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Howard Hamlin was a moderate man. He conducted himself politely, dressed in a stylish, tasteful manner, and ate a well-balanced diet. He seldom raised his voice, wore a gaudy colour, or became inebriated, and he always remembered to say “please” and “thank you”, to enforce his tie with a collar bar, and to sleep seven hours a night. But still, every moderate man had his vices and indulgences, and late one weeknight at Hamlin, Hamlin & McGill, this busy lawyer was contemplating dessert.
Just yesterday, Chuck McGill’s birthday had been celebrated with a cake in the boardroom. The luscious vanilla treat, composed of three layers divided by a creamy icing, had been topped with a raspberry compote and white chocolate—it was so vibrantly delicious Howard would have sworn the taste lingered on his tongue an entire day after tasting it.
He planned on taking Chuck out to dinner tomorrow, but until then, all celebration was over for Howard—and possibly for Chuck too, as he didn't care much for birthdays—and yet, sitting in his office late at night, revising the legal service proposal for HHM’s newest big client, Howard couldn't help but return to that cake.
He checked his watch: just before eight o'clock. At this time, the building would be deserted, with only the exception of the occasional behind-schedule janitor or a partner chained to their desk by a deadline. Howard almost fit the second bill: he had been recently promoted to managing partner, but he was not chained by a deadline. No, he remained at his desk by his own ambitious volition. This was not an atypical weeknight for HHM’s prince; being born a Hamlin did not make being a lawyer essentially easy. Rather, Howard had enormous shoes to fill. Needless to say, simple daydreams of cake were uncommon to him.
No one else should have been at the firm—there really was no good reason to stay—but even so, Howard was haunted by the notion that someone was near, and not just a general someone, but a specific effervescent mail clerk by the name of Jimmy McGill. This was a simple hunch, and yet Howard was fairly sure of himself.
After a while of perusing the proposal and pensively clicking on his pen, Howard found himself floating down a dim hallway. If the cake of his dreams remained in the building, it would be in the communal fridge on the first floor, a few doors down from the mailroom.
Howard’s suspicions were quickly proven correct. Not about the cake—he hadn't yet reached the kitchen, but as he neared it, he noticed a soft light shimmering through the gap in the mailroom door. Of course, Jimmy had to be in there. Howard smoothed out his suit jacket before poking his head through the door.
“Is that Charlie Hustle I see?” he called, but before he could finish the question, he had already found the room deserted.
Howard’s brow’s crinkled. The scene he had entered was strange. With a few illuminated lamps circling Jimmy’s desk, which was not free from clutter—an agenda, papers, envelopes, and books—and a familiar book bag leaning against the nearest chair, the only missing aspect was a buoyant mail clerk. It was like a set stage without its actors.
“Jimmy?”
Howard took a hesitant step beyond the threshold. The details sharpened.
The desks were all so paper-slewn they were almost entirely white, their boundaries indistinct. Howard could only attribute a name and a face to a small handful of seats. A few strides from the door was where the modest undergraduate intern sat—his name was Ernie, and Jimmy had been quick to befriend him. Then, of course, there was Jimmy, whose remarkable tenacity had practically manifested into an aura glowing around his desk. The next desk neighbour was Kim Wexler, the ambitious and promising law student that Jimmy was secretly and obviously smitten with. Their proximity was likely an orchestration.
Howard stifled a chuckle. Jimmy had been easier to understand, and thus to manage, than Chuck had given him credit for.
“My brother… He's been a hustler, but he wants to start afresh,” Chuck had said just over three years ago, “He needs to start afresh.”
And so he did.
Howard’s first impression of Jimmy had been sagely accurate: he was spontaneous, whimsical, and polite, revelling in the new and unexplored, and yet his unpredictability was relatively predictable. He had a way of contradicting himself that made sense.
He dressed in ill-fitting button-ups and patterned ties, but his creased briefcase, likely a hand-me-down from Chuck, was of exceptional quality. He smelled terminally of cheap cologne, but the notes of an afternoon coffee would also often cling to him, mixing a modestly charming fragrance. He postured himself casually and liked playing games and taking bets, but he also worked with the voracious diligence of someone much more important than a clerk, sometimes even labouring beyond his scheduled hours to “get ahead”. Overall, he was clever and deliberate, and looking in his eyes Howard was often reminded of himself: a man hungry not only to fit in but to impress.
And yet his space was a mess. The lines separating his desk from Kim’s and Ernie’s were indistinct enough that one of Ernie’s school books, a textbook, had teetered into Jimmy’s territory. Howard curiously swiped away the envelopes concealing the cover: An Introduction to Legal Ethics. Third edition. A stamp on the inner cover indicated its ownership to the public library.
A silly scene was easy to imagine: Jimmy, slumping over his desk in a lapse of laziness, would notice the forgotten text and take a peek. After an initial disenchantment with the jargon, he might find himself intrigued.
Howard sighed nostalgically and checked his watch. Night fell fast and it was growing late to linger for a simple hello with a clerk. He left for the kitchen.
In contrast to the mailroom, the communal kitchen was vivid with fluorescent lights. The cleaning staff had forgotten to dim them, Howard lamented, but then he noticed at the table, hunched with his head in his arms, was Jimmy McGill.
Howard startled.
Jimmy, however, did not react. He was asleep, Howard realised, and not by a quick shut of the eyes, but soundly enough that neither the lights nor his boss' exclamation had reached him. On a disposable plate before him was a perfect slice of Chuck's birthday cake; it seemed he had shared Howard's craving before succumbing to sleep.
Howard noiselessly went for the fridge and pulled out the cake tray, on which there was a single, small slice. Sure, it was nice of Jimmy to leave some for the next person, but Howard was suddenly tinged by a doubt that it should have been Chuck savouring the final bite. Then again, Chuck had never demonstrated much of a penchant for sweets. The same could be said about Howard, though. Howard twisted his lips. Perhaps he was overthinking this. If Chuck really wanted more of his birthday cake, he would have already brought it home. Howard hesitantly plated and arranged the final slice on the table where Jimmy sat.
About to take his seat, he glanced at Jimmy, whose back rose and fell to a languid rhythm. Oddly enough, he seemed to be smiling. Jimmy could be so wholesomely predictable, with his predilections for dessert, coffee, and pretty women, but how and why was he smiling in his sleep? Was he dreaming? What kinds of things did Jimmy even dream about?
Dreams were the vainest of fantasies, tailored for their hungry dreamers, but they were also sometimes capricious, strange, and downright terrifying—yes, Howard had often dreamed of profound professional victory and everlasting honour, of wondrous orchestras and the perfect cappuccino, but he had also dreamed of fairies, flying monkeys, and tragedies. He even dreamed of Jimmy on occasion.
The wise Chuck would have suggested that Howard limit his dreams to justice and jazz, but mostly of the former. Simply put: good lawyers dreamed of justice and bad lawyers dreamed of wealth. Only the greats were equipped to relish both in the light of day. But a man could not limit his dreams. Well, perhaps Chuck could, with his awesome willpower, but Howard could not. With the ability to roam without witness, the human mind unabashedly focused on its desires and fears, so even a devout lawyer would reasonably, for his humanity, be allotted a dream of gluttony, sloth, or sex now and then (or of flying monkeys, if he was unusually stressed).
So, what sorts of dreams coloured the mind of Jimmy McGill, a mail clerk, as he slept? Did he fantasise about leisure and relaxation? Of gluttony and lust? Of dessert? Of women? Of Kim Wexler, perhaps? What about Chuck's approval? There was no way of learning Jimmy's dream from his contented smirk, but the answer would teach Howard what Jimmy wanted most.
Crouching to Jimmy's level, Howard had never before observed the clerk so closely. His eyes, shut in slumber, sprouted out short, dark eyelashes, and his lips, curled in that slight smile, were narrow and pink. His face was fair and smooth even in proximity, though he was slightly wrinkled, and his round cheek, squished against his forearm, seemed a perfect cushion.
Howard extended a hand for a pat on the shoulder. He hesitated.
“Jimmy?”
No response.
“Charlie Hustle?”
When he again got no response, he patted Jimmy's shoulder and was met with a cartoonish jolt and exclamation. He almost laughed at Jimmy's glazed bewilderment.
“Jimmy?” Howard spoke calmly, resting a gentle hand on his forearm, “I didn't mean to startle you, but it seemed you might have stayed here all night if I didn't do something.”
“Oh. Yeah, it's alright. Thanks,” Jimmy stammered. He straightened his posture and tapped on the plate before him. “You, uh—you come looking for this?”
Howard smiled. “Yes, actually.”
Jimmy kicked back the seat across from him; the metal grated against the tile. Howard sat down. The first taste of the vanilla cake had him walking on a cloud.
As it turned out, Jimmy had stayed late on account of the upcoming holiday season. All affairs, even those in the mailroom, busied around the holidays such that by the New Year everyone always felt at least a little left behind. Of course, HHM’s Charlie Hustle was right on top of that.
Jimmy was easy to be around. The separate spheres of his and Howard's daily work limited talk of haunting deadlines and overly specific qualms; in place of that they would sometimes share a joke, affirmation, or memory.
They only ever spoke like this at night—not every night or even every fortnight, but still, during the times when the firm was quiet and the stars twinkled quietly outside, Howard believed he and Jimmy were something like friends. They were certainly not best friends or brothers, but Howard wondered if the little relaxed conversations they sometimes shared ever made Jimmy privately smile, perhaps on the drive home or while brushing his teeth before bed.
“So, what's up with you?” Jimmy asked.
Howard realised that while Jimmy had scarfed his cake down, his own portion had hardly been touched.
“Anything new?”
“No,” Howard answered simply. “Nothing new. Things are getting busy, of course, but busy is what I do best. I apologise if I seem reticent.”
“It’s fine,” Jimmy assured, gulping his final mouthful of cake. Howard hesitated only a moment before Jimmy intervened again, this time in a booming, British voice, gesturing at his boss’ plate: “Well? To eat or not to eat? That is the question!”
It was impossible to not laugh when Jimmy did his silly shticks. Howard snorted as he took a bite, half-choking on a chuckle and leaving a saccharine taint in his lungs. “Alright, alright,” he swallowed.
Jimmy said nothing more, simply smiling, fiddling with his fork and watching Howard eat. His pale blue eyes seemed sunken. Tired. Howard almost wondered why the man would stretch himself thin before recognising the hypocrisy of the question.
He cleared his throat. “Do you like Shakespeare, Jimmy?”
“Huh?” Jimmy blinked. “Well, sure. As much as the next guy, I guess.”
“I only ask because you quoted him just now,” Howard smiled. “Shakespeare—well, theatre as a whole is fun. Believe it or not, I once played Mercutio in a university production of Romeo & Juliet” — he pretended to gesture his fork as a sword — “Of course, I was more nimble at fencing then.”
Jimmy's brow wrinkled, as if he could forget such an iconic character, but then he seemed to remember with a snap: “Oh, right. Him. Cool.” He nodded and pursed his lips. “Not Romeo?”
Howard's smile twitched.
Jimmy shrugged. “Well, I guess you're dead either way.”
“Excuse me?”
“They both die,” Jimmy clarified with a hesitant scepticism. “Right? Everyone dies in those plays.”
Howard realised with a smirk that Jimmy didn't know what he was talking about. “Oh, yes,” he said with exaggerated graveness, “I died several times during the show’s run.”
Jimmy wistfully shook his head. “How tragic.”
They both laughed.
Later, after the cake was finished and the table was cleared, Howard bade Jimmy good night and returned to his office to finish reviewing a chapter of his proposal. Instead of privately smiling to himself as he ascended the stairs, he briefly wondered why Jimmy seemed to assume he would or should have wanted to play Romeo. The question was inconsequential, expired, and absurd, especially considering Jimmy's obviously fragmented memory of the play, but Howard wondered still. Did Jimmy assume his boss blindly craved to be a leading man? Did he perceive him as spotlight-hungry or was it possible he was suggesting immoderate impulse, passion, or romance from a man that was frankly getting a little old to be unmarried?
Memorising his assigned lines over a decade ago, Howard had never ruminated over the casting. It had seemed natural: he was on the fencing team and was good at projecting his voice, so he had gotten a role. What else was there to ponder? Theatre was fun. Performing was fun. For just a short time, an actor could be anyone they wanted to be, even if that someone was incredibly distant in time, class, or disposition.
Pretending was fun. Jimmy used to like doing that too, apparently. Of course, Howard hadn't been there in Cicero to see it or its consequences.
Howard winced at the beginnings of a stomach ache; perhaps the cake had been a bad idea. Such was his karma for finishing someone else's birthday cake.
He perused his proposal a short while before deciding it was time to go home. Tomorrow was as good a day as any to be productive. He exited the firm to a choking inhale of smoke. Tobacco.
Jimmy was leaning against the facade of the building, a cigarette pinched between his fingers. The evening air was cool and still but for that murky cloud of smoke, which glowed around Jimmy’s face and shoulders from the light of an overhead lamp. The rest of him was vague and bluish.
“Jimmy,” Howard nodded courteously. “Have a good night.”
Exhaling slowly, Jimmy returned the nod. Howard was already a few strides away when Jimmy cleared his throat and spoke.
“Do you ever smoke, Howard?”
Howard paused before turning back to his colleague. Instantaneously, his mind shuffled through a deck of plausible reasons to ask such a question. Did Jimmy seek someone to smoke with, even at such a late hour? Did he simply crave company or was he hoping to steer a conversation in a particular direction?
The odour was dizzying. Howard's eyes dropped to Jimmy's hand, which was languidly poised by his lips. A glowing chunk of his cigarette fizzled and dropped as he took another drag. Having known each other's taste for only a few minutes, Jimmy and the cigarette would soon part unceremoniously, the butt discarded and squashed, left for a dragging decay.
“I can't say that I do,” Howard admitted. His lips parted as if to say more, as if to justify himself, but he didn’t. He didn't need to; cigarette boxes were printed with warnings.
“I guess it's just my personal vice, then,” Jimmy chuckled sighingly. His laughter flourished with a puff of smoke.
“Everybody has their vices. Good night, Jimmy.”
“Good night.”
The road home was dark, dry, and personless, the silence slaughtered by radio jazz. Embracing the night, no more time was wasted before Howard rested his head on his pillow.
As he approached his required seven hours of sleep, he dreamed. He dreamed he was walking on a fluffy carpet of cloud, high above a flourishing kingdom. The king's crown had gone missing, so he had risen to the heavens to search for it from above. Squinting through the sunlight, he paced the cushiony clouds and searched, but the crown was nowhere to be found. Eventually, he began to worry. How could society go on if the king was without his crown? Howard simply could not return without it.
Finally ripping his eyes from the streets below, which bustled like an ant colony, he looked over his shoulder and discovered that a man had appeared behind him. The man was Jimmy, who was wearing a familiar navy suit. “Are you looking for it too?” Howard asked, but then he realised Jimmy was cradling the king's stolen crown. The clouds abruptly gave in and thus began a seemingly endless fall through the sky.
By the time Howard was preparing the next morning's balanced breakfast, his dream was forgotten.