Putting Out Fires - Patricia Spencer

Putting out fires. That’s what he said was the reason why he couldn’t talk to me when I called him at work yesterday. Ever since Sam became a mid-level supervisor at the firm, he’s changed. I remember that night when we celebrated his promotion. He insisted on Chevy’s. That’s really where he wanted to go. The Chevy’s around the corner from the building where his firm’s office lived. A couple of our friends, Maty and Russ came round and we drank several rounds of weak margaritas before Sam started in with the shots. Russ went along for the first couple and then begged off. Russ carried on like some sort of late bloomer frat boy. Me and Maty weren’t even gonna go there. Sam said all the managers at his firm did shots and he needed to build up. When we got home Sam spend nearly an hour in the bathroom throwing up. I kept my mouth shut. It was his special night after all.

Sam wasn’t always like this. He used to work as a lawyer for the Earthjustice up in Montana, but some stuff happened and he doesn’t do that anymore. He spent about a year in the hospital and then we moved here to San Francisco. He eventually found a job at a small downtown commercial litigation firm as an administrative assistant. Not exactly his dream job, but the economy isn’t like it was a few years ago.