Sometimes when you’re young and in love, the timing is not right between the two of you to make the commitment to marry. In my case I was in love but not ready to take that giant step. So, we moved back and forth, dancing around the decision.
Should we or shouldn’t we. We wore each other down, and it became apparent that neither of us was ready. At twenty-two, we were at the stage of deciding on our careers rather than becoming a family.
I could not decide on my life’s work either.
My step-father was a lawyer. He seemed to enjoy his work, and I decided to try law school. He thought this would be the wrong choice for me but supported my applications.
“You don’t think like a lawyer, but you seem smart enough and you like people.”
I applied and was accepted at a number of law schools.
Since I was deeply involved with Loretta, I enrolled in a school in Philadelphia to be close to her. We broke up the day before my classes began.
My first day in school was an orientation from the dean. There were more than a hundred and twenty students sitting in the large classroom at tables, each with four chairs. At the edge of each place was a brass number. My number was 39, my name from now until the end of law school.
I had heard that law school was a tough program but was excited about the prospect of learning and eventually practicing law.
The dean addressed the assembly starting with a statement that I had heard of, but didn’t believe would actually be said.
“Law school is demanding and many of you will not survive. Look to the left of you and to the right of you. Two of the three of you will not complete this experience. Law school is intense and competitive, and only the best students survive. This has to be your number one commitment for the next three years, or perhaps you should leave now. “
I began to wonder if I had made the right choice at this moment. Many of us smiled, amused, or maybe anxious, but no one walked out of the room.
I was already committed financially. My tuition and books were paid for.
I stayed.
I entered my class titled “Status and Process” taught by Mr. Stone. Stone stood in the front of the room in front of the large podium. He wore a white shirt and tie, but no jacket. His sleeves were rolled up, and his pants were belted below his belly, causing his shirt to puff out over his waist. As we took our assigned places, he watched and waited until everyone was seated.
Silently he took a new pack of cigarettes out of his chest pocket. Slowly he performed what we would recognize as his morning ritual. He carefully removed the cellophane wrapping and the foil that covered the contents. Turning the pack upside down he banged it on the back of his left hand to tamp down the tobacco. Reversing it he tapped the top and two cigarettes popped up. He pulled one out and placed it between his lips. He snapped open his Zippo, lit the cigarette, and with a flourish snapped it shut and dropped it into his pants pocket.
He lectured about the meaning of Status and Process law, which includes partnerships and marriage, separation and divorce. All the while he puffed on his Marlboro, crushing it in his ashtray when done and lighting a fresh one. He gazed around the room as he spoke and smoked.
Then he stopped and said that the course consisted of brief lectures containing the laws, followed by hypothetical cases to be explained and decided by the students. No one needed to raise hands to volunteer answers.
“I’ll call on the student I want to explain each case. Understand right now one important rule: ‘The Law Hates Volunteers.…and so do I.”
In this first class, he offered four hypotheticals related to the case law of the lecture. Students offered answers to his questions. Most of them were incorrect, and he picked the answers apart until they arrived at the decisions he wanted.
I sighed at the end of the class, relieved that I hadn’t been chosen or embarrassed. In the next class with Stone, he lectured about divorce and child custody. I listened and took pages full of notes.
He gave his first hypothetical case of the day. As before he looked around the room, stared at me, smiling sweetly, he called out “39.”
I stood in my place and he asked:
“Who wins this case…hubby or wifey?”
I shuffled through my notes and looked into his eyes.
I trembled and answered softly: “Hubby wins.”
“WHAT? I can’t hear you. Speak up…like a lawyer.”
I exclaimed: “Hubby wins!”
“Oh, my God. I saw you looking through your notes, so I know you read the law. Is hubby the one who legally wins or do you believe that he should win? Tell me the legal backing that says he wins. Don’t hesitate. Tell me!”
I went back through my notes, and repeated my decision.
“WRONG!” Stone bellowed.
I stood quietly, shrinking to the size of a child, as he explained the law that determined the result of the case.
“Wifey wins! Wifey always wins.”
I moved to sit down, and he hollered at me to stay up.
In that class, he offered three more hypotheticals only to me. I was wrong again twice, and then finally I got one right.
“Thank you 39. Finally, you are correct. I guess you’re not totally hopeless. Class is over; you can all get out.”
He watched me pack up my books as everyone left. Chuckling, he lit another cigarette, and waved good-bye to me.
My fellow students commiserated with my torture, relieved that they weren’t victimized today.
Day after day we experienced Stone’s lectures and hypotheticals. Others were called on, but before the end of every class he would look around and puzzle out loud:
“Whom shall I call on for this hard one? 39 give me your expert decision on this.”
So I became the target of his daily ridicule, for I mostly offered answers that he disagreed with. I became desensitized to his abuse after a while, and even argued back at him. We both enjoyed this, even as he warned me that he was the teacher and I was the student.
“I give the grade.”
He and I became the class entertainment, and I was no longer frightened. I was enjoying law school, or at least Stone’s course.
Toward the end of the semester, Stone spent an entire class on me. He asked questions about my beliefs of right and wrong, and about the law.
“39, give it up. You don’t remotely think like a lawyer. Better get out of here and try another profession. Be a psychologist or a social worker. Yes that’s better. Be a social worker, they bleed for their clients. We don’t need any more bloody lawyers.”
As usual the class laughed and patted me on the back. I remained the class joke, to the point that Stone would wonder aloud whom to call on, and the class replied in a chorus:
“39!”
After classes ended we went to a law school picnic in the park. Though I was not an athlete, I joined a group that was about to play “rough touch” football.
I crouched in the line to block, across from another student about my size. Just before the ball was snapped though, Stone grabbed my opponent and pushed him out of the line. He positioned himself opposite and against me.
“39, I’m going to destroy you.” He laughed.
The ball was snapped and we all moved forward. I flattened myself on the ground instead of ramming into Stone. He flew into the air over me and smashed into a pile of rocks.
I stood up and saw that he was holding his hand in pain. He had jammed his finger into the rocks and had probably broken it. Berating me and my blocking, he drove to the hospital to be treated.
I never returned to law school. I became a school teacher and entered graduate school.
One afternoon a few years later I was crossing Broad Street near Temple Law School, and a voice called out to me.
“39! Hey 39.”
I turned and faced Stone and his usual cigarette.
“How’ve you been? You disappeared from law school. What are you up to? Are you taking courses? What are you becoming?”
“I’m in a graduate program in psychology!” I exclaimed.
We both laughed and I offered to shake his hand. He reached out a hand with a cigarette for me instead. We continued to laugh. I placed it in my mouth and he lit it with a snap of his Zippo.
“You owe me for career counseling!”