79.1 All Aboard the 156!

Editor’s Note: Managing Editor Andrew Moore wrote this “Frimbo-Style” story. It borders on fanfiction. A quick Google reveals that E.M. Frimbo, “world’s greatest railroad buff. The Law Weekly finds this thing basically borders on fanfiction, but has printed it here for your enjoyment. Please enjoy this hugely abridged version of “Frimbo.”  

The summer sun beat down on us passengers and heated our waiting area even more than those damnable infernal combustion engines. Normally I travel in a civilized manner via train or on foot when possible, but to make my train from Charlottesville to New York, I was reduced to riding motor carriage to the train station. Most of my compatriots on the platform stood or slouched ill at ease on that bright morning, when who should stride up but the great E.M. Frimbo in his typical coat and homburg, looking as comfortable there as aboard a classic steam locomotive: 

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Frimbo! And what brings you to the Monticello mountainside?” 

“Hullo there! Funny running into you as I was just retracing the steps of the old Louisa Railroad Company Line—those were the days. I suppose you’ll be enjoying the Northeast Regional, that is, to the limited extent anyone can enjoy rail travel these days with the lack of accoutrements and such.” 

And with that, the 156 pulled into the station, disgorged a few wandering Hoos, and was on its way northward. For seven long hours, I sat on the bench, always looking up at the map of New York yet to come, the distance yet to travel seemingly interminable. 

Finally, I disembarked at Moynihan and fell in with comrades from Kansas. We reconnoitered the Borough of Trees and snuck into The Last Call, a local watering hole, to watch the fifth game of the NBA Finals. It was not much of a game once the French defenses were penetrated and suddenly the Knicks were world champions. For fifty-three long years, New Yorkers had waited on the shores without being admitted to the utopia of champions. Suddenly decades of anguish, celebration, and chaos poured through the city—a veritable tidal wave of euphoria and havoc wiping out streets without care or worry. In the tumult after a long day, all I could yearn for was my queen bed back in Charlottesville. 

The next day, my fellow Kansans left and took a direct route back home, but I foolishly found a different course to putter along. I shortly found a crew of the other first-year summer associates at the firm, and we joined together to chart a course in the unknown waters.  

We first encountered a small band of recruiters in the office from whom we looted free bags of chips, a smattering of sandwiches, and assorted delectables. In the rush, the corporate jargon mostly sounded like gibberish to our untrained ears, but we just made out their whispered rumors of marauders and people from the sea before retreating to our berths in the cubicle farm. Once the snacks ran low, we received an email inviting us to a technology orientation which lured us in with more free catering. We filed into the conference room and were remarking on the quality cheese of the charcuterie board when the door slammed behind us, and the tech department doused the lights with a single-eyed focus to present how we were to use Outlook, Word, Harvey, and various other AIs. The IT department abducted several associates to set up their laptops before the rest of us escaped and ran back to our desks. 

Having fully lost our way amid the clashing waves of Zooms and Skypes, a signal shone through the mist of messages—“Practice Spotlight! Free lunch!” We had learnt by then to arrive early to better assess the offerings and found nought but a baby-faced associate who promptly expounded on the wonders of transactional law. Just as we started to question them about where the food was, larger-than-life partners, senior partners, and partners emeriti crashed into the room: 

“The fax machine was my teacher!” 

“In the 80s we didn’t have AI!” 

“I hired the Paris office!” 

Beset upon all sides by these towering legal titans we made a hasty retreat without even taking the time to scrounge a bonus bagel or spare sparkling water. We were still starving, so we stayed within range of the recruiting team and their snack bar. Finally, a lucky associate spied the next event: “Watch the Mets beat the Royals! Enjoy the box and the best catering money can buy!” 

As we embarked on the subway to Queens, the associates went on ahead as a familiar homburg haberdasher waved me down from across the car. 

“By Jove! If it isn’t Mr. Frimbo again!” 

“Well hello to you as well! I was just out reminiscing about the Third Avenue El on my way to the Oyster Bar. At least someone still knows what good service means! Now it appears your coterie of summers are already on their way to your soiree, so don’t let me detain you.” 

As usual, Mr. Frimbo was correct—my crew of associates was nowhere to be seen, and the game was about to begin. I threaded my way through the crowd up to the box, expecting to see my friends. Instead, all I found was a lone hostess in the suite and a host of rabid Big Applers cursing Kansas City and cheering on the Metropolitans. 

“Won’t you have a Manhattan? Perhaps a Long Island Iced Tea?” enticed the hostess. Having been nearly traumatized by one New York sporting event already, I could hardly stand the thought of another one, let alone one enhanced by such imbibing. I beseeched her, “Please, just tell me how to find my crew and how to get home to Charlottesville with my nice queen bed!” Taking pity on my plight, she pointed out the route I would take and the sacrifices I had to make to get home. 

After her wayfinding, I made my way on Metro-North to find both friends and that ultimate builder and twister of fates and highways in New Haven. On the track north, I saw our dear Mr. Frimbo gallivanting from one platform to the next with the Contessa on his arm. We exchanged waves but were sadly too far away to make the connection. I arrived in New Haven and discovered a gray twilight world of not quite New York, not quite New England, neither day nor night, but the great in between. I sought out my friend Brad, who warned me of where to go next on my quest to return home to my queen bed in Charlottesville. As the rain started to patter and melt my ice cream, suddenly the ghost of Moses himself came after us with his rage at seeing such railroad buffs afoot in his city. 

I barely made it back to the train and then to the office, where my crew of transactional summers and I were tempted by the litigation partners. Their pitch, honed by years of spinning and persuading in the courtroom, nearly tricked us before we steered clear at the last moment and avoided crashing on the rocks of rollercoaster schedules. 

We finally resumed our course when we realized next that the recruiting department had double-scheduled us–we could either attend an AI training session or visit a client. The crew firmly doubted my judgment at this point, and they chose the client visit. After all, the AI would replace us all and put us out of work. However, as soon as we got to the client's office, the sales pitch cut through us like a hot knife through butter—“It’s never too early to go in-house!”—and just like that we were back on the sidewalk missing six summers. 

After such trials and travails, we decamped to the office and determined to take no more risks and just run out the clock until the end. In this way, we passed hours playing Spades, Hearts, and even dabbling in lotus tiles of Mahjong. Before we knew it, life was just cards and tiles, cards and tiles, cards and . . . 

Finally, having exhausted every scheme I could construct, I gave myself and my individuality up to BigLaw and trusted my fate to the partners and recruiters. I bundled my legal pads, free sandwiches, and sponsored t-shirts into a raft and set off to wherever the firm saw fit to send me. With a final glimpse of a tipped homburg through the clouds, the winds and the rails took me on their path. On the train, I drifted into that netherworld of drowsy semi-sleep before the conductor’s announcement awoke me with a start: “Now disembarking: Charlottesville!” 

I made it! Nothing felt sweeter than making it back to CVille and reuniting with my own queen bed.

Author: Andrew Moore