Part 4
Of course, not all of life was work. At least, it ceased to be at the end of my first week at Pemberton, McCardle & Kane. As I waited for the elevator at the end of the day on Friday, two of the senior clerks walked up.
“Let us give you some advice, Cárdenas,” one said.
“Cervantes,” I corrected him.
“Oh! Cervantes! Like the writer?” the other asked.
“Right. No relation,” I quickly informed him.
At least, I assumed there was no relationship between me and the sixteenth-century Spanish author of Don Quixote de la Mancha. But how many people can trace their families back that far – at least in America. Not many. My family certainly could not, although my brother had managed to persuade a girl to date him by letting her think we were related to Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra .
“You have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your names,” I told them as we stepped onto the elevator and began our descent.
“I’m Paul Wilkins,” one told me.
“Dennis Chapman,” the other added. “We’re senior clerks.”
“So, you came last year?”
“Last year, yes,” Paul affirmed.
“Do you plan to stay?”
“Why not? They doubled my salary. The work is starting to get interesting. People are impressed when I tell them I work with a former vice president.”
Dennis nodded. “Even though we’ve never seen him.”
“So, they really do give you that promised salary at the end of the first year?” I asked.
“If you’re still on board. Most fall by the wayside.”
“A few have hung themselves or OD’d on something,” Dennis added.
I winced. No way would I allow the situation to get that bad. I’d go home and clerk in old Mr. Ortega’s firm first.
“We’re going to Georgetown. Why don’t you come with us?” Paul suggested.
“I don’t know. I…”
“Come on. We’ll have dinner at the bistro. Maybe listen to some music at the…”
“The bistro’s real good,” Dennis added, cutting Paul off. “Sort of country French – French without the heavy sauces.”
“Definitely not Cordon Bleu, but good,” Paul affirmed.
I realized then just how hungry I was. After all, lunch break was but thirty minutes, and I had lost ten of those minutes in the restroom. I’d barely finished my sandwich and never had gotten around to eating my apple.
You guessed it: Stone Face II called me to her office as I was on my way to my afternoon break. She told me I was being transferred to another section the following week. I would have a three-month rotation in Criminal Law.
“You’re going to Criminal, already?” Paul asked.
“Yes. Why?” I asked.
“Most of us didn’t rotate out of Wills and Probate for three months. If you’re rotating, you must be pretty good,” Dennis said.
“Or else, they’re short-handed in Criminal,” I suggested.
The men shook their heads. “It doesn’t work that way, Cervantes. You have to prove yourself before they let you rotate to a new division.”
We had reached the street. Now, Dennis hailed a cab, and we piled in.
“M Street, Georgetown,” he told the driver.
~
TO BE CONTINUED
(c) 2008, Virginia Tolles, All Rights Reserved
