Window Slammers

The Window Slammers

Sometimes, it feels like you just can't do anything right. The morning had started out well enough. We had hashed out the details of the Ferguson contract, at a breakfast meeting, in the mid-town Hyatt. We were happy with the negotiations. The French concern of "Ferguson et Fils" are heavy hitters in the field of International Customs Brokerage. Their legal needs would be diverse and involved. It meant big money for our firm. More importantly, it was a very big notch on my own corporate gun. It meant that I would advance another rung on the partnership ladder, and be remembered at bonus time.

The day had deteriorated however, from that point on. Judge Willoughby, in State Supreme Court, had refused to grant a continuance in the Williams breach of contract suit. Our firm was pretty far out on a limb defending these slippery characters. They had taken a multi-million dollar powder on their commitments to an investment consortium, who were more than a little pissed off in the process. The investors wanted a pound of flesh in return.

We needed more time to configure a viable defense. Wily old Judge Willoughby wasn't buying into it though. He knew a pile of dung when he saw one. He also recognized the purveyors, of said pile, when he saw them. The continuance was denied and we were to go to trial the day after tomorrow. We, or I should say "I" didn't have a legal leg to stand on.

I had carried the news to my boss, in the best traditions of a Greek messenger carrying bad news. Soon after, the managing partner had summoned several of us mere mortals to his office for a consult. It seems that the Williams Family are not only well heeled and preferred clients, but important social contacts of the managing partner's wife. He wanted a revised strategy to deal with the situation.

"What are your plans, he asked? I noticed the subtle difference from "your plans" and "the firm's plans." I knew how the Lone Ranger must have felt when he and Tonto found themselves surrounded by hostile Indians. The Lone Ranger had reportedly asked," What are we going to do now Tonto?" Tonto had allegedly replied "what do you mean 'we' paleface?" I was alone on this one and could probably kiss that bonus good-bye.

As I stammered out a list of possible strategies, Brandon's head popped up, through the door window, on the other side of the office. With an evil, dung-eating grin, he moved his arms up and down in the motion of opening and closing a window, several times in rapid succession. I almost, but not quite, laughed in the partner's face. The pantomime was a private joke between us. The motion meant that you felt like you were standing in front of a window, with flaccid member extended across the sill. Someone was repeatedly raising and lowering the window on your outstretched member and chastising you for leaving it lying there. The pain and embarrassment were of humongous proportions and you were powerless to do anything about it. I was feeling that way right now.

Although I felt cheered by Brandon's humor, I was afraid that a smile was stealing across my face. The managing partner would never understand. He would think that I had taken leave of my senses. That schmuck Brandon! Wait until I see him in here "on the carpet, talking to the boss. Wham, wham, wham, I will "window slam, in pantomime, until I make him break up. Brandon is an easy mark and will near wet himself laughing. Then let him explain why to the prim and proper managing partner, whose father had been a Minister. I am sure he will understand. NOT! The thought brought me the first mental smile since this morning.

Brandon and I had formed the "Window Slammer's Club, when we first joined the firm as junior associates. It reflected our lowly status in the pecking order. We were frequently ordered about, like field hands, to do minor legal chores for the more august among the partners. We were routinely upbraided for our imperfections and minor transgressions. We had to stand there quietly, and let the Barons raise and lower the window, on our whangers, as we were apprised of our long list of shortcomings. It was the remembered humor of "window slamming" that got us through many an undeserved upbraiding.

As we rose through the pecking order, the firm hired newer and younger "window slammers" to run routine legal errands. Whenever I was tempted to be critical of one of these junior beagles, I would remember the imagined helpless feeling of standing at the window waiting for it to be raised and lowered on my outstretched member. The smile that the memory brought to my face, usually erased whatever irritation that the beagle had caused. I would then sent him/her on their way unscathed.

The lessons I had learned, as a victim of "window slamming, had made me a better manager and much more careful of where I "extended myself. I was always on the lookout for windows that looked like they might close quickly.

What really made the whole idea special for me though was an incident, in the lobby of our office building, where I noticed two of the newer beagles in huddled conference. Thinking that they were unobserved, they were talking in an animated fashion. While talking earnestly to the other, one of the beagles raised and lowered his arms in rapid fashion, like he was opening and closing a window. I saw an immediate and mirthful smile erupt from the face of the listening beagle. A newer generation of "window slammers had learned to laugh at adversity. It made me smile, as I walked out of the office. Now, if only there was a way to do this at home....

-30-

Joseph Xavier Martin