Baby attorney. One year post-bar. Middle office. Printer right outside his door, right behind my desk.
And apparently... a front row seat to the s***show.
I heard the noise. I heard the grunts. I saw the steam.
"Need help?"
No response.
Alrighty then. Smart enough to pass the bar. Must be smart enough to use the printer.
Silence turned into a rainshower of paper.
On my desk. On the floor. In the air.
And then the sound of defeat as he walked away.
He threw those papers at the wrong desk.
AYFKM ran through my head. At least a dozen times.
Who does he think he is. What are we, three years old. Didn't your mother teach you anything. Apparently law school skipped the manners portion of the curriculum.
I sat with that for a moment.
And then I picked up the papers.
One by one.
Stacked them nicely.
And walked straight into his office. And gave every page the same send-off they got on the way over.
The shock set in. I didn't see him the rest of the day.
The printer got fixed, by the way.
By me.
(I didn't get fired. And not once was it ever discussed.)
The Unredacted Paralegal™