Picture it: I’m at my office’s crappy holiday party, sitting next to our firm’s office manager, who just so happened to be hotter, younger…and hotter than any law firm office manager should ever be. Forget the fact that the firm is too cheap to actually throw a real holiday party, and they’re serving $4 wine, cheese, and even some grapes here and there.
In walks the big head honcho partner, a textbook narcissist who actually thinks that when he talks (and dear God, he talks a lot!) people should actually listen to him. Forget the fact that the man actually crashed the office computer servers by downloading porn (and God knows what else he’s doing in his office). And forget the fact that he’s received death threats at the office from unknown sources (I’ll probably be the next, so its nice to know that I’m not alone), and forget the fact that he met his current wife in the lobby of the building of his prior wife while still married to her.
So, I see him come down the stairs in his blue-pinstripe suit, red tie and white shirt. He’s a pretty decent-looking guy with silver hair, a prominent Greek face and a deep baritone radio voice…but still the biggest pile of garbage walking.
Anyone up for a real-life Dead Man Walking?
He sits down next to the office manager and starts with small talk.
“Hey, [Cathy]. How are things? Enjoying the party?”
Blah blah blah. And then, about a minute later, he drops a bomb.
“So, [Cathy], how’s your vagina?”
Wait. Huh? Did he actually just ask our office manager about her vagina!? And it gets better. Apparently, feeling that a genital interrogation was not quite enough titillation for the evening (remember, this is the firm’s official in-office porn aficionado), he then began to gently rub her thigh for a good 20 seconds. From her thigh to her knee. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Meanwhile, the office manager is staring at me, horrified, with no idea what to do. We look at each other in total astonishment. The man doesn’t even process the wrongfulness of his actions. And if he hadn’t felt the urge to get up for some grapes, I think he might’ve even gone for the jewels. If I’m not mistaken, this lunatic partner might qualify him for the insanity defense in some states.
At any rate, the next day, I go into my office, and I get called into another partner’s office so he can ask me what I saw. I, of course, have no problem spewing the truth all over his bankruptcy-laden desk while he scribbles down some notes on Mr. Named Partner’s most recent in-office sexual escapade. After the meeting, I go back into my office and send myself a letter, which, to this day, sits unopened in my apartment and describes all of the details, just in case I need to refresh my recollection in court someday.
The next day, she quit. Six months later, I’m fired. I’m no hero, trust me. I almost let a grown woman die in front of me—and I’m a doctor. But in this case, I had to tell the truth. No grown man should ever get a free pass on a line that lame.