The Interview

The email instructed Joe to meet Mr. Klein at the catamaran beach in Ventnor. He was asked to dress casually and, specifically, to wear swim trunks. He would find the site nine blocks south of Atlantic City, just past the lifeguard headquarters. They helpfully suggested parking in the lot next to the tennis courts.

Joe was 27, tall and lanky, with dark brown hair parted to the side. It was chilly for mid-September because of the weather, which is why he wore his hiking raincoat. His Ford Escort beeped when he locked it.

As he crested the ramp onto the Brazilian cherry oak boardwalk, he saw the masts poking above the dunes about a block away. The boardwalk was gray from weathering, but solid. It clattered loudly as a bike pedaled past. The rider clanged her bell at the last second, forcing Joe to leap sideways.

“Out of the way, Shoobie,” yelled the rider, her voice muffled in the heavy wind.

Joe watched the bicycle disappear into the light rain and fog. He looked both ways, pulled his hood tighter and walked briskly toward the beach entrance. He took his time on the slick stairs, using the railing. His flip flops squished into the damp sand leaving deep footprints. Each step caused his leg to turn a little outward before he could press forward. The tang of salt air hung in the air. It brought back memories of summers spent at his grandfather’s house in Cape May.

A line of catamarans were parked in a neat row near the dunes. Beside them David Klein was waving at him. He was 63 years old, short, powerfully built, a little overweight and had thinning hair dyed black.

They shook hands. Klein smiled and said, “You must be Joe Siwinski. Thanks for meeting me here. I know it’s a bit unconventional to interview on a beach, but I feel I can really get to know someone this way.” He had to yell to be heard over the gusting wind and crashing surf.

“Don’t worry about this rain, it’ll slow down soon.” He opened a wooden cabinet sitting behind the boats. It was hard up against the dunes with the back edge buried. Dark green dune grass was draped across the top of the cabinet. It had grown tall over the summer and was now bent with heaviness.

“Want a beer,” Klein asked. Joe could see a cooler with five unopened bottles and one empty. Klein popped the lid using an opener built into the side of the cooler.

Joe smiled and shook his head.

Klein closed the cabinet and leaned against the side. “So, why did you become a lawyer?”

Joe wiped the rain from his face and said, “When I was a kid my Uncle Scotty got into a car accident. He lived in a rural town a few hours outside Philly. A deer jumped in front of him, he swerved and hit a parked car. There was no one around, so he wrote a note and placed it under the windshield wiper, and then he drove home.”

Klein took a swig and nodded.

“Next day my Uncle Scotty was in the police station. He had no idea what to do when the owner pressed charges. He was a car mechanic, he owned a little shop, and he loved what he did. But he didn’t know anything about the law. One thing led to another, and he ended up in court with a worthless public defender. The prosecutor destroyed him and the judge threw the book at my uncle. He was hit with a huge fine and lost his license for two years.”

Klein looked at his watch and nodded again.

“Well, without a car he couldn’t get to work. So, he lost his auto shop. Then he tried day labor to make ends meet, hurt his back and started taking pain pills. Long story, short, he died of an overdose five years after the accident. Every time someone brings up Uncle Scotty my dad mentions the “lousy lawyer” that got him killed. That had a huge impact on me.”

Klein stared at him for a few seconds. “Yeah, sad story, kid, but we’re corporate lawyers not public defenders, so why the hell are you here?”

Joe’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, um, once I got to law school I fell in love with corporate law. I like business and problem solving and making deals. And to be honest, the money’s a lot better.”

Klein smiled, “Good answer.” He finished off his beer and placed the empty into the cooler. “So, Siwinski, you remind me of a client. He went into a store and ordered a Polish sausage sandwich. The clerk looked at him funny and asked him if he was Polish. My client was offended, in part because he was Polish and in part because it’s weird. He said to the clerk, “If I ordered French toast would you ask me if I was French? Or, if I ordered a Belgium waffle would you ask me if I was Belgium?” The clerk just stared at him. So, he said, “Listen, why on earth would you ask me if I was Polish?” The clerk said, “Well, first of all this is a hardware store.” Klein held a blank look on his face for a second and burst out laughing.

Joe glanced down and said, “A Polish joke. Good one. I haven’t heard that before.”

“Relax,” said Klein. “I’m just messing with you. I heard that one online. But listen, let’s get this thing rigged so we can do a little sailing.”

Joe looked out at the thundering surf. He said, “I’m not sure if you’re joking but there’s a hurricane out there.”

Klein pulled two wet suit shirts from the cabinet and said, “No, this is just a storm swell. The hurricane won’t get further north than Cape Hatteras. I’ve done this hundreds of times, so don’t worry. Big surf like this just makes it more fun.” He handed Joe the larger of the two wet suits, “Take off your raincoat and shirt, and put everything in the wooden cabinet. Don’t forget to leave your keys, wallet, phone and anything else you’re carrying.”

Klein took off his polo shirt. His chest was covered in a carpet of curly white hair. He wore a thick gold necklace with a large crucifix.

Joe said, “What’s with the crucifix? Is that some kind of ironic joke?”

Klein looked up and smiled. “Nah, I’m Catholic. My great grandfather emigrated from Germany around the turn of the century. I never say I’m Jewish, but I don’t discourage the idea, either. As you know our firm’s name is Klein and Klein, and of course Saul is Jewish. Many of our clients, let’s just say, prefer a Jewish lawyer. You know how it is.”

Klein was struggling into his wet suit, which is why he didn’t see the look on Joe’s face. Joe clenched his teeth and put on the wet suit.

They used a cart with oversized inflatable tires to wheel the catamaran down to the water’s edge. The rain had finally let up, but the wind blew relentlessly. They had to yell when speaking.

“Have you sailed on a catamaran before,” asked Klein.

Joe shook his head.

“Don’t worry, I’ll do all the hard stuff. Mostly you’re here for ballast. Put on this life preserver.” He rigid the sails and the rest of the boat with practiced ease. Joe watched Klein’s hands which were tan and leathery and heavily calloused. As Klein screwed together an eye lock for the rudder a gust of wind shook his hand. The nut dropped into the sand. “Grab that for me, Joe,” he yelled. Joe picked it up and cleaned it in the frothy water at his feet.

Once the boat was rigged, Klein told Joe to climb onto the trampoline and lie flat at the front. The trampoline was made of thick nylon. It was light blue and faded, but sturdy. Klein then pushed the boat into the water directly into the eye of the wind. The pontoons pierced the oncoming waves like skis through powdered snow. The first wave doused Joe with freezing water. He closed his eyes firmly to fight an ice cream headache. A thin layer of cold water filled his wet suit.

Klein deftly leapt into the back of the boat, engaged the rudder and grabbed the mainsheet. “Get back here now, Joe,” he yelled.

Joe crab crawled back and sat next to Klein on the left pontoon. “Tuck your feet under those straps in the trampoline. If we’re hit with a rogue wave, they’ll keep you on the boat.”

The wind gusted up to thirty miles per hour and was coming onshore from the northeast. With a slight pull on the rudder the wind filled the mainsail and the jib, and the boat rocketed away from the beach. The acceleration was intoxicating. Smiling, Klein yelled, “Not bad, huh, kid?”

Joe squinted against the wind, held tightly to the edge of the trampoline and nodded.

In a few seconds they entered the big surf. The boat tilted backward as they went up the steep wave and tilted forward as they dropped down the face. They entered a trough at the bottom of the second wave. The trough blocked the wind and the near silence was eerie. Joe noticed a dolphin racing beside the boat, just under the surface. Its powerful undulating body kept pace easily.

As they crested the next wave the full force of wind returned. Drops of rain, driven by the wind, pelted Joe’s face painfully, so he tucked his chin to his chest. Klein yelled something but Joe couldn’t quite hear. “I said we’ve got a problem. The rudder isn’t working.”

Joe stared at him dumbly. He felt a tight burning in his gut.

“Listen, I think I can get the boat to turn that way (pointing right). If so, we’ll aim for Margate and hope we hit the beach. Hold on, and crawl to the other side when I tell you. Be careful you don’t get hit by the boom.”

They crested the next wave. As the pontoons pointed toward the ocean floor, Klein pulled hard on the rudder. It popped sideways. The boat stood still for an agonizing couple seconds then slowly rotated. “Go!”

Joe crawled across the trampoline as the boom swung wildly from right to left. It banged into place on the opposite side as the sails filled.

“Tuck up closer, kid. Even closer! That’s good. Now keep your fingers crossed,” yelled Klein.

The boat rode the wave like a surfboard. Joe leaned forward fighting the strong winds. Soon the dull vagueness of land came into focus. As the beach approached Klein waved his free hand vigorously to warn a man walking his dog. The man jogged down beach to avoid being run over.

They blasted through the shallow water and then rocketed onto the beach. “Quick,” yelled Klein as he jumped off, “get behind the other pontoon and help me get this up near the dunes.” Together they pushed it up the beach, their feet making heavy prints in the sand while the pontoons left smooth, deep ruts.

Joe’s legs were shaking by the time they secured the boat on high ground. Klein immediately pulled down the sails and untied the rigging.

When he finished they sat side by side on a pontoon. Klein said, “Well, kid, you kept a cool head out there.”

Joe, still breathing heavily, said, “That was a wild ride.”

Klein patted Joe on the knee. “I’ll admit that was a little dicey. It’s kind of funny, in a way. Not sure what we would’ve done if the boat didn’t turn. Probably the Coast Guard would’ve found us eventually. Anyway, I’ll walk you back to the catamarans so you can pick up your stuff.”

“What about the boat?”

“I’ll get my trailer and haul it back. It’s off-season, so I can drive on the beach. Besides, I know the cops around here.”

“And that was it. He walked me back to my car,” said Joe to his wife, Mandy, as they drove back to Philadelphia on the A.C. Expressway.

Mandy had listened quietly to the whole story. “He actually said that thing about Jewish lawyers?”

“Yup.”

She shook her head in disgust. “Did you tell him I’m Jewish?”

“No,” he said. “I kind of froze.”

“Okay, I guess. I feel like you should’ve said something, but I get it.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“How does he get away with saying stuff like that,” asked Mandy.

Joe pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to her.

“What’s this?”

“The offer,’ he said.

She opened it and read quickly. It was a single page with two short paragraphs and a bunch of numbers.

“Is this for real?” she asked.

“Think so, yeah,” said Joe.

“They’re offering $250,000 to start.”

Joe nodded.

“And a chance to make $1,000,000 a year as a partner?”

Joe nodded again, “Yup, a million bucks a year, or more with bonuses.”

Mandy stared out of the front windshield unable to talk. Inside the car, time slowed. Outside the car the road was a gray blur. The pitter patter of rain on the roof steadily strengthened into a downpour. They sat in silence for a while.

“You’re acting weird,” said Mandy. “You’re not seriously thinking about taking the job, are you?”

Joe paused and said, “I mean, it’s a lot of money.”

“Who cares? That guy was a five star creep. You work with someone like that and you’ll need to shower when you get home. Come on, we can do better than this.”

Joe said, “Well, you know I’ve always wanted to live by the shore.”

“Stop it. You’re making stuff up now. When have you ever said you wanted to live by the shore?”

“Um,” said Joe, “I don’t know when I might’ve said it, but it’s true, all the same. Look, I’m taking the job.”

Mandy stared at him, shook her head slowly and said, “I don’t know if I can do this, Joe. The schools are terrible, we’ll be far from Philly, I mean, it’s such a small town.”

Joe looked down, over at Mandy and back at the road. His voice was strange. “When I was twelve, I got home from baseball practice and my mom was crying. She sat at the dining room table doing the bills. This was right after she divorced Blake. She looked at me and said, “What am I going to do?” She had this feral desperate look, you know, and there was nothing I could say. I just sat there and cried.” He shook his head slowly. “You have to understand, I’m not going to be poor.”

“Don’t give me that poor mouth crap. You’ve got other offers. We don’t have to do this.”

 “I’m sorry, but I do. Besides, as I said, I’ve always wanted to live at the shore.” He reached out and turned on the radio. “What station should we listen to?”

Mandy crossed her arms and said, “I don’t care. Do whatever you want.”