Ahhhhhhhhhhh. I sat up in my bed. Sweat poured down my face. My heart pounded in my chest so loudly, my ears hurt. I looked around. It was 2:04 a.m. ‘I’M ALIVE,’ I shouted.
It was just a nightmare. That’s all it was—nothing but a nightmare.
‘John Peterson with an o,’ boomed the same voice from the nightmare. ‘What you experienced was real. This is just one possible scenario of what your future will look like when you pass on from your physical being. It could be viewed as a nightmare if you continue your life as business as usual. You have thirty years left to practice law, to do good, to make up for the first twenty years you spent amongst the slime of the earth, getting those wretched people off when they should have been put in jail. You get my drift?’
‘But I work in the most prestigious law firm in New York. Everyone is doing it. Why pick on me?’
‘I’m not picking on you. I’m giving you a choice. When I created man, I gave him free will, so here are your choice: You can continue to practice law with the top law firm in New York, live a lavish lifestyle, and all that comes with it: the penthouse, the partnership, the Mercedes Benz, or you can make a change now to better yourself and help humanity.’
‘Why do you care about me?’
‘I care about all my children.’
‘What can one lawyer do?’
‘You’d be surprised. I’m not forcing you to do anything. Live your life. Have a good time now, but in thirty years you’ll be back to stand before me in judgment. I gave you a preview, but you don’t have to believe it.’
I swung my feet over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment.
‘Lord?’
No answer.
‘Lord, are you still there?’
No answer.
I looked again at the clock at 2:10 a.m. I didn’t have to get up for another four hours.
I decided to go back to bed. I was tired. I must have fallen asleep because I awoke to the sound of my alarm at 6:15 a.m.
I got up, showered, dressed in my best three-piece suit, and went down to the diner on 9th Street. Picking up The N.Y. Times, I sat down, and had my usual black coffee and rye toast. I thought some about the ‘dream’ and the imaginary conversation with God. If I told this to anyone, I’d be hauled off to Bellevue and put on a 72 hour psychiatric hold. After I win the Newman case, I’ll be made a full partner, something I have been wanting for five years.
I drove to the firm and parked in the spot with my name on it. I left my car, briefcase in hand, and took the elevator to the 37th floor. I walked into my office and looked out my window. What a view! Did I really sell my soul to the Devil for this position and all the perks I have? No! I worked hard and earned it. I must have had a nightmare. To think God would talk to me and warn me that if I didn’t change my ways, I would go to Hell? Me, John Peterson. I’ve got the world by the tail. I can’t give this up. No way.
Buzz.
‘Come in.’
My efficient and beautiful secretary entered my office. She had long flowing blonde hair, blue eyes, and a gorgeous figure.
‘Mr. Peterson, your meeting with the partners regarding the Newman case starts in five minutes.
‘Thank you.’
I turned around and stared out the window again. I’m going to make partner and who knows what other great things await me working here at the firm.
Buzz.
‘Come in.’
‘Mr. Peterson, the partners are waiting.’
‘I’m on my way.’
I grabbed my briefcase, walked down the hall, and entered the conference room. All the partners were there. They were anxious to know how I was going to proceed on the Newman case: the biggest case this firm has defended in their forty-two years in business.
‘So, John what is your brilliant strategy to win the Newman case?’ said George Pratt, one of the founding partners.
‘Gentlemen, I’m sorry to have to tell you this but I’m resigning my position effective immediately. I’ll have my secretary type up a formal letter of resignation. Here are the keys to the Mercedes.’ I dropped them on the table.
‘John, why? You’re our number one criminal litigation attorney. After this case, we’re making you a partner. If it’s more money you want, there’ll be a substantial raise with the promotion.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Pratt, but it’s nothing like that. I just can’t do this anymore.’
I walked out of the conference room, through the glass doors to the elevator, and to the street.’
I knew what I wanted to do but had no idea how to get there. I walked over to an elderly woman at the bus stop and asked her some questions on how to use the bus. I didn’t even know how much it cost. The lady was kind enough to explain the fare, how to pull the cord, and read the bus schedules. I thanked her for her kindness. I asked her how do I get to Harlem?
‘That’s not a good area, Mister. Even the cabs don’t go there.’
‘But I need to get there. Will you tell me how?’
She wrote down the streets and the three buses I needed to take. I thanked her and she wished me good luck. Yeah, luck. I was wished that recently, right before I had my audience with the Almighty.
It took me over two hours, but I found a place that needed me. Maybe this was the place God wanted me to be at. I walked in and asked to speak to the person in charge. The receptionist walked to the back of the small office. Six people worked in cramped spaces with partitions set up to give each lawyer some privacy to do paperwork or meet with clients. Paint was peeling off the wall. The carpet was threadbare. A nice-looking African-American woman appeared, apparently surprised that a Caucasian man in a three-piece suit stood at the reception desk.
‘Hello, I’m Imani. I was told you wanted to talk to someone in charge.’ She put her hand out to shake mine.
I extended my hand. ‘Yes, I do. I need a job. I would like to work for your organization. I don’t have my resume with me, but I worked for Pratt, Johnstone, and Regal for twenty years.’
‘Sit down, Mr….’
‘Call me John.’
‘Nice to meet you, John.’
Following a brief interview, I was hired. I now work at Legal Aid.
About the author
Since becoming disabled in 2015, Maxine took up her passion for writing. She has been published several times in the Los Angeles Daily News, The Epoch Times, Nail Polish Stories, DarkWinterLit, BrightFlashLiteraryReview, OtherwiseEngagedLit, CafeLit, Maudlin House, and TheMetaworker.com.
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