Page 15 of Bad Summer People
9Sam Weinstein
Sam Weinstein was not a sexual harasser. He was a good person. Sure, he liked to flirt with his coworkers. Who didn’t like to flirt with women in the office? He’d done it his whole career. Womenlovedhim. That wasn’t his fault. Shit, everybody loved him. So, when HR had contacted him, all official, and said they needed to speak to him about a private matter, he assumed that maybe someone in his group was stealing. Or that perhaps he’d have to cut some heads in the wake of soft revenue. Instead, he’d been pulled into Mary Martin’s office, where she and Henry Boro, the managing partner of the entire firm, delivered the shock of his life.
“Sam, there’s no easy way to tell you this,” Mary had said. She was middle-aged, with a no-nonsense gray bun. “Lydia Gross has informed HR that you forced her to kiss you in your office on April 12. We wouldn’t normally tell you details about the complaint, especially her name, but because this is so specific, and we’re launching an investigation, we’re sharing info now.”
Sam’s stomach dropped. Lydia? He’d never kissed Lydia.
“As of now, she’s not filing criminal charges; she’s asked that the firm handle it as an internal matter. So, we’ll be assigning an investigator, who’ll be in touch. In the meantime, you can continue working—and we won’t be informing your clients of the matter—but know that if it escalates, you’ll be put on leave.”
An investigator? On leave? This was too much for Sam to take in at once. Henry had cleared his throat awkwardly. He rarely came to theoffice anymore and was probably annoyed that this had interfered with that day’s golf game.
“Listen, Sam,” said Henry, “this is serious.” Henry was in a crisp white button-down and slacks, his white hair combed back on his tan head. “We’re all lawyers here; we know what this could mean for the firm and for you—”
Sam felt a slick of sweat forming in his armpits. He interrupted him. “Henry, Mary, I didn’t do this. I’ve never even touched Lydia. She’s lying. She’s lying! If anything, I think she’s mad that Iwouldn’tkiss her.”
Henry and Mary both looked at the floor. Sam knew he sounded desperate, but he was telling the truth.
The story was this, the gist of which he passed on to Henry and Mary: Lydia was a first-year associate, an ambitious young lawyer who’d risen at the firm accordingly. She’d wanted to join Sam’s litigation team, so he’d given her the opportunity to work on a few cases with them, and she’d impressed him. It didn’t hurt that she was attractive. Sam was a butt and boob guy—with the notable exception of his wife, Jen, who had neither—and Lydia was just that. She wore tight pencil skirts and low-cut blouses, to the point that the other male lawyers on their team gave her the nickname “Lydia-tits-a-lot.” (Sam didn’t participate in their locker room chat, as he was the boss, but more so because he didn’t think it was a particularly clever name.) But he certainly noticed and appreciated Lydia’s looks. She was hot in that way that the younger generation was—a little too done, with puffy, possibly injected lips and eyelashes that went on for ages.
One night, after a closing dinner at the Polo Bar, they’d all gone out for drinks at Bill’s Burgers. Everyone had gotten sloshed, including Sam, which he admitted sheepishly to a disapproving Mary. Sam needed to stop at the office to grab some files before taking a car back to Scarsdale, so he’d peeled off before everyone else to do so. There were probably about six others there, including Lydia, and he’d said his goodbyes and stumbled to his twelfth-floor office at Sullivan & Cromwell’s headquarters at 535 Madison. As he was gathering his stuff, the Uber to Westchester waiting outside, Lydia appeared at his door. It was late—probably around11:30—and Sam hadn’t seen anyone else around as he’d entered. She walked in and shut his door, leaning on the wall in a come-hither manner.
“Lydia! Hi! Did you need to get something?” Sam had purposefully stayed across the room from her. Sure, he’d been tempted to cheat on Jen over the years—there was that woman he met in a bar in London during a business trip, another at a legal conference in Miami—but in the end, he’d always resisted. As a young, good-looking guy, he’d been with plenty of women before meeting Jen. Why take the chance of messing up his marriage? His worst nightmare was ending up like his parents. Granted, he liked to surround himself with pretty women at work, and he liked to joke with them, but it was all aboveboard. He didn’t fuck any of them.
“I came here for you,” she’d said, slurring somewhat. She started to unbutton her white silk blouse.
Sam didn’t move. “Lydia, I don’t think this is a good idea,” he’d said, as measured as possible. “You’re a beautiful girl, but I’m your boss, and I’m married.”
Her top was completely open, exposing a black lace bra and very perky young breasts. It was almost too much for Sam to handle, and for a moment he’d thought,Maybe?(He didn’t mention this in the retelling.) But then she’d turned and run out before Sam could say anything else. His Uber was still waiting, so he went home to Scarsdale, alone, bracing for Monday’s awkward team meeting.
The next week was brutal. Lydia couldn’t look Sam in the eye and avoided him as much as possible. Plus—and Sam wasn’t sure how this happened—some of the younger guys on his team seemed to know that Lydia had a crush on him. Maybe she’d told them after he’d left the bar? He’d heard Jim Hagaen teasing her about it before he came into a conference room.
“Ohhhh, Lydia, here comes Sam! Your older fuckboi!” Jim had said. Sam had entered to see Lydia looking down at her notes, red-faced. By the following month she’d told HR that maybe Sam’s litigation group wasn’t the right fit and that she’d prefer to work on the corporate side. She was gone shortly thereafter. Occasionally, Sam would see her in the elevator and have a quick, fake chat, and that was that. He didn’t think too muchof it. He’d been working at the firm for eighteen years at this point and had had his fair share of office weirdness, including the time he’d walked in on Henry Boro, the same Henry Boro standing before him, giving his former secretary a neck massage.
And now here he was, hearing from Henry and Mary that Lydia was claiming he’d basically assaulted her. Sam couldn’t believe it.
“Listen, I’m all for #MeToo, I’m a feminist, hashtag believe women, yada yada,” said Sam. “I’ve worked here for nearly two decades. You know me. Lydia is making this shit up.” Sam felt spittle fly from his mouth as he spoke.
“Okay, Sam, we’ll take your story into account. You’ll have to repeat it to the investigator.” Mary had sounded stern. Did she even believe him?
Henry stood up and reached to shake Sam’s hand. “Sam, we’ll figure this out,” he’d said. Mary shot Henry a look. “If you didn’t do it, you didn’t do it.”
Sam wondered if Henry was thinking about the massage incident.
Sam hadn’t told anyone what had happened, even Jen. He didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily, or so he told himself. She didn’t need to know he’d been wasted in his office with a younger female colleague, even if he hadn’t done anything wrong. For the past month, he’d been chatting with the investigator, a flat-faced woman named Erin, at length, and having what felt like his entire work life torn apart. It was part of why he couldn’t wait to get out to Fire Island that summer—he knew he could speak to Jason about it. Jason, his best friend since he was five. Jason, who’d saved him when his fucked-up parents fell apart. Jason, who knew him better than anyone.
It was July 4, and he and Jason had a tennis game at noon. The courts were empty; the rest of the town was celebrating with games and food at the field, including Jen and Sam’s three kids, Lilly, Ross, and Dara, who were eight, six, and four. It was hot and humid, and Sam was looking forward to getting a good sweat on. He’d been stressed. He’d gotten word this week that the management committee was going to make a decision soon, and he’d barely slept since. How soon was soon?
He sat on the benches in front of the courts to wait for Jason. He’dtold him about it as soon as he’d seen him, at Rachel’s drinks thing the first night they were in Salcombe. Sam had been relieved to off-load the info, but Jason had reacted strangely. He hadn’t really asked many questions and hadn’t brought it up with Sam since.
This whole year, really, Jason had been acting weird. Sam had barely seen him since last summer. Normally, they’d meet about once a month for drinks before Sam hopped on the train home, and had quarterly dinners with their wives. But Sam could count on one hand the number of times he’d hung out with Jason this year. Had Sam been so focused on himself that he hadn’t noticed that something was wrong with Jason? He wondered if everything was okay with Jason and Lauren. They’d been somewhat frosty with one another at Rachel’s that night, and this week, Sam had overheard Lisa and Emily having a tipsy conversation at the club, going on about Lauren and her “tennis pro boyfriend.” He didn’t know what that was about, but certainly Jason wasn’t the tennis pro they were referring to.
Sam vowed to ask Jason what was up. He was likely being a bad friend. His therapist had told him recently that he needed to stop thinking that the world revolved around him. Sam had always thrived as the center of attention. People were drawn to him, and he had taken full advantage of it. As a kid, he’d cultivated his charm—he was funny, he asked questions, he flattered. He used it as a tool to ingratiate himself with anyone who would have him. He still called Jason’s mother, Ruth, every week, chatting with her at her assisted living facility in Florida. Did Jason ever speak to her? he wondered. He’d have to ask.
He checked his phone. Jason was three minutes late for their game and had sent him a text.
Sorry, have to bail. Emergency work thing, will explain later. See you at the fireworks.
What the fuck? Just then, Rachel rode by, on her way back from the revelry at the field. She slowed down when she saw him.
