The Circus Freak

The Circus Freak

I am a thirty-six- year- old attorney in private practice. I hung out my shingle in 2003, several years after taking the bar exam, because I knew that I could make a difference. Well that, and an unfortunate disagreement with my then- employer regarding whether my recent bleeding ulcer was actually a cry for help. He had a thing for helping people in need, and my lack of need had left me constructively unemployed.

I would wager about a third of people who go to law school do so with good intentions. They want to make a difference. And I did make a difference. Since entering private practice, I made a difference in my debt to income ratio of at least fifty percent, and, as of January 2010, was advised by my banker that I am actually more valuable dead.

I said,: “But wait, I thought only artists were worth more after they die.”

He said,: “Congratulations, maybe you should try to paint something.”

I have reflected upon the reasons for my career choice for some time now. It crosses my mind at least once a month when I receive that student loan notice that carries a balance the size of a small home. I have laughed, cried and on more than one occasion become borderline hysterical about the reeking albatross that dangles from my neck. What was I thinking? My parents were both attorneys and I can remember it seeming logical that this too would be my path. But I also remember a time when I thought I would be something else.

There was the time, right after I read a book about Nadia Comaneci that I decided I would travel to the Olympics to win the gold in gymnastics. I should mention that I stand five (5) feet eleven (11) inches as an adult, the majority of this height I had attained by the sixth grade. When I shared this monumental career decision with my mother, Betty, she just nodded and said, “That’s good dear, now go downstairs and practice.”

And practice I did! My nanny, Clara, bought me a certified gymnastics mat. It was powder blue, with white piping and had illustrations of different gymnastics moves on both sides. And to her credit, Betty even enrolled me in gymnastics classes, where my gangly arms and legs were guaranteed to take out at least one fellow classmate with every turn of my cartwheel. I was at least a head taller than the other gymnasts. In hindsight, it appears that having a lower center of gravity helps in this sport. They would all go ahead of me in line because the uneven bars had to be adjusted to keep the tops of my toes from mat burn when I mounted. Eventually, there were mumblings between my mother and the coach and one day they just discontinued gymnastics at the Spring Street Recreational Facility. But I wasn’t deterred.

 Then, the circus came through Birmingham and my new found love of the trapeze pushed old Nadia off her low sitting throne. I donned my tie dyed leotard from the Spring Street experience and sang selected excerpts of “Don’t Cry Out Loud” by Melissa Manchester for my mother as an introduction into my new career choice.

 “Baby cried the day the circus came to town cause she didn’t like parades just passing by her….”

Prior to my interruption, she had been reading a copy of the Talladega Daily Home newspaper. She waited patiently for my big finish, folded down a corner of the paper and said, “That’s wonderful dear, now go downstairs and practice.”

But we didn’t have a trapeze in our basement. I tried to fashion a makeshift one using our rope swing and an old broom handle, but with no second bar to “fly” to, my practice sessions were little more than glorified swinging. This little road block only fueled my determination to soar. Someday, my old tattered tie dyed leotard would be replaced with a beautifully sequined number. Someday, I would climb a rope ladder and perch high above the Ringling Brother’s grandstands.

 I would look down on my admirers and wave gracefully with my right hand and then my left, acknowledging all the fans that had spent $19.95 to view my performance. Then I would open both hands in a wide, elegant acknowledgement of the ringmaster below, my signal that I was ready to dazzle the audience. Without a trapeze I was at a standstill on practicing my new craft. However, I was able to practice waving, and I did, at least two hundred times in my mother’s full- length mirror.

Growing desperate faster that I was outgrowing my only leotard, I went back to my mother to ask for help. After waiting for a commercial break in the evening news, I pled my case with all the drama and determination I had witnessed while watching her in similar situations. After all, as a trial lawyer her job involved the fine art of talking a jury into giving her what she wanted.

 First, I worked to gain her trust. I told her how much I appreciated her decision that we could not have a back yard pool because it was a death trap. I respected her sticking to her guns summer after summer, as my siblings and I fueled by the hot June sun started begging all over again. Feeling confident that I had gained her trust I went in for the hard sell: Our huge, empty backyard would be the perfect home for a full size trapeze ring complete with a safety catch net.

 “You know,” I winked knowingly “to keep the liability to a minimum.”

I was mid- way through my, “this is so much safer than a trampoline” pre-emptive argument when her eyes clouded over and I could see that the jury had returned with a verdict. When she pondered things my mother’s eyes always reminded me of a thunderstorm, dark and scary. I never brought an issue to her for counsel that did not leave me fighting the urge to run for cover. After what felt like an eternity she spoke, “Perhaps you should try the high wire instead. The Leonard’s down the street have one set up just a few feet off the ground.”

She was a genius! Who cares if I fly, the wire walkers get to wear the sequined outfits too! I raced the half- mile toward my destiny, and found it stretched between two pine trees a mere two feet off the ground in Mr. and Mrs. Leonard’s front yard.  I charged forward. Blast! I couldn’t stay on it while wearing shoes and the wire cut my feet if I tried barefoot. Not to mention the fact that all of these professions required one tiny element that I have lacked my entire life, BALANCE.

But I refused to give up.

 I went back to my mother and debated the need for special high wire shoes; preferably the kind with ribbon ties that lace up your leg much like a prima ballerina. Alas, there were no stores in Talladega County that carried circus performer shoes. We even searched the surrounding counties of St. Clair and Calhoun.

“Baby cried the day they took the big top down, and they left behind her dreams among the litter….”

Two days later my nanny appeared carrying a unicycle she picked up at a recent garage sale. It had a wide, white, patent leather seat and I immediately tried to imagine its sides covered in sequins. After three minor concussions my dreams of the circus ended.

 Or did they? After all as an attorney I enjoy a daily circus of sorts. I balance fragile items, such as people’s lives and that sometimes feels like knife juggling. And while I usually climb no higher than the fifth floor of the Tuscaloosa County Court House, it is often filled with its own variety of freaks, barkers, daredevils and fire breathers.  I wonder if the Alabama State Bar has ever considered adding sequins?