Free Love Story by Erich Segal Page B

good
piece.’
    That’s all Joel Fleishman, the
senior editor, could repeat again and again. Frankly, I had expected
a more articulate compliment from the guy who would next year clerk
for Justice Douglas, but that’s all he kept saying as he checked
over my final draft. Christ, Jenny had told me it was ‘incisive,
intelligent and really well written.’ Couldn’t Fleishman match
that?
    ‘Fleishman called it a good piece,
Jen.’
    ‘Jesus, did I wait up so late just
to hear that?’ she said. ‘Didn’t he comment on your research,
or your style, or anything?’
    ‘No, Jen. He just called it ‘good.”
    ‘Then what took you all this long?’
    I gave her a little wink.
    ‘I had some stuff to go over with
Bella Landau,’ I said.
    ‘Oh?’ she said.
    I couldn’t read the tone.
    ‘Are you jealous?’ I asked
straight out.
    ‘No; I’ve got much better legs,’
she said.
    ‘Can you write a brief?’
    ‘Can she make lasagna?’
    ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Matter of
fact, she brought some over to Gannett House tonight. Everybody said
they were as good as your legs.’
    Jenny nodded, ‘I’ll bet.’
    ‘What do you say to that?’ I
said.
    ‘Does Bella Landau pay your rent?’
she asked.
    ‘Damn,’ I replied, ‘why can’t
I ever quit when I’m ahead?’
    ‘Because, Preppie,’ said my
loving wife, ‘you never are.’

15
    We
finished in that order.

    I mean, Erwin, Bella and myself were
the top three in the Law School graduating class. The time for
triumph was at hand. Job interviews. Offers. Pleas. Snow jobs.
Everywhere I turned somebody seemed to be waving a flag that read:
‘Work for us, Barrett!’

    But I followed only the green flags.
I mean, I wasn’t totally crass, but I eliminated the prestige
alternatives, like clerking for a judge, and the public service
alternatives, like Department of Justice, in favor of a lucrative job
that would get the dirty word ‘scrounge’ out of our goddamn
vocabulary.
    Third though I was, I enjoyed one
inestimable advantage in competing for the best legal spots. I was
the only guy in the top ten who wasn’t Jewish. (And anyone who says
it doesn’t matter is full of it.) Christ, there are dozens of firms
who will kiss the ass of a WASP who can merely pass the bar. Consider
the case of yours truly: Law Review, All-Ivy, Harvard and you know
what else. Hordes of people were fighting to get my name and numeral
onto their stationery. I felt like a bonus baby - and I loved every
minute of it.
    There was one especially intriguing
offer from a firm in Los Angeles. The recruiter, Mr. - (why risk a
lawsuit?), kept telling me: ‘Barrett baby, in our territory we get
it all the time. Day and night. I mean, we can even have it sent up
to the office!’
    Not that we were interested in
California, but I’d still like to know precisely what Mr. - was
discussing.
    Jenny and I came up with some pretty
wild possibilities, but for L.A. they probably weren’t wild enough.
(I finally had to get Mr. - off my back by telling him that I really
didn’t care for ‘it’ at all. He was crestfallen.) Actually, we
had made up our minds to stay on the East Coast. As it turned out, we
still had dozens of fantastic offers from Boston, New York and
Washington. Jenny at one time thought D.C. might be good (‘You
could check out the White House, Ol’), but I leaned toward New
York. And so, with my wife’s blessing, I finally said yes to the
firm of Jonas and Marsh, a prestigious office (Marsh was a former
Attorney General) that was very civil-liberties oriented (‘You can
do good and make good at once,’ said Jenny). Also, they really
snowed me. I mean, old man Jonas came up to Boston, took us to dinner
at Pier Four and sent Jenny flowers the next day.
    Jenny went around for a week sort of
singing a jingle that went ‘Jonas, Marsh and Barrett.’ I told her
not so fast and she told me to go screw because I was probably
singing the same tune in my head. I don’t have to tell you she