The job market was decidedly shitty, so he really should have been grateful for his old job. However boring his former occupation was, working in his home state wasn't bad. Clerking for the local trial court was anything but exciting, but provided a form of stable income and a decent break room. As ironic as it was, and despite his politics, Tom always imagined himself having some form of real importance with his job. Yes, sure, he could edit a brief well enough, but he wasn't the judge determining the intricacies of a contract and its legality. He just gathered references for court opinions and made it sound better. It was work made more for an English student. While this wasn't a grandiose job itself, being a local judge made a difference. As much as being the clerk was grueling and generally unpleasant, since judges are forbidden to behave politically (at least, they're supposed to be impartial in regards to politics) and behaving politically was his life, he at least got to keep his political affiliation and allow it to be known in the public realm. Though Massachusetts had become a hotbed of debate thanks to the framework of the state's healthcare system becoming a nationalized issue, he had really had quite enough of local politics. Tom longed for national and international crises to write about, or speak about, or maybe even mediate, one day. And as much as he loved Quincy, he desperately needed to leave. So when the first opportunity in Washington came along, he took it.

The mid-afternoon sun shone on the small building, painted a pastel yellow color, with white, regal second empire windows that almost looked surprised to see you. Two garden boxes, filled with bougainvillea this time of year, hung from the lowermost windows. Underneath the rightmost one was a little gold post slot, emblazed with the golden numbers 2532 above it in almost cursive style letters. Crawley & Strallan, LLC was written on the door with letters in a font to match the numbers. Tom sat inside. It was all very groomed, this part of the city. Watching the well-dressed locals stroll by-some with dogs, some with newspapers, some with cell phones- in the D.C. suburb, Tom felt more and more nervous, and, if anything, unfashionable. It was late summer, if you can call the beginning of August late. Amongst the Brooks Brother's ties and Armani suits, he looked drab in his hand-me-down sport coat with worn elbow patches. His dark green wool tie was uncomfortably hot (Washington summers were not underestimated) adding to the already blooming sweat on his brow. He stared at his knees and smoothed his pants. "Easy now," he thought to himself. "Plane tickets are expensive."

"Planning to stay, are we?"

Tom glanced up at the voice. Shit, of course he had spoken aloud. A terrible habit. "If all goes well sir, I certainly would like to, if possible, if Mr. Crawley will have me, sir."

The man's face remained stoic. He was old and solid, with a suspicious expression, emphasized by his thick eyebrows, which seemed to have migrated from his thinning hair, and was rifling through a library kept on the wall across from the entrance. Neatly arranged, leather bound books filled the wall, the only exception being the two doors on either end of the wall. Some of the copies looked so aged, they could be from the time Washington was a few tobacco fields and a swamp. "I should certainly hope he makes up his mind soon. Mr. Crawley is rather selective, which I applaud. But, if he must keep delaying the inevitable, caution for the right person will be overshadowed by the need to have anyone at all. I would like whomever he settles on to have the right credentials, but to find him post haste." Through his heavy brows, he looked down at Tom. "If you fit this description, I wish you luck."

Tom smiled, albeit awkwardly. "Thank you, erm-…?"

"You may address me as Mr. Carson," was all the reply he received.

"Thank you, then, Mr. Carson."

"Don't take it as a compliment. You're not hired yet."

Tom sighed deeply. Class seemed so much more overt here than up north.

The leftmost door opened, and another man poked his head through. "Mr. Carson, Mr. Crawley would like a word."

Mr. Carson placed a book he was examining back on the shelf. Using his cane, the other man pushed open the rest of the door, and stepped aside, allowing Mr. Carson entry. All Tom could see of the room was a striped green wallpaper, an aging lamp, and a wooden desk, all set before another door. After he had passed through, the man with the cane limped a few steps into the front room. "You are Mr. Branson, I presume? We've been expecting you. You haven't been waiting too long, have you?"

"No, sir, I arrived early, all my fault. I wanted to be punctual." Tom answered, suddenly much more aware of his heavy accent and his sweating palms.

The man smiled. "No harm in that, though too early is also a crime. I'm Mr. Crawley's clerk," he paused. "Most people call me Mr. Bates."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bates," Tom answered, and extended his hand. He quickly noticed he would be receiving the hand which held his cane, and changed it. Mr. Bates smiled, and took it. "It's a pleasure."

"Good to meet you too, Mr. Branson."

"You may call me Tom, if you'd like."

"No need for informalities yet."

The grandfather clock in the corner struck three. Tom had spent about an hour waiting, if you count being ready but pacing around the area for forty five minutes to calm his nerves, followed by waiting in the actual building for fifteen.

"Well," Mr. Bates began, after a moment of silence. "Your appointment is now, though Mr. Carson is usually the one to bring in the prospectives."

"I can wait, if that is how it is done."

As if called, Mr. Carson strolled through the open door, and stood in front of the two men. "Mr. Branson, Mr. Crawley is waiting."

Mr. Bates returned to his desk, and led by Mr. Carson, Tom headed through the next room, the first door shutting behind them, to Mr. Crawley's door, behind Mr. Bates's desk. The room was small and pleasant, the closed doors, while uninviting, were not too horrid, as the two windows in the room made it feel spacious. Mr. Carson announced that "Mr. Branson" was present and awaiting permission to enter. Mr. Branson twisted the handle of his old brown leather bag. While Tom wasn't fashionable like these people, he had matched the bag to his shoes and his elbow patches. He looked rather put together for a penniless graduate.

"Well, come on in, then," was the call from the other side of the door. Mr. Carson pushed it open.

Mr. Crawley sat, in his large leather chair, behind an unfurled copy of the Post's Metro section. "Carson, did you hear about the wine tasting in Alexandria?"

"I did, sir. Does it interest you? I know you've been asking for another few vintages."

Mr. Crawley put down his paper, which covered his desk calendar, and stood up. He wasn't much older, if he was, than Mr. Bates, handsome but graying. A few lines showed his wisdom on his mouth and eyes. "Yes, yes, I'll discuss this with you after the meeting. Maybe you can look into new decanting accessories there."

Mr. Carson smiled proudly. "Certainly, sir. Shall I polish the clock in the meantime?"

Mr. Crawley gave a half smile. "Well, wouldn't want you twiddling your thumbs, now, would we?"

With that, Mr. Carson left, and closed the door. Tom and Mr. Crawley were left in silence.

Mr. Crawley, who was still standing, looked down at Tom.

"Hello, Mr. Branson. Welcome."

Tom stood up and extended his hand. "Hello, sir, it's an honor and a pleasure." Mr. Crawley took it.

"Well, my boy," replied Mr. Crawley, "I hope you feel the same after we're done here."

Tom seated himself again, on one of the plush leather chairs seated in Mr. Crawley's office. It was notably smaller than the throne of a desk chair Mr. Crawley himself sat in. He loved Psychology books, and surmised it was probably done to show his power. It worked. His desk was made of dark, regal cherry, his lamp undoubtedly heirloom and customized gold fountain pens were strewn across fine stationary. This was it, Tom thought. This was the 1%.

"So, Harvard, eh?" Mr. Crawley began.

"Yessir. All seven years."

"I can certainly hear it in you."

Tom smiled. "Born and bred northerner, sir."

"Where exactly did you work again, during your last clerkship?"

"The Land Court Department in Boston."

"What exactly did you deal with?"

"Contractual stuff, mostly. Lot of property title dealings."

"Mmm." Mr. Crawley paused. "Have you ever done any work with inheritance, and wills, and the like, and all entailing their involvement?"

Tom smiled. "Of course. All the usual stuff. I did a lot of studying of property rights in college." He kept from mentioning his focus was in public ownership. He had a feeling that Mr. Crawley cared much more for the private. More contentious in court.

"Well, good. Why did you want to leave Massachusetts? Boston is bustling, isn't it?" He leaned forward, folding his hands together, elbows just off the table. Southern manners.

Tom smiled. He had never gotten the hang of interviews. What was witty, and what was caustic and off-putting? What was respectful, and what was groveling?
"It is, sir, but my job was rather boring, so to speak. I love Boston, it was the busywork I didn't like. And what with so much attention being paid to it this election season, Massachusetts is a little too contentious for me. Boston had its time as a political epicenter, and in a lot of ways it still is, but it's not as fitting anymore. I want to be around political upheaval, I should go to the heart, right?"

"I like that way of thinking. Go to where the action is. Find the intricacies. Learn the details. It works out very well if you're a student of law. There are loopholes in everything." Mr. Crawley smiled. "I suppose no one ever finishes being a student, do they?"

"No, I suppose not," Tom replied. "Speaking of, do you suppose I could take a look at your bookshelf sometime? The one out front?"

"The ones lining the walls you will get to know very well, if you want to pass the Bar here. "

"Not those- the works of literature and science and all. Any about?"

"Not really, though the public library isn't far."

"I'd love to hear about the history of D.C. I'm afraid my memory is a bit rusty on American history. I hope, if I do come to stay, I'll learn more about it."

Mr. Crawley pulled back, settling into his chair. "Well, good. You should plan on it. Your recommendation was outstanding and your work product, as boring as you felt it was, meets our standard. You'll mostly be doing bookkeeping, and proofreading, but I'm sure you'll work your way up." Pushing himself out of his chair, Mr. Crawley stood before Tom, and extended his arm, looking as regal as his gilded fountain pen. "Welcome to Crawley and Strallan. You'll start Monday."

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