Ask Again Later by Jill A. Davis

do?” Jim says.
    â€œIt’s a big world filled with commerce and art and possibility,” I say.
    â€œArt?” Jim says suspiciously, and dismissively. As if he is aware there is a thing called art, but wonders why I’m mentioning it to him.
    â€œYes,” I say. “Art. Sculpture. Painting. Unique expression. Commentary on contemporary life—”
    â€œI know what art is,” Jim says.
    Then why’d you put those dull lithographs all over your office? I want to say. But I know the answer. People want their lawyer’s office to look responsible. It’s reassurance that when the lawyer goes home at night, he’s so steadfast, he works. He doesn’t loosen his tie, or go out, or have a life. He’s beige and boring and reliable. If youwalked into a lawyer’s office and he had a Warhol electric chair painting on his wall, you’d have some serious questions to ask.
    â€œContract law? What was I thinking? Why didn’t I choose family law—like you? You’re probably out of your office by six o’clock every night,” I say. It’s a relief to finally say it. To admit that I wasn’t very thoughtful about a really important choice.
    He thinks for a while.
    â€œHave you considered turning this hiatus into something really special? How about backpacking through Europe. Not necessarily with a backpack, though. The human back is an underengineered thing. A really shoddy design, if you ask me. You could stay in some wonderful old hotels. The lake region of Italy is fabulous.”
    This is a response that perfectly describes my father. My mother’s just been diagnosed with cancer, and feels so alone she begged me to move in with her. I’ve just thrown my job out the window, in theory to tend to her, and he suggests I run away to see some Italian lakes. Go off and see something beautiful and distant…How do you become so monumentally lacking in empathy? You practice every day until it sticks.
    â€œYou want me to spend six hundred dollars a night on a hotel room in Italy. I’ve just quit my job, and I bought a co-op last year. Shouldn’t you be telling me to run to my boss and ask him for my job back? Network with other lawyers? I’ve thrown my entire life off course,” I say.
    â€œMaybe that’s what you needed to do. I wish I’d done that,” Jim says.
    Silence. Is he being ironic?
    â€œYou did do that,” I say.
    â€œYes. My only mistake there—and it was a big one—was timing,” Jim says. “I should have done it earlier—before I was married. You still have time. Really, ask yourself: Do you want to be a lawyer?”
    â€œPlease tell me these aren’t the motivational tactics you use on your employees,” I say.
    â€œIt’s not my responsibility to motivate them,” Jim says.
    â€œI don’t want to be a lawyer to the exclusion of all other things—and sometimes that feels like what the choice is. All or nothing,” I say. “But I’m not sure that I never want to be a lawyer.”
    â€œYou get only one life,” Jim says. “You could come work for me.”
    His non sequiturs sometimes sound like they may have come from inside of a fortune cookie.
    â€œYou’re hiring more lawyers?” I ask, surprised by my own interest.
    â€œOh, no. We’re chockful of lawyers. But you could become our receptionist when Esther ‘retires.’ It could very well change your life,” Jim says.
    â€œHow would answering phones change my life?” I ask.
    â€œYou’ll either have a new appreciation for contract lawor you’ll discover that you enjoy having your evenings to yourself. It’s a nice group of people we have working there,” Jim says.
    â€œSo with one life—I should use it up on answering a phone? Buzzing people into your office?”
    â€œThe receptionists get to leave at five-thirty. You have to