By John Frame

You started working for a litigation support team in a corner office on the fifty-fifth floor of a law firm on Broad Street, overlooking New York harbor. You could see the Staten Island ferry, just about. You could see the twins, puffing out at the top when the light caught them a certain way. You wondered why they gave you and the others this space, with this view.

You weren’t that important.

There were six people at first on the team. “Welcome to perma-temp hell,” said Jonathan, who sat on your left. “This is Venus, she’s in a dance troupe.” She sat to your right. “That’s Geena, opposite you. She paints. And there’s Gary and Tessa on either side of Geena. Gary sings and Tessa’s taking drama classes. What do you do?”

“I want to write.”

You all entered data for the Microsoft case. Jeff, the supervisor, told everyone to expense everything. “Breakfasts, lunches, dinners, cars to and from work. Order out. Put it on the bill. The richest man in the world is paying!” Jeff was upbeat. He just started his garage rock band.

Frantically typing in code, you listened to the radio on your headphones. No need to take the train. No point in making weekly trips to the grocery store. Your wife, Candace, a yoga instructor, was happy. You never had it so good. But you were too busy to write.

After a year, Microsoft lost. Gary got a permanent job, singing on a cruise ship and Geena became a part-time art teacher. They seemed delighted to leave. Some big-wig partner took over the corner office, so litigation support operations moved to the thirty-fifth floor.

“You can still see the towers when you’re in the common area,” said Venus in her Puerto Rican accent after settling into the new office. We could hang out on soft seats in one corner, with access to a microwave, a coffee-maker, and a fridge. It wasn’t bad. You had to squint to see the towers, but nobody complained. Even if the view wasn’t great, we had natural light and everyone enjoyed the free drinks, snacks, and access to the radio.

The new case contained hundreds of details concerning ongoing insurance claims involving an Australian company that owed millions to people with asbestosis. You spent time reading the stories. They were haunting, hard to forget.

Jeff said, “expense your travel, but buy your own meals. This case has been on and off for five years. It might come to a stop at any moment.” He seemed happy. His wife was pregnant with twins.

Candace worried about money. She also fretted over the amount of time you spent at the office. And socializing after work. “Who’s this Tessa you’re always talking about?”

You worked more slowly, took longer breaks and, eventually, the case faded away after a year. You don’t know if you won or lost. By the time it tapered off, Tessa got married and moved to Vermont—she told you it’s what she always wanted—and Jeff took over your workspace. He needed the status symbol of a bigger office with a view.

So, three people moved down to the basement. No view. No common area. No amenities. No radio. You started on the Bank of New York case.

“This won’t go to trial,” said Jeff, yawning, as he introduced the files. “It involves the Russian mafia laundering stolen IMF money through America’s oldest bank, so the government has no interest in prosecuting the case. Too embarrassing. The bank will settle. Take your time, but there’s no expense account.”

You and the others dragged it out. Late starts, extended lunch breaks, early stops. You read a lot…on the train, in and out of Brooklyn, and at work. The Strand had an annex at the Seaport where you picked up more books.

The case was intriguing. Oligarchs stealing money from banks. You thought about writing but, aside from editing Jonathan’s screenplay about graffiti artists, you never wrote anything.

You barely saw Candace. She gave up yoga and joined a touring band as a backing singer. She was on the road a lot. You drifted apart because of different interests and external pressures. You paid the rent and the bills. You both spent what remained.

After 9/11, you walked from the Wall Street subway stop, through the financial district, past armored vehicles and national guardsmen. Your building had more security. No more pen and paper to sign in. They introduced electronic badges.

Still in the basement. No contact with the outside world. Security made it harder to take long breaks. The case continued. You had all the time you needed, but you preferred to read.

Jonathan went to Baltimore to make his film. That left you and Venus. After another year passed, Venus became pregnant and announced her departure.

Alone in the basement with a never-ending case meant hours of time to think and write. Instead, your extended liquid lunch breaks caused you to sleep in the afternoon.

One Friday, Jeff came into the White Horse Tavern and found you.

“Hey Jeff, how’s it going? How’s the band?” You were surprised to see him. He seemed solemn, with dark rings around his eyes.

“Oh, I gave that up when the twins were born.” After a long pause, he said, “I looked at your electronic swipe log. We’re going to have to let you go.”

You shrugged. “What about the case?”

“We can ship the files to the Philippines and have them do it for less.”

When you got back home, Candace’s clothes were gone. On top of the groaning bookshelves, you found her note. She was letting you go too. “I’ll be out on the road for a while. We need a trial separation,” she wrote.

You couldn’t afford the rent. You needed a new job. The city seemed more expensive now that you had to pay for your own meals.

You turned on the computer and opened up a file, facing a blank page.

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John Frame was brought up in Wick, Scotland. After earning an M.A. and Ph.D. in history from Aberdeen University, he emigrated to the USA, and worked as a teacher in NYC and Columbus, Ohio. Since 2018, he and his wife Rama have lived and worked in China and Senegal. You can find his writing here: jrframe.wixsite.com/website and bsky.app/profile/johnrframe.bsky.social