I HAVE COME to the conclusion that the entire “work ethic” concept is a scam.
Hardworking people are to be admired, we’re told, though no one mentions that the very act of working is contrary to the natural order of things. It falls to me, Andy Carpenter, philosopher extraordinaire, to set the record straight.
I believe that humans have an “enjoyment drive,” which supersedes all others. Everything we do is in the pursuit of that enjoyment. We eat because it’s more enjoyable to be full than hungry; we sleep because it’s more enjoyable to be rested than tired; we have sex because… I assume you get the picture.
We work simply to make money, because money makes our lives more enjoyable in many ways. If you take money out of the equation, the work system falls apart. Without the desire for cash, who is going to say, “I think I’ll spend ten hours a day for my entire life selling plumbing supplies”? Or waiting tables? Or repairing vacuum cleaners?
There are people, I will concede, who would pursue certain occupations independent of money. For example, artists, politicians, or perhaps entertainers might do what they do for the creative satisfaction or the power or the acclaim. But that’s only because they enjoy creative satisfaction, power, and acclaim.
Which brings me to me. I am work-ethically challenged. Simply put, I’m a lawyer who has never been terribly fond of lawyering. Since I inherited twenty-two million dollars a few years ago, money has ceased to be a driving force, which means I don’t exactly have a busy work life.
There are exceptions to my aversion to plying my craft, which fit neatly under my drive for enjoyment. I’ve handled a number of major, challenging cases in the past few years, most of which became big media events. The key for me is to treat them as sport, as a challenge to be relished, and that’s what I did.
But those cases were as important to me personally as they were professionally, which elevated the stakes and made them that much more enjoyable and exciting. They ignited my competitive fire. If I were representing some stranger in a divorce or suing an insurance company over an auto accident, I’d rather stay home.
Right now I can feel my juices starting to flow as I head for the office. On the way there I call my associate, Kevin Randall, on his cell phone.
His “Hello” is spoken in a hushed whisper.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“I’m at my urologist,” he says.
Kevin is the biggest hypochondriac in the Western Hemisphere, and five out of every ten times I might call him he’s at the doctor. “You have your own urologist?” I ask. “That’s pretty impressive.”
Kevin knows I am unable to resist making fun of his devotion to his perceived illnesses, but he is equally unable to resist talking about them. “You don’t? Who do you see for urology issues?”
“I have no tolerance for urology issues,” I say. “I piss on urology issues.”
He doesn’t like the way this conversation is going, which makes him sane. “Why are you calling me, Andy?”
“To ask if you could meet me in the office. When you’re finished at the urologist.”
“Why?” he asks. Since we haven’t taken on a case in a few months, it’s a reasonable question to pose.
“We’ve got client issues,” I say.
“We have a client?” He’s not successfully masking his incredulity.
“Yes.”
“Who is it?”
“His name is Yogi,” I say.
“Yogi? Is that a first name or a last name?” Kevin knows nothing about sports, so he is apparently not familiar with Yogi Berra. However, I would have thought he’d know Yogi Bear.
“Actually, it’s his only name, and probably not his real one at that. Listen, Kevin, I’m pretty sure he can’t pay our fee. Are you okay with that?”
“Of course.” I gave Kevin half of a huge commission we made on a case a while back, so money is not a major issue for him, either. Additionally, he owns the Law-dromat, a thriving establishment at which he dispenses free legal advice to customers who bring in their clothes to be washed and dried. “What is he accused of?”
“Assault,” I say.
“Where is he now?”
“On death row.”
“Andy, I sense there’s something unusual about this case.”
“You got that right.”
* * * * *
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?”
This is the greeting I get from Edna, who for fifteen years has been my secretary but who now insists on being called my “administrative assistant.” In neither role has Edna ever done any actual work, but as an administrative assistant she can do nothing with considerably more dignity.
Like all of us, Edna strives to satisfy her enjoyment drive, and she does so by doing crossword puzzles. She is the greatest crossword puzzler I have ever seen, and possibly the greatest who has ever lived. Just as art collectors seem to discover DaVincis or Picassos at flea markets or in somebody’s garage every month, in three hundred years crossword puzzle devotees will be finding long-lost Ednas and selling them for fortunes.
She is polishing off today’s New York Times puzzle when I walk in, and her surprise at seeing me is justified. I haven’t been here in at least a week.
“We’ve got a client,” I say.
“How did that happen?”
Her tone is somewhere between baffled and annoyed. “I was in the right place at the right time. Come in with Kevin when he gets here.”
I head back to my private office with a window overlooking the finest fruit stand on Van Houten Avenue in Paterson, New Jersey. If I ever blow my money, it’s not going to be on office space.
I use the time to look through some law books and browse on the computer, finding out as much as I can about dog law in New Jersey. What I learn is not encouraging; if there’s a dog lover in the state legislature, he or she has been in hiding.
I’m fifteen minutes into finding absolutely no protections for canines under the law, when Kevin and Edna walk in. As soon as they sit down, I start in.
“Our client is a dog named Yogi, who is currently at the shelter. He’s scheduled to be put down the day after tomorrow.”
“Why?” Kevin asks.
“He’s alleged to have bitten his owner.”
Kevin shakes his head. “No, I mean why is he our client?”
I shrug. “Apparently, no other lawyer would take his case, probably because he sheds. What do you know about dog law?”
“Nothing,” Kevin says.
“Then you take the computer and I’ll take the books.”