistant (née secretary), walks into my office. Judy’s been my assistant for a little over six years. She’s a life-long resident of Sunset Park, a connoisseur of Turkish soap operas, and maybe the person I cherish most in the world.

“James is here,” she says cheerily.

“James?” I ask.

“Yes, James. For the interview.”

James for the interview? What could she possibly mean by…what time is it?

“Send him in,” I say, hoping this particular bout of panic isn’t manifesting itself in a physical way. 

9:31 AM: James Hall, a second year law school student who, if I remember correctly, attends my alma mater, walks into my office. He is here to interview for a summer associate position with the firm. Law students who work as summer associates at our firm will almost certainly be offered to come back to the firm after they graduate. Most will stay for at least a few years. Some of the real sickos, like myself, will eventually become partners. This is lowkey a very significant moment in James’s life, so I feel pretty shitty that I’m just now reading his resume for the first time.

9:45 AM: I like James. He’s friendly, has a real ease about him, and doesn’t pretend he knows more than he does, something that became a real pet peeve of mine at some point in my professional life. When I was a little younger and hadn’t fully resigned myself to my current life path, I could sometimes be ambivalent about strongly recommending candidates who I genuinely liked. I didn’t think I belonged in a place like this. Why would I lead someone else down the same path?

I see things differently now. There’s no shortage of information about why, and the particular ways in which, working for a big law firm sucks. I assume anyone who’s interviewing for a position here is coming in with their eyes open.  And if they aren’t, well, I wouldn’t say they deserve what’s coming to them, but I also don’t feel much sympathy.

10:00 AM: James and I shake hands, and he walks out of the office. Though his fate is not entirely within my hands, I have a strong feeling I’ll be seeing him next summer, if he’ll have us.

Back to the Letter of Intent. This is not the only thing I need to get done today.

12:05 PM: How am I still not done? What time is it? 12:05? How is it already the afternoon? The afternoon. After…noon. After noon?!

12:10 PM: I walk out the front door of my office building and do a half jog in the direction of Pershing Square, a restaurant near Grand Central I primarily associate with its reliably raucous happy hour. 

I avoid a large crowd of protesters standing outside the front door, loudly voicing their objections to, I don’t know, insert your favorite example of capitalist excess. We, as well as the other law firms, investment banks and insurance companies that call this building home have likely had our hand in just about all of it. Legitimate gripes to be had, for sure. If I may say, though–the pitch could use a bit of work. Don’t get me wrong–I consider myself to be a pretty left-leaning guy. I voted for Adams twice. But, like, I refuse to believe I’m a bad person because I happen to own a house.

12:13 PM: I arrive at Pershing Square, just sweaty enough to make things weird. I‘ve always appreciated its ability to maintain a consistent vibe, but it isn’t exactly the first place I would have thought of for lunch. Or dinner. Probably not even breakfast. But it wasn’t my call, so here I am, hoping for the best. 

Already in the restaurant, sitting at a table for two, is Steve Lazio, a former colleague of mine. I haven’t seen Steve in a while, and I have to say–he’s looking good. Significantly more tan than I remember. He’s also slightly heavier, but in a way that suggests a reversion to his natural state rather than anything you or I should be concerned about. 

You might remember Steve as the senior associate who served as my chief antagonist that fateful Valentine’s Day so many years ago. Our relationship remained frosty, to say the least, for some time in the aftermath of the Valentine’s Day incident. However, things changed as the years went by. Most big law firms have attrition-based hiring models where very large numbers of junior associates are hired to begin their careers at the firm with the expectation that the vast majority will be gone within a couple of years. As a result, those of us who choose to stick around for a while start to appreciate familiar faces, regardless of the injustices those familiar faces may have perpetrated against us in the past. You know how after the Rwandan Genocide, some Tutsi survivors advocated for the “radical foregiveness” of the Hutu majority, even those individuals who were directly responsible for the killing, in the hope it could help heal the country’s wounds? It’s sort of–no, on second thought, I am not going to compare working at a big law firm to the Rwandan Genocide. Or any genocide, for that matter. 

Steve and I continued to work together as we both moved up the ranks. This did not change after he became a partner. We never bothered to define our relationship, but I know he saw himself as somewhat of a mentor to me, and he took it upon himself to look out for my interests. When I became eligible to join the partnership, he made it clear he would be my loudest advocate. I have it on good authority he kept his word. At some point, I realized it would not be inaccurate to describe Steve as a good friend. A good work friend, at least. I can probably count on one hand the number of times we’ve hung out in a non-work context. 

I approach Steve and go in for the handshake. He literally slaps my hand away and gives me a strong hug. 

“It’s so nice to see you,” he says, smiling broadly.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” I respond. And you know what? It really is nice to see him. 

We sit down and, for a few moments, sit in silence. Steve is still smiling. He’s also refusing to break eye contact, and though his gaze is gentle, I instinctively interpret the gesture as hostile. 

“It’s been a while,” he says.

I nod. “Yeah, it has. Thanks for reaching out.”

Now seems like an opportune time to mention that about six months ago, Steve abruptly left the firm under very mysterious circumstances. There’s been quite a bit of speculation about what may have happened. When a partner vanishes without a trace like that, the general assumption is they were forced out for some reason or another. No one in a position to reveal specifics seems at all inclined to do so, so we’ve all been forced to come up with our own theories. I would say the office is about evenly split between nervous breakdown and some form of financial malfeasance. 

You would think that I, being a good friend of Steve, would have been able to get a direct explanation from the source. But this is the first time we’ve spoken since he left the firm, just one of the many things eating at my conscience these days. 

It’s not like I didn’t want to call him. It’s just–well, I assumed it was going to be a difficult conversation. I knew there was a possibility he would ask me to intervene on his behalf, and I also knew I would not have the courage to do that for him. I hemmed and hawed, trying to find the perfect words that would allow me to let him down in the least devastating way.

Time passed, and I realized that, in addition to explaining why I wouldn’t be able to help him out, I would also have to think of a good justification as to why I allowed so much time to pass before checking up on him. As the weeks turned into months, I managed to convince myself that the damage had already been done, and the only thing I’d accomplish by reaching out is reopening old wounds.

I’ve told myself it takes two to tango and that if he really wanted to speak to me, he could’ve called me, but you and I both know that’s complete bullshit. He has every reason to hate me. So why does he seem so happy to see me?

I take a deep breath. Okay, here it goes. “I’m really sorry I haven’t reached out to you,” I say. 

“Oh, it’s not a big deal at all. I haven’t been an easy guy to reach these past few months,” he responds. 

“Really,” I say, still not convinced he won’t strike me down at any moment. “After how they treated you, I should have said something.”

He shrugs. “They had their reasons.”

“What happened?” I ask. 

“Well,” he begins, “we could talk about that, but I’d much rather talk about what I’ve been doing since I left the firm.” 

12:50 PM: Well, Mr. Lazio sure has been making the most of his time these past few months. When he was first let go, Steve figured his primary concern would be finding the next job. He started to go through the motions but almost immediately realized he had no real desire to move on to the next thing, which in most meaningful ways would be indistinguishable from the last thing, which, as Steve is telling me for the first time, had been the source of much unhappiness for most of his adult life. He realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had absolutely nothing to do. And though a lifetime of conditioning was pushing him toward the next productive enterprise, something inside of him recognized this was a unique moment in his life and he should not be afraid to dwell in it. It’s not like he was hurting for cash, not even taking into consideration the very generous severance package he received from the firm.

Merely a few weeks later, Steve found himself at the Rythmia Life Advancement Center in Costa Rica, an all-inclusive luxury resort that specializes in ayahuasca retreats. Prior to his experience at Rythmia, Steve hadn’t given much thought to psychedelics. Not that he was in any way opposed–it’s just the whole scene was so far removed from anything he’d ever experienced that he never seriously considered the possibility he would one day be in a position to try them. As luck would have it, the same day Steve committed to a prolonged period of unemployment, he went on a date with a woman who was surprisingly candid about her many ayahuasca experiences. The old Steve would have simply cataloged this as an interesting fact about a person he may or may not ever see again. The new Steve strongly believed it was a sign from the universe, a sort of divine compass pointing him in the direction of where, cosmically speaking, he was supposed to be.

For the uninitiated (and, until about thirty minutes ago, I would have included myself among your ranks), ayahuasca is an incredibly powerful plant-based psychedelic native to the Amazon region. It’s known to induce truly magnificent hallucinations, some euphoric, some frightening, and is often used to help people deal with their traumas, anxieties, and a whole host of other mental health issues. 

Steve was at Rythmia for a full week and, over the span of that week, tried ayahuasca multiple times. His first two experiences were rough in a way that’ll likely resonate with those of you who’ve been acquainted with the medicine. As Steve put it, the drug was hellbent on eliminating the gap between the person he believed himself to be and the person who he truly was inside. Apparently, there was quite a bit of distance that needed to be covered. It was brutal. When he wasn’t violently expelling everything he’d eaten over the past several days, he was confronted with a seemingly endless succession of traumas, both new and long forgotten. As he willed himself to sleep following that second journey, he told himself that under no circumstances would he ever subject himself to this experience again. 

And yet, only a few days later, at the behest of a very persuasive on-site facilitator, Steve found himself back on the mat. He now sees this moment as a life inflection point, one that cleanly severed all connections between his old state of mind and his current one. That third journey was the most beautiful experience he ever had. He had never felt such joy, such vulnerability, such connectedness with the world, his fellow man, and those childlike parts of himself that, up to that point, he had been psychologically incapable of accessing. Even before the journey had ended, he knew this was something he had no choice but to pursue further. He ended up connecting with a like minded group of fellow travelers and, over the next several months, did ayahuasca and a whole host of ayahuasca-adjacent substances at various locations throughout the Americas. One of these fellow travelers was Amelia Ridley, the founder and former CEO of an SAT tutoring company that, funnily enough, hired our firm to help with one of its first rounds of fundraising years ago. Steve and Amelia made a connection, not exactly uncommon in this type of scenario, and the two of them are now in the process of looking for a place together in Fort Greene. 

“Sorry,” Steve says. “I know I’m rambling. You’re actually the first person I’m telling all of this. I didn’t realize I had so much to tell.”

“It’s no problem at all,” I say. “I’m so happy to hear you’re doing well.”

I should mention I’m two martinis deep at this point and am steadily making my way through a third. I heard the term “sacred geometry” and immediately knew there was no way I’d be able to process this story sober.

“You’re doing okay?” Steve asks.

I take a sip of my martini. “Oh, for sure,” I say. “With all of the usual caveats.”

Steve considers this for a second. For the first time all lunch, he isn’t smiling. “I think that you should do ayahuasca with me,” he says.

Oh god, I guess he’s officially one of those people now. With a slight chuckle, I tell him it probably isn’t for me.

“You sure? I know how crazy things can get. With the firm. With everything else. It’s important you take the time to deal with your shit.”

I take another sip of my martini. “Really, I appreciate the offer. I do. But I’m good.”

Steve frowns briefly, but the smile quickly returns to his face. “That’s cool. Know the offer stands if you ever change your mind.”

1:10 PM: On my way back to the office, I try to figure out what exactly about that conversation has put me in such a bad mood. Maybe something about the adamance with which my friend and mentor demanded I take a potentially life-altering substance? Not to say I didn’t enjoy hanging out with Steve—it was great to see him. I guess I’ve just never been one for introspection. Who has the time?

1:30 PM: I’m in my office, marginally less drunk than I was when I left the restaurant. I am very aware that the Letter of Intent, and a number of other tasks I intend to get done at some point today, remain unfinished. As a rule, being drunk does not preclude me from completing high-level tasks. This is not, as you can probably imagine, an unusual ability in my profession. Some of my colleagues seem to wear this condition as a badge of honor. I recognize it as one of the classic signs of alcoholism, even if I’ll concede it’s proven useful more times than I care to remember. Still, every man has his limit, and as I struggle to maintain control of my basic motor functions, I am forced to acknowledge that a threshold has been crossed. I need to rest my eyes for a bit–no ways around that. How much time can I spare? Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen? Ugh. I lock my office door, put my head on my desk, and commence what I know will be an unsatisfying nap. 

2:25 PM: I find myself suddenly, unwillingly awake. I’m going to give it to you straight, folks–I don’t feel so hot right now. I’ve long maintained there’s something especially debilitating about the mid-afternoon hangover. My head feels like a disco ball, essentially. 

I slowly gather my bearings, then try to locate the source of a persistently frantic pounding. Is it inside of my head? No, that can’t be it. I think…I think someone’s knocking on my door. And knocking with purpose. Who the hell is that? What time is it? My mind reels, and I am overcome with dread. 

I open the door. It’s Judy, regarding me with genuine astonishment.

“Hey, Judy. What’s going on?”

Judy manages to look even more surprised. “Your meeting!”

“What?”

“Your pitch meeting starts in five minutes! You need to leave now!”

The relevant facts come to me at a bewildering pace. I remember that I am supposed to be co-leading a pitch for the business of Chiyoda Corp, a Japanese chemicals manufacturer that would very much like to acquire a glass-laminating and vinyls business from one of its American competitors. I also remember that Chiyoda is willing to pay at least $600 million for this business, which could bring the firm several hundred thousand dollars in legal fees, and that we’ve long sought them as a client in order to bolster our burgeoning Japanese practice. 

“Judy, why didn’t you remind me about this earlier?!”

“I tried calling you several–”

“Just do your job next time, Judy!”

The two of us stand in silence for what seems like an eternity. Judy’s been an administrative assistant for over forty years, many of them at big law firms like this one. So, it’s not a stretch to assume that, over the course of those forty years, she’s had to deal with her fair share of unpleasant bosses. What makes this moment so sad and disappointing is I know, and Judy knows I know, that she truly believed she’d never have to deal with that again. 

It feels like something has irrevocably changed. I want to tell her that I take it back, that I love her, that our conversations (though typically brief) are almost always the highlight of my day. I want to say all of this, but the only thing I’m able to muster is “I should be back in about an hour,” as I grab my messenger bag and sprint to the elevator.

2:30 PM: I walk into the 45th floor conference room where the meeting will be held. I’m technically on time, but I’m also the last person to enter the room, which some would argue makes me more late than not late. In addition to the Chiyoda executives, my partners Kevin Nealy (the asshole who you met earlier) and Rikiya Atsumi are in the room. Rikiya immigrated from Japan to the U.S. as an adult, but he splits his time between New York and Tokyo and has been able to cultivate very close ties with the Japanese business community. We poached him from another firm a few years ago, and in that time, he’s been able to turn our basically non-existent Japanese practice into one seen as credible in the international market. 

I understand why it was decided that the three of us were in the best position to sell the firm to Chiyoda. Rikiya, the Japanese-American who’s well-known for his representation of large Japanese corporations; Kevin, the senior partner with over thirty years of experience on just about any sort of transaction you can imagine; and myself, the workhorse up-and-comer who represents a bridge to the firm’s future. On paper, it makes for a very compelling offering. If only I had any idea what I’m supposed to say.

“There he is!” Kevin yells, voice dripping with faux enthusiasm, as I walk into the room. I can tell he’s pissed, but undermining me in front of a potential client would not be in the firm’s interest. He stays his tongue.

I move to shake the hands of the Chiyoda executives. The first one I notice is their General Counsel, a severe-looking woman who appears to be about my age. And yes, I know “severe” is somewhat of a gendered term, but it is unfortunately the most accurate way I can think to describe her. I extend my hand toward her, and she abruptly reels back, perhaps to shield herself from my palpably chaotic vibes. We’re off to a great start, clearly.

2:35 PM: Rikiya and Kevin are, thankfully, taking the lead during this meeting. Kevin is in the middle of listing some of his recent acquisitions when he is suddenly cut off by Chiyoda’s General Counsel.

“I can assure you that I am familiar with all of your resumes, Mr. Nealy. Now, we don’t have a lot of time, so please, let’s discuss the specifics of this transaction. I assume you’ve read the term sheet I sent you.”

Kevin betrays a hint of surprise at being spoken to like this, but he immediately recovers. “Ha ha ha. All business! I love it. The way I see it–”

The General Counsel cuts him off again. “I assume, based on my understanding of how most American law firms function, that you (gesturing to me) would be handling most of the day to day work on this transaction. Is that correct?”

Is this a trap? Do I have any means of escape? I look to Rikiya and Kevin, who each make it clear they have no intention of intervening. 

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Okay, then I am mostly interested in speaking to you. What are your thoughts on the potential deal structure? As I indicated in my email, our CFO and I have some fundamental disagreements.”

I, as I’m sure you know, have not read this email and have no thoughts on a potential deal structure.

“Well, I think both you and your CFO make some very good points.”

“Such as?”

I can feel the panic literally course through my veins. There was a moment when I thought I would be able to escape my fate, but I now realize this conclusion was always inevitable.

“Well, I–there was something you mentioned in your email about how, um, something about how when you’re, like, when you’re dealing with these types of assets–”

Her eyes narrow. She knows.

I stop speaking. I look at the General Counsel, then the other Chiyoda executives, then Rikiya and Kevin, who’re looking at me—well, I’m sure you can imagine how they’re looking at me.

“I’m sorry.” I stand up and walk out of the office without saying another word.

3:00 PM: Rikiya and Kevin are both in my office. They stand while I, their dishonorable child, sit. Kevin’s rhetoric is predictably apocalyptic: accusations of mental unfitness, threats to have me removed from the partnership, etc. Rikiya, on the other hand, hasn’t looked at me or even said a word the entire time. Do not mistake his silence for mercy. It’s common knowledge he has taken scalps for far less, and he arguably has even more power within the firm than Kevin.

How am I feeling? It’s hard to put in words. So much of the stress that comes with this job, the overpreparation, the unreasonable deadlines we impose on one another, is driven by fear. And what we’re afraid of is ending up in the exact situation where I’ve found myself. Now it’s happening. Happening right this second. I’d be lying if I told you that it isn’t exhilarating on some level.

3:30 PM: Rikiya and Kevin have both left. I check my Outlook calendar–no meetings scheduled for the rest of the day. What is there to be done? Oh, right, the Letter of Intent. I really do need to finish that. There’s no point in letting past unpleasantness get in the way of a productive day.

I open the Word document and pick up where I left off. Suddenly, my eyes start to water and my vision becomes very blurry. I rub my eyes and keep typing, but almost instantly, my eyes get watery again. Now, I’m crying. Really crying. Crying harder than I ever have in my life.

I think about Rachel. Everything we’ve been through. Everything she does for our family. How could I have betrayed her trust? Where do I, of all people, get the nerve?

I think about the twins. How I love and cherish them, how I would do anything for them, how there’s nothing I want more in the world than for them to be proud of me. Yes, both of them. Even Sam’s ungrateful ass. 

I’m throwing it all away, and what makes it even worse is I know I’m throwing it all away. And for what? A place that’ll toss you to the curb the moment you make one mistake? I get that this wasn’t your average fuckup, believe me. But compared to fifteen years of excellent work? Fifteen years of being constantly on call? Fifteen years of not being able to fully immerse myself in any non-work experiences because of the fifteen years of being constantly on call? Really? Give me a fucking break. 

I send Rachel a text: “I just want to let you know that I love you so much, and I appreciate everything you do for the kids…for me. Every day. I can’t wait to see you tonight.”

Rachel responds: “I know about you and that girl from the firm.”

4:10 PM: I’m on the train back to Irvington. It will arrive by 4:47, which means, barring anything unforeseen, I will be home by 5. 

I’ve tried calling and texting Rachel several times, but it’s been radio silence since her text about the affair. I briefly speculate as to how Rachel could have found out about Sunita, but the rational part of my brain knows that’s entirely irrelevant. Why does it matter how she knows? The fact is she knows, and now I have to figure out what I’m going to say to her when I walk through that door. What am I going to say to her? What could I possibly say to her?

I sit completely still, paralyzed by the knowledge that I am hurtling toward oblivion and that I have no one but myself to blame. While my eyes remain squarely focused on the back of the seat in front of me, I can sense my right hand reaching into my pants pocket, opening the Outlook app in my phone, and scrolling through my Inbox. Even now, in this moment of existential crisis, my lizard brain feels compelled to check emails.

5:00 PM: I’m standing outside the front door of our house. Deep breath. 1, 2, 3. Deep breath. 1, 2, 3. Okay. It’s time. I stick my key into the lock and–hmm, that’s odd. The door’s not opening. I take out the key, then stick it back in and try again. Still no luck.

I give Rachel a call. This time, she picks up.

“Hello.”

“Hi, are you at home?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind letting me in? For some reason, my key isn’t working.”

“That’s because I changed the lock.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to see you.”

“...that’s fair. I get it. But can we talk? Just for a second?”

“No, we can’t. I will let you know when I am willing to speak to you, but it will not be tonight.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“How about Sunita’s?”

“I’m not seeing her anymore.”

She doesn’t respond.

“Can I at least see the kids?”

“Good night.”

She hangs up.

5:15 PM: I’m sitting in front of my house, back against the door, grappling with the enormity of what just transpired. I am also aware there are practical considerations I have to deal with. Where I’m going to sleep tonight is what first comes to mind. A motel? No, I refuse to be the gross, unfaithful husband forced into motel life after his misdeeds are exposed. Who am I? My father? Just kidding, dad. Sorry, bad joke.

What I need is a friend. The thing is, I don’t really have friends, per se. People I’m friendly with, for sure, but putting me up in their home? With no notice? That’s a different category of relationship. Still, there has to be someone, right? Anyone? I rack my brain for several minutes until, oh, of course.

6:15 PM: Steve Lazio pulls his black Mercedes S-Class into my driveway. I get into the car on the passenger side.

“Hey,” Steve says. “I got here as fast as I could. Traffic, you know?”

“No problem.”

I hear a noise from the backseat and notice there’s a painfully cute dog (a Maltese, maybe?) sleeping on the middle seat.

Steve sees me look back. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought Bear with me.”

“No, that’s fine. Thanks so much for coming to pick me up.”

“Don’t mention it.”

6:25 PM: We’re still in Steve’s car. Neither of us has said a word in the last ten minutes. 

“So,” Steve asks, “how’s everything going?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Well, if that’s what you’re saying to me, I am making the decision to believe you. But…if something is on your mind, I think you’ll feel a lot better after you talk about it.”

I close my eyes, think about everything that’s happened over the course of the day, and then I tell him. I tell him everything. I tell him I’m not happy and that I can’t remember the last time I really felt happy. I tell him that I worry I’m not a good enough father. I tell him about Sunita, about Rachel finding out about Sunita, and about how much hurt I know Rachel must feel. 

All Steve does is listen. He doesn’t say a word. He just listens. When I’ve finished, he tells me that things will get worse before they get better, but it’s a good thing I’m acknowledging the bad.

Steve looks toward the back seat. “Hey, Bear,” he says, while simultaneously gesturing in my direction. The dog stands up, jumps into my lap, and starts nuzzling my chest. I begin to sob. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve anything good.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says. “It’s okay. You’ll deal with the repercussions of your actions, and then you’ll get through this. I know you’ll get through this.”

I continue to sob.

“It’s not going to be easy. Don’t get me wrong–you’re going to eat shit for a while. And rightly so. But you’ll get through this. I have no doubt you’ll get through this.”

We shall see.