My Fix

Chapter Four

I've spent the last three days mulling over this stupid contract. I swear, I have lost my mind going over each and every tiny little detail mentioned in this god-forsaken stack of what I might as well use as toilet paper.

The first few stipulations are obvious: I must have constant access to the subject, including during non-working hours, meaning I'll be living in close quarters, possibly in an adjoining room in the subject's home, or even in a guesthouse or a shared area. Of course, the subject is to allow me to shadow them for every aspect of their daily life, both personal and professional, so nothing is off-limits. Going hand in hand with the mandatory 24/7 access, the contract states I must live wherever the subject lives for the full two months—no matter where they drag me. Which also apparently requires me to join them on any personal retreats, vacations, or work-related travel including concerts, which means I'll be spending long stretches of time with them in hotels, cars, planes, etc.

Based on this section, I'm starting to fear that my moody rock star hypothesis might be correct. Not only do I have to live with a complete stranger while trying to get to know everything about them, but I have to travel with them? The average person is a pain in the ass whilst traveling but a total diva rock star is ten thousand times worse. I shudder just thinking about having to go through TSA with this mystery subject. Maybe I'll call in a bomb threat and the whole job goes to shit by no fault of my own.

After reading the clause stating that I am required to accompany the subject to any work events, concerts, or even social gatherings meaning we will be sharing cars, flights, or private jets. The contract also specifies that I'm not allowed to arrange separate travel. Good Lord help me. The only possible upside of this is if whoever this is has a really nice car.

And it only gets better. I am forbidden from using my personal cell phone or taking any breaks during work hours while I'm shadowing them, which basically means I'm on duty anytime they're awake—and potentially whenever they aren't, too. So much for calling my friends to vent when this subject inevitably becomes insufferable, or even checking Instagram to remind myself what normal life looks like.

There's also a clause requiring a daily check-in with the subject. Every evening, after whatever we had done that day, the subject and I had to go over our day and review my notes along with our thoughts and feelings. Absolutely the fuck not. I'm more than happy to go over my notes as well as the subject's thoughts and feelings but there is no way in hell that I'm sharing my thoughts and feelings. This is not about me.

But here comes the real kicker–the "social bonding" clause. This one's been haunting me since I first read it. The contract mandates that I engage in one non-work-related activity per week with the subject to encourage a "natural bond." I wish I was kidding. Apparently, I'm now contractually obligated to participate in weekly "bonding sessions." So if this subject wants to play cards, watch a movie, or take an impromptu pottery class, I'm in. It's like a weirdly forced friendship boot camp, except I'm only doing it because I signed my life away to Rolling Stone.

And then, we come to what I believe to be the absolute worst clause. The Emergency Contact Rule. When I first read this section, I swear I forgot how to read. The Emergency Contact Rule. Yes, it actually says, in black and white, that the subject is my primary emergency contact for the next two months. This is not a minor clause. This is not one of those "in case of emergency, notify" lines you put on a form and forget about. No. This rule dictates that if anything goes sideways—whether it's a health scare, a minor injury, or a full-blown meltdown—the subject is the one I have to turn to. This rule seems absolutely ludicrous. In what world would the subject being my emergency contact improve the quality of the article I'm writing? So basically, if I get a stomach bug, lose my passport, sprain my ankle, or just have an existential crisis in the middle of a hotel lobby, my emergency lifeline is a complete stranger whose career I hold in my hands. The more I think about it, the worse it gets. The subject is literally my one source of help. And what does this even cover? Do they have to drive me to the hospital? Hold my hand while I get stitches? Pull me off a cliff if I faint halfway up some spiritual hiking path he drags me on? I have no idea. I'm not sure I want to know.