The most depressing ritual
Today, I went to my first law firm farewell event, for an associate in my current department who is leaving after four years with the firm. It was one of the most uncomfortable, depressing events I have witnessed since my last funeral.
Imagine a windowless conference room, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights. On the table at the side sit catering trays filled with cheese, crackers, fresh fruit, and cookies. It would look like the buffet for any afternoon meeting but for the seven bottles of champagne chilling on ice and the cake inscribed "Good Luck [Insert Name Here]."
Associates and a few partners start to drift in. They joke about whether the cake will be chocolate or strawberry, and make veiled references to the last going-away party.
Finally, after a critical mass has assembled, the extremely awkward practice group head stands up and makes a speech about how the departing associate was a good guy who was a pleasure to work with. The praise seemed incredibly forced, as if the partner didn't really mean anything that was being said.
People's eyes were shifting away. The partner stared at the associate, as if he expected a speech.
"Uh, thanks. It's been great working here. I've learned a lot, and uh....I will...uh....miss it."
Corks popped, and the cake was cut. Out came the requisite Tiffany's bag -- the farewell present. The associate unwrapped the layers of bubble wrap and tissue paper to discover a crystal box with the firm name engraved on the bottom. He stared at it with confusion and disinterest, as if someone had wrapped up a copy of amNewYork as his farewell gift.
"What is it?" people asked. "Um, it's a pot to uh...put stuff in," he stammered.
"It's a pot for your pot. For your stash," one of the partners helpfully added. Everyone was silent and uncomfortable.
Soon, people started to slip out of the room. Work called, after all. Departing colleagues can only detract from billable hours for a limited time.
After a few minutes, there were only three or four people. The table was still covered with food -- the catering trays looked almost untouched. Six champagne bottles still sat on ice. Chunks of cake had been removed, obscuring the associate's name. The associate, and his Tiffany box, were about to move on to another chapter of life, after four years and thousands of hours in the office.
"This is the way world ends. Not with a bang but with a whimper."
Imagine a windowless conference room, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights. On the table at the side sit catering trays filled with cheese, crackers, fresh fruit, and cookies. It would look like the buffet for any afternoon meeting but for the seven bottles of champagne chilling on ice and the cake inscribed "Good Luck [Insert Name Here]."
Associates and a few partners start to drift in. They joke about whether the cake will be chocolate or strawberry, and make veiled references to the last going-away party.
Finally, after a critical mass has assembled, the extremely awkward practice group head stands up and makes a speech about how the departing associate was a good guy who was a pleasure to work with. The praise seemed incredibly forced, as if the partner didn't really mean anything that was being said.
People's eyes were shifting away. The partner stared at the associate, as if he expected a speech.
"Uh, thanks. It's been great working here. I've learned a lot, and uh....I will...uh....miss it."
Corks popped, and the cake was cut. Out came the requisite Tiffany's bag -- the farewell present. The associate unwrapped the layers of bubble wrap and tissue paper to discover a crystal box with the firm name engraved on the bottom. He stared at it with confusion and disinterest, as if someone had wrapped up a copy of amNewYork as his farewell gift.
"What is it?" people asked. "Um, it's a pot to uh...put stuff in," he stammered.
"It's a pot for your pot. For your stash," one of the partners helpfully added. Everyone was silent and uncomfortable.
Soon, people started to slip out of the room. Work called, after all. Departing colleagues can only detract from billable hours for a limited time.
After a few minutes, there were only three or four people. The table was still covered with food -- the catering trays looked almost untouched. Six champagne bottles still sat on ice. Chunks of cake had been removed, obscuring the associate's name. The associate, and his Tiffany box, were about to move on to another chapter of life, after four years and thousands of hours in the office.
"This is the way world ends. Not with a bang but with a whimper."
posted by N at 5:15 PM
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