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Jimmy longs for his old Cutlass as he waits at the bus stop nearest Chuck’s house. It’s dark out, the air musty and cold enough to cut through his windbreaker. He folds his arms tightly and leans against a lamppost. The traffic here is thin, the suburb already tucked away for the night, and Jimmy breathes out slowly. He can still taste the lemon fish Rebecca made for dinner.
He had only seen Rebecca once before tonight, in a photo attached to the couple’s wedding invitation all those years ago. He’d felt proud, then, of the radiant happiness exuding from the woman his brother had found to marry, and he’s even prouder now knowing that it wasn’t just some artful snapshot or a trick of the light. Jimmy likes her—and, as the relief finally sinks in, he grins. He likes her, and she seems to like him, and at dinner Chuck looked happy.
The dinner invitation had come earlier that day, just before lunch. Jimmy had been finishing up his first actual mail delivery, tapping his fingers on his cart and running over the new names he’d learned, when he’d felt a tap on his shoulder.
Chuck stood behind him in the hallway, smile on his face.
“Hiya, Chuck,” Jimmy said. He made a show of looking through his empty mail cart. “No letters for you, sorry!”
Chuck gave an abortive, half laugh. “That’s all right. You’re settling in, then?”
“Sure am." He tapped his fingers on the mail cart again, then caught himself doing it and stopped.
“Wonderful. Ron’s spoken well of you to George. I’ve only heard one horror story so far,” Chuck said, tossing off the last part like an afterthought.
“Oh?”
“Something about coffee and ruined documents?” Again casual, like Chuck was commenting on the weather.
Jimmy felt heat rise up his back, but he shrugged casually. “Tight corridors you got in this place.”
“Ah. Right. Well, listen, Rebecca’s asked you round for dinner. Is tonight okay?”
Jimmy had agreed. He’d returned to the mindless monotony of mailroom work, watching a machine spit out copy after copy of the same document, each perfectly stapled and ready to go. At the end of the day, Jimmy had gathered up his things and managed to track down a liquor store selling Old Style before making his way across town. Chuck’s house was everything he’d thought it would be: perched proudly on a street corner, edged by lawns and parks and perfect citizens.
And now he stands in the same suburb in the darkness, waiting for a bus that’s coming up on twenty minutes late. With his Cutlass, he could be back at the hotel already. Instead he lingers in the silent pools of the streetlamps and tastes lemon fish.
Is there a life for Jimmy McGill here? A life of home-cooked meals and family dinners? Life in the ‘burbs with a wife and 1.5 kids and pastel-colored polo shirts and honey-I’m-home? Down the street, a man sits on his porch, golden retriever at his feet. He’s tall and old, but Jimmy can see himself in him, if he really tries. Can even see the appeal of that kind of slow-moving, suburban peace.
But he can also see himself walking down to that white picket fence, to that caring man with his well-groomed yellow dog, and scamming him for fifty bucks. He can already feel the perfect sob story bubbling up from the eternal wellspring within him, but he looks away before it breaks the surface.
Somewhere nearby, Jimmy knows, just a few blocks over, is the Rio Grande, running slow. If he thinks about it he can almost hear the water. An ordinary part of life for Albuquerque residents, but for him a name still synonymous with John Ford, with John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara. Or even just Duran Duran, singing in bright colors on a sailboat.
A name bigger than the place he’s ended up.
Jimmy signs the lease on his Beachcomber apartment that Sunday. It’s small, just two rooms and a bathroom—or one room and a bathroom if you’re feeling less generous about the arched partition. He pays the advance rent and security deposit with the cash that Chuck had handed him in an envelope at the end of Friday night’s dinner. It’s just enough, and Jimmy relaxes. He can’t move in for another few weeks, but he likes the feeling of certainty, and, when he returns to the Ramada that afternoon, the dusty rooms and empty bar are easier to swallow.
There’s a covered, outdoor area attached to the hotel restaurant, and Jimmy sits in it that night, eating his way through a burger and watching the planes drift down to land at the airport. Last Sunday he was on board one of them. It feels much longer than a week ago—although he has the sneaking feeling, if he were to return to Cicero tomorrow, to roll back up to Arno’s and fall asleep beside Marco at the bar, on waking this whole time in Albuquerque would just feel like a vanishing dream.
Jimmy runs a hand through his hair, shocked again at the shortness. He went to a barber on Saturday and got it cut into something a little more formal, and he’s not used to it yet. His head feels cold in the evening air, exposed and naked, though he hadn’t even let the barber trim it as close as the man had wanted.
The short hair is surprising, still, when he sees it in the mirror the next morning. At least his bleary ghost looks a bit more lively today. Maybe it’s the neat hair or maybe it’s the absence of dark bags under its eyes.
And it’s a beautiful day outside, with a bright blue sky and a crisp spring sun that’s already warming up earlier than last week. Jimmy feels the heat on his bare forearms like the touch of a hand.
He sits on the left side of the bus, the side that catches the streaming sun. The flat University of New Mexico campus buildings coast past his window, and Jimmy watches the few figures that move between them, the students getting an early start on their day or the professors preparing for upcoming classes.
He closes his eyes and lets the sun warm his face.
“Morning, Spencer Tracy!” Jimmy says brightly, when he sees Kim hard at work over another enormous law book in the break room. He had found her there every morning last week without fail, more reliable even than the copy machines, and this week seems set to repeat the pattern.
Kim looks up. “Spencer Tracy? Are we back to Adam’s Rib? ”
Jimmy holds up his finger. “Nope! Inherit the Wind.”
“Got it,” Kim says, looking back down at her book. “At least he won in that one.”
“I thought they found Darrin guilty.” Jimmy busies himself at the coffee machine, filling a huge HHM-branded mug and humming.
“Yes, they did,” Kim says. “They fined him one hundred dollars and then overturned it. Scopes was found guilty, but Clarence Darrow won that case.” She looks up at him and chuckles. “Spencer Tracy, I mean.”
“‘Course he won,” Jimmy says, plopping down at the table. He raises his mug of coffee to Kim. “So congratulations.”
Kim picks up her own cup, inclines it him, then says, “Cheers, Paul Newman.”
Jimmy drinks, then chuckles. “If you’re not a lawyer, I’m definitely not one.”
“Not Paul Newman in The Verdict,” Kim says mildly. She looks back down at her law book as if she’s lost interest, but Jimmy can tell she’s just waiting out the moment because her eyes aren’t skimming back and forth as fast as normal. Eventually, she glances up at him again and grins. “The Hustler.”
Jimmy laughs brightly, feeling it warm in his belly. Kim chuckles too, but then she sighs, and drops her head into her hands. Jimmy surveys her and the table—are there more books than normal, more scattered notes? He reaches out and picks up a loose page of yellow paper. It’s covered edge-to-edge in illegible scribbles, wildly different from her usual careful writing.
“You can read this?” he asks carefully.
Kim groans. “That’s from yesterday. I was pretty strung out on coffee. We have a review tonight and I only know about fifty percent of this”—she gestures around the table—“this!”
“I bet you know more than you think,” Jimmy says. He picks up another sheet of paper, scans it briefly then looks back at Kim.
She stares at him, eyes intense. “I don’t.”
Jimmy inclines his head. “I’ll stop distracting you.”
“No, no, I needed the break,” Kim says. She pinches the bridge of her nose. Silently mouths something like she’s trying to memorize it, then drops her hand. “It’s fine. We’re not expected to know it all yet, but, you know…”
“Yeah,” Jimmy says, watching her closely. Her hands are shaking a little. “Careful on the caffeine, though, or nobody will be able to read your answers later.” He looks down at the paper he’s still holding. “What does this even say? Whether… past consideration… valid consideration… enforcement of contract… see Moe and Larry?”
“Moore v. Elmer,” Kim grunts.
“Moore v. Elmer, wow,” Jimmy says, smiling. “Whether past consideration is valid consideration for enforcement of contract… see Moore v Elmer. Holmes ruled… that the sittings did… count? Count—”
“Did not count.”
“That’s a ‘not’? I thought it was a coffee stain,” Jimmy says. Kim laughs, and he throws down the yellow paper. “See! You know this shit.”
Kim huffs out a breath. “I don’t,” she says, but more warmly than last time. “But thank you.”
Jimmy cheerses her with his coffee mug again, then settles back in his chair. Kim starts writing out notes, though slower than earlier. The two sit quietly until the rest of mailroom arrives at seven o’clock, but Jimmy breaks the silence every so often to ask a question from a page of notes, to which Kim inevitably gives the correct answer.
Later that day, an intern comes down into the mailroom. Nothing out of the ordinary, but this one (Sally, short and diligent) has a message for Jimmy: Howard Hamlin would like to see him, when he gets a moment. And then Sally stands there with her hands clasped before her as if expecting Jimmy to follow her right away, so he does, sharing a curious look with Burt on his way out the door.
Howard’s is the corner office on the second floor. The man himself sits behind a desk, writing something on HHM-branded letterhead. It’s the first time Jimmy has really seen Howard other than from afar, and he’s annoyed at the man’s all-American perfectness even more when it’s only a few feet in front of him.
Howard looks up at his entrance. “Jimmy!” he says cheerfully, standing up from his desk and holding out his hand. “We finally meet. I’m sorry not to have done it sooner; I’ve been snowed under with cases.”
Jimmy shakes the proffered hand.
“I’ll admit you were a surprise to learn about,” Howard says. “But Chuck’s always played things close to the chest—here, sit.” He beckons to Jimmy, and the two perch opposite each other on some uncomfortably-stylish white chairs.
Out the windows, the sky shifts to a perfect, Hamlindigo blue.
Howard crosses his right leg neatly over his left and clasps his hands together. “We have something in common,” he begins.
“We do?” Jimmy asks.
Howard inclines his head. “We do. Your brother and my father. Partners at law. Practically mythical.” He smiles. “Have you met my father yet?”
Jimmy hasn’t even seen George Hamlin. “No.”
“You will. He’s a lot like Chuck. You couldn’t find two people more passionate about the law. A word to the wise”—Howard holds up a finger—“don’t bring up constitutional law around my father unless you want to listen to an hour-long lecture on incorporation and Duncan v. Louisiana.”
“I wouldn’t know how if I wanted to,” Jimmy says, and he chuckles weakly.
Howard gives a little laugh, too. “Well, make it a few more weeks here and the law will rub off on you. I wanted to be a race-car driver until my father started bringing me into the office every weekend…”
Jimmy isn’t sure what to say, so he just nods.
“Anyway!” Howard says, shaking his head. “I thought the two relatives of the great Hamlin and McGill team should meet. How are you settling in?”
“Good,” Jimmy says. “Really good. You’ve got some great folks down there.”
“And happy to have another!” Howard says. He taps his clasped hands on his thigh. “Any problems, any questions?”
“No,” Jimmy says. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Well,” Howard says. “Good. I’m here to help.” He taps his hands again. “Don’t think of it as a dead-end job. We reward effort and merit at HHM.”
Jimmy frowns. He wonders how much Chuck told this man. He wonders if Howard knows about the sunroof. “So why a race-car driver?” he asks quickly.
“Oh, you know, what kid didn’t want to drive for Ford in the ‘60s?” Howard says easily. He leans forward in his seat. “Listen, Jimmy, I know it can be hard to settle into a new job.”
A phone rings somewhere outside. “Sure,” Jimmy says.
“And a change of city, too! That must be challenging.” Howard fixes Jimmy with an intense stare, then, when Jimmy doesn’t respond, drops his gaze. “Well. I don’t want to keep you. I’m sure they’re missing you. The mailroom waits for no man!” Howard stands, and Jimmy mirrors him. “You’ll reach out if you think of any questions?”
Jimmy nods. “Sure.”
“Great, Jimmy. As I said, we have more in common than you think. And give my best to everyone downstairs.” He steers Jimmy to the door efficiently. “Thanks for stopping by, Jimmy!”
Jimmy leaves the second-floor office, baffled. Howard's assistant gives him a polite little nod and he smiles awkwardly at her, then returns downstairs.
Jimmy watches Kim as five o’clock rolls around. He’s applying stamps to letters (with the sponge this time) and listening to Henry and Burt argue about pizza toppings. Kim’s across the mailroom photocopying something, her lips moving silently, obviously still running over her notes in her mind. He feels like he can see certain words—contracts, versus, consideration—returning again and again. When the copy machine runs out of paper, it takes her much longer than normal to notice.
So, when Ron comes down and tells them all to go home, Jimmy lingers, waiting for Kim to approach the breakroom first. She tidies up her workspace and then heads over there, and he follows. He stands in the doorway as she fishes her purse from her locker. “You’re driving to UNM now, right?” he says.
Kim looks up. “Yes. I have class in ninety minutes. I don’t really have time for a smoke, today, but—”
“No, no,” Jimmy says, and he holds up his palms. “Not that. I have a great idea.”
Kim shifts her purse to her shoulder and stands, but she raises her eyebrows at him.
“Give me a lift to my hotel,” Jimmy says.
With a laugh, Kim pushes past him and out the door. “That’s your great idea? No wonder you’re the mailroom McGill, not the law partner McGill.”
Jimmy just rolls his eyes and follows her. “No, listen. It’s the same direction. I go past UNM every day, and I know the traffic is hell right now, you could easily be sitting in it for half an hour. That’s half”—Jimmy skips to catch up with Kim, who’s stepped through into the downstairs lobby without waiting for him—“half an hour when you can’t study or look over your notes. So let me help!” He holds out his arms triumphantly.
Kim pushes the call button for the elevator then looks over at him.
Jimmy leaves his arms out, palms forward, and smiles. “I’ll quiz you, I’ll read out your terrible scrawl, whatever. And—hey, bonus!—I won’t have to sit beside an eighty-year-old woman crunching hard candies on the bus!” He fixes his smile and stops talking.
“All right, then,” Kim says, and she smiles back at him.
The elevator arrives with its musical flourish, and they step inside. “You can just drop me near UNM,” Jimmy says as he pushes the button for the parking garage. “The Ramada’s real close so I can walk. And that means maximum study time before your test.”
“It’s not a test, it’s a review,” Kim says. “And I said yes, you can drop the sales pitch.”
Jimmy chuckles. “Guess I just miss selling people.”
“You worked in sales?” Kim asks. The elevator arrives at the basement level and the doors open.
“No, not really,” Jimmy says, as they step out and cross the landing. “I mean, you know…I mean selling people.” He stops, holding the door to the garage open for Kim. “Like with Clara and Rolex Vernon last week.”
Kim meets his gaze for a moment before she steps past him.
Jimmy follows, drawing up beside her. They walk together in silence, footsteps sharp punctuation on the concrete, until they reach Kim’s car. She unlocks it and opens the passenger door, shifting a mess of notes and books over into the backseat. Her briefcase is in the footwell and she retrieves it and opens it, pulling out a sheaf of papers and handing them over to him.
“That’s the most important stuff to go over,” she says. She walks around the front of the car and over to the driver’s side, opens her door, pauses, and stares at Jimmy over the roof. “You for real on this? It’s going to be boring.”
“I’m for real,” Jimmy says. He taps the roof of the car with his palm. “Let’s get to it.”
Kim is wrong, it’s not boring. The notes he’s reading out definitely are, sure, and Jimmy mispronounces most of the Latin terms and even struggles with half of the long English words—though the barely legible scrawl isn’t much help. But his inability to read works like a quiz for Kim, who has to figure out what he means by “doctrine of promiscuous flappers” and “Waffles v. Wafflehouse”.
And yeah, the traffic is slow and sluggish, filled with angry commuters cutting each other off.
But it’s not boring. Jimmy leans back in the passenger seat and listens to Kim tap the steering wheel and hum as she thinks. When he’s not reading he looks over at her, watching the way the Albuquerque sun stripes her face as they pass buildings and trees and lampposts, striations of bright light that drift up from her chin and dissolve into her blonde hair.
When the squat buildings of the UNM campus appear before them, it feels like no time has passed at all. A traffic light turns amber and Kim shifts down through the gears and draws to a gentle stop. Jimmy finishes the sentence he’s deciphering and looks up at the decorative University of New Mexico sign across the intersection. “Anywhere’s fine,” he says. “The hotel’s about a fifteen minute walk from here.”
“The Ramada, right?” Kim asks.
“Yep,” Jimmy says.
Kim taps on the steering wheel with her forefinger, then glances down at the pile of papers on his lap. “I can drop you,” she says. The light turns green. Kim shifts gears and smiles. “Keep reading.”
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