Claims Adjustment

*******

Martin Wright. Thirty-six years old. Six feet, two inches tall. Insurance adjuster.

Martin grew up in West Vancouver and went to high school at its reputable Rockridge Secondary. He moved to Toronto for university and graduated magna cum laude with a B.A. in European History from the University of Toronto. From there he got accepted to law school, also at U of T.

But in Law Martin found he couldn't flourish the way he had in undergrad, at least not without greatly exerting himself. He discovered Adderall and Dexedrine and they helped him successfully regain his life-long position at the top of the class. He graduated three years later and had his pick of Toronto's top law firms for articling positions. He chose Blake, Cassels and Graydon, LLP on account of the fact they had many international offices he could potentially work at.

Life as an articling lawyer presented another obstacle. The eighty-hour workweeks and pressures of office politics inspired him to binge-drink on the weekends. Alongside his colleagues and other affluent young professionals, he drowned his week's stresses at various high-end bars, clubs and restaurants on King Street, a popular playground for Toronto's young elites. These all-night - sometimes all-day - drink-a-thons were well-supplied with cocaine to prevent everyone from falling asleep.

Slowly, the weekends-exclusive activities spilled into weekdays. Martin started keeping a bottle of Glenfiddich 12 in the bottom of his desk, sipping its contents from a coffee mug in the evenings after the paralegals and support staff had gone home for the day. At some point mid-way thought his articling year, his nightly drinks began occupying so much of his attention he couldn't concentrate on his work. To refocus his mind he brought a bag of blow to the office and took bumps in the bathroom stalls under the auditory-cover of toilets flushing. He thought no one was the wiser to his drinking and drug-use at work.

Then one day in January 2006, shortly after an especially depraved holiday party season and just over three months before the end of his articling year, he arrived at work to a note from one of his bosses on his desk. 'Please see me as soon as you're in. -Carl,' it read.

He went to his boss's office where the door was half-way open and Carl sat at his desk, his head lowered, working.

He tapped on the door his boss looked up. 'Hi Carl,' he said, 'you wanted to see me?'

'Martin,' Carl said, glancing up briefly. 'Come in.'

His boss picked up the phone on his desk and called human resources. 'He's here,' he said into the phone then lowered it back into its cradle.

Carl resumed working and a minute later the HR manager who'd administered Martin's hiring walked in the room carrying a large manila envelope. He closed the door behind him and handed the envelope to Martin. He leaned against the wall and raised his eyebrows at Martin.

Martin opened the envelope and saw the jewelry bag of coke he kept in the back of the top drawer of his desk. His heart stopped as he recognized the distinctive red hearts of the small plastic bag.

'The cleaning staff found that in your desk last night,' the HR manager said. 'In the interests' of the firm we won't be contacting the police. But please pack up your personal belongings and be gone by noon. Your contract has been terminated with cause.'

Martin looked across the desk at Carl. 'I can't believe you advised me on how to advise my client's while you were high,' Carl said. 'Get the fuck out of my sight.'

He left his boss's office with his head lowered and started back to his desk to pack up his things. He felt nauseous and looked around for the nearest waste-paper basket in case he threw up. Luckily he reached his desk and his Glenfiddich before he did. He took a long swig of scotch straight from the bottle and felt his heart-rate and stomach relax. He re-corked the bottle and put it in a banker's box along with a framed photo of his parents and a few pens and notepads. He got his coat from the coat-rack and left.