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drawings. Closing the door, I fantasize that this is a real office, my office. The place is a mess, but I could clean it, maybe add a potted plant to make myself look settled.
    But before my butt can even warm the chair, Jordan shoves open the door with his foot, barks new orders at me, scowls, then flies off. This crazy pattern continues for hours. I leave the door open to avoid having black scuffmarks mar the door. Obviously this is never going to be my office, it’s just an extension of his.
    When lunchtime rolls around, a Greek salad appears on my desk with my name scrawled on it. I would have preferred a Jewish deli platter, but hey, someone thought enough of me to realize I eat and ordered me something. Maybe I’m moving out of the professional basement. Nope. Jordan comes back and barks more orders.
    Finally it’s 6:00 p.m. and it’s time to leave for the presentation. The staff is gone and only Jordan and I remain. I poke my head into his office and see him frantically scratching away on a legal pad. He’s obviously panicking. And here I thought panic only happened to me.
    “Jordan,” I say gently. “We really have to go.”
    “Can’t. A new component of the buildings’ specs just came in, and I need to make sure I address them. So here’s what we do—you go and stall the P & Z Board.”
    “Umm. And how would I do that?”
    “By using better communication skills than you’re using right now.”
    “I’m serious. How am I supposed to stall a government board?”
    “When they call our matter, don’t waive any rights. That will force them to read into the record all the metes and bounds of the parcel. That will take them about an hour.”
    “But won’t that aggravate them?” I ask incredulously. From the very little I know about this field, most lawyers waive this formality because having the boundary lines read into the record is an enormous waste of time. The P & Z Board will either think we’re crazy or that we’re stalling. Either way they’ll be right.
    “Yes, it will,” he agrees flatly, going back to his work. I gather he’s done with this discussion. I put the box of materials on an office trolley cart and wheel it down to my car.
    I pay no attention to the road because now I’m in a panic, too. I do manage to pay attention to my heart banging away inside my chest, threatening to bust out of my body. Luckily, a part of my brain must be able to navigate to this place automatically because somehow I make it to Canton, despite the tremendous traffic.
    Driving around the parking lot twice, I finally settle for the only free spot, partially over-taken by two mini-vans. After two aborted attempts, I manage to successfully slide the Volvo in. Opening my door a hair’s breadth almost dents the left mini-van. I scrunch out of the car. Hustling to the back of the car, I grab the box out of the trunk and balance it on my hip while jogging into town hall. The materials slosh around. I pray they don’t fall out.
    Once in town hall, I quickly go to the hearing room. The dual swinging doors are banged open by my box. The room is huge and packed with people. Angry people. One side of the room has tall, formal looking chairs with placards on a large semi-circular table that identifies the names of the P & Z members. The table also holds a projector.
    Because of the traffic, I’m right on time for the clerk’s reading of the agenda. So much for being early like I’d planned. Glancing down at my copy, I see our matter is number eight on the list. I’m hopeful that the agenda will move so slowly that I don’t have to try to stall.
    An hour and half later, it’s almost time for item number eight.
    Jordan should have been here half an hour ago. Maybe I can get one of Grovas & Cleval’s criminal attorneys to represent me when I kill him.
    I am jolted from my dream of justifiable homicide when our agenda item is called. I jump up and shout “Here!” Silence falls. Everyone looks at me. Was I not