I'm a lawyer working at a Thai takeout joint for $10 an hour. Plus dinner.

Long story short, I was an international transactional attorney working for a big firm when I was given the option of either moving to the Beijing (or as I called it, the Babe-jing) office or having the firm "find another way of helping [me] achieve my career goals."

I chose the infamous "third option": leave in favor of working on my house for a while. Off the conveyor belt, into the dark side, headfirst.

It was great. It _has been_ great, I should say. But I've got to get a job at some point, because the interest I get from my investments sure as hell ain't financing my law school loans or my mortgage. Or, indeed, my black beans and rice habit.

So one day a coupla weeks I ago I found myself at the new local Thai takeout place, located in a miniscule rowhouse basement on F___ Ave., with a friend, waiting for our food (the reviews in the neighborhood listserve all said two things: great food, long wait) and joking with the 50-year old white guy in a porkpie hat and leather jacket who was working behind the counter. Joking about government workers, joking - uncomfortably - about my friend and I having children together, joking about me working there. It's unusual, I thought, fleetingly, to see a middle-aged white guy, porkpie hat and leather jacket or no, working the counter at a takeout joint in D___. So last Thursday I found myself standing behind the counter, chopping ginger and red tofu, answering the phone, and asking the customers if they want their number 24 (that's the panang) with chicken, beef, or pork.