Trainee
|
People Anatomy™
A spotter’s guide to the men and women of finance.
|
Little basil fotherington-tomas before he is turned.
Every now and then an anguished howl will yammer across LinkedIn signalscape, as some well-meaning thought leader or other — or sometimes an anonymous self -organising autonomous collective of juniors — lights touchpaper to the topic of the grisly working conditions for young commercial lawyers and a predictable dumpster fire woofs, explodes and quickly burns out when people connect their senses, or get distracted by the next bauble, or whatever motivates the herd these days on the Onworld
“It cannot be right,” they wail, “in our enlightened times, to torture out younglings so. Fourteen hours a day! Sometimes more! They are not up to it. It will crush them. We must be humane.”
There will then follow a long and tiring diatribe about the fragile psychiatric disposition of the upcoming generation. It will culminate in robust accord that we must all, at every opportunity, speak loudly and at tedious length about our own astral vulnerabilities, end the stigma of being seen to gabble incessantly about our stigmas.
The JC will spare you his usual Nietzschean quotes about military life, apposite though they are: there is nothing quite like a good old “shoeing” at the bottom of the ruck every now and then to stouten a young attorney’s fibre. It builds a kind of resilience that moaning about your lot on LinkedIn never will.
A better question is this: what sort of person regards any part of the big law military industrial complex — even its most callow inductees — with even the tiniest twinge of affection or sympathy?
The same people who would cuddle polar bears. They don’t last long.
For, really: what do you think happens to those cute little Kirkland & Ellis cubs when they grow up? Have you not seen Stranger Things?
The Yale careers office is not the Russian front. These poor little lambs were not conscripted, press-ganged, nor marched at gunpoint down to the Latham & Watkins.
To the contrary, these furry little padawans spent years clambering over each other to get that where they are. They are trained killers. They want the weak. They are motivated to this penury. Five years of trench warfare is part of their plan.
And remember, these babes-in-arms — armed babies, at any rate —are charged out, from the moment they put down their joss-sticks and hacky-sacks and climb into the power-suit, at five hundred bucks an hour. And they know nothing. Their work is thus triple checked by some slightly older cherub who is paid nine-hundred bucks an hour and knows barely any more. You are paying an effective rate of sixteen hundred bucks an hour a kid you wouldn't trust to wash your car if he lived on your street.
And do these people not remember their own tutelage