by Elle Casey
The car ride to the lawyer’s office is uneventful. This time when I reach the lobby, there’s a young woman waiting for me, and she smiles and approaches with her hand out. “You must be Amber. I’m Jennifer. I’m here to help you with your contract.”
I shake her hand. “Okay, that sounds good.”
“Please follow me.” She’s walking on her three-inch heels like she was born in them. I have to move fast to keep up with her long strides. Her platinum-blond hair hangs straight down her back, not a strand out of place. All the women in this office are really well put together. It must take them forever to get ready in the morning. I have to imagine they’re busy in the bathroom ten times a day, too, checking to make sure everything is still perfect. Lister probably sleeps in a suit and polished leather shoes. No wonder he always seems uncomfortable around me. He’s probably worried I have cooties. I smile at the thought of chasing him around this office maze with my finger out, threatening to infect him with hippie-itis.
Jennifer leads me into a conference room with a long table. It seems silly for me to be in here just using up one chair; the place is big enough for a board meeting of a Fortune 500 company. There’s a folder on the table and it’s open with a stack of papers inside.
Jennifer stands next to me and moves the papers around, pointing to them as she explains. “This is our standard NDA . . . a nondisclosure agreement. In this, you’re agreeing not to discuss any personal details of the band members or their business with anyone outside of the band. That includes the press but also any of your friends or relatives.”
Poo. I had serious plans to tell my sisters every single tiny little microscopic detail. I guess that’s not going to happen. At least not until I have their blood oath that they won’t tell other people.
She slides another paper out. “This is a contract for services. This is where you agree to provide certain services to the band over the specified period of time indicated here, and to accept the compensation that’s being offered here.” She points to the number and I nearly choke.
“They’re going to give me twenty thousand dollars?” I look up at her to see if she’s laughing.
“Did you want to negotiate for more?”
I shake my head. “No, twenty is fine.” Negotiate? Hell, I would have accepted a tiny fraction of that.
“Good,” she says, turning the page. “And here is where the band agrees to give you an advance. Once you sign this, I can cut you a check because we have all the money here in our trust account.”
According to this paper, they’re going to give me half of the money up front. I look up at her. “Does this mean I need to pick up my hotel tab now?” Not that I don’t want to, but I’m pretty sure even with this big paycheck, affording the digs I’m in will be pushing it. I’ll have to move to another place in a less ritzy area.
“No.” She turns a page and points to another paragraph. “Here is where it says that your accommodation and meals are included as part of the deal. And your accommodation is the Four Seasons. I believe you’re already staying there?”
I nod, part of my brain going numb at the extravagance. “Uh-huh.”
“Fine. You can stay in the same room or you can move to another; it’s your choice. Just keep all your receipts for anything you pay for on your own so we can reimburse you. The hotel room and hotel restaurant bills will be paid for directly by the firm.”
She turns another page. “Here is the paragraph that provides for you to have transportation.”
My eyes skim the page. Apparently, I’m going to have a car and driver. I feel so important.
“And here’s the last part where you agree that this is the entire agreement between all of you and that you are not going to seek other compensation from the band or anything else.” She hands me a pen.
I take it from her and then flip through the pages so I can get back to the front. This thing is ten sheets of extra-long pager in length. I should probably read it more thoroughly, but I don’t want to be rude. I look up to meet her eyes. “Is there anything else I should know about this contract?”
She tilts her head. “Like what?”
“I don’t know . . . I’m not a lawyer. Is there anything in here that’s going to bite me in the butt later?”
Her smile slides away. “If you’d rather pay another attorney to review it for you, that’s within your rights. In fact, we encourage you to do that.” She presses her hands together, one on top of the other.
“No, I don’t need to lawyer up or anything like that. I just want to know if you’ve told me everything that’s in here.”
“Yes. There are . . . you know, some legalese-type terms that probably won’t mean much to you—they’re just standard contract provisions—and you can see inside the other paragraphs I pointed out, more detailed explanations of what I’ve already told you, but it’s all there. Why don’t you take a moment to read through it? And when you’re ready to sign, pick up the telephone there and dial 8-4-1-9.”
I nod. “Okay.”
She leaves me alone in the room and I stare at the papers. I try reading the first few paragraphs but I keep zoning out and have to reread the same sentences over and over. The only books I like reading are novels—books that have a story that keeps my brain humming along. Nothing could possibly be duller than this document in front of me. My brain isn’t humming, it’s going blank. I don’t think I’ve had enough sleep to absorb the information.
I turn to the last page and find the line where I need to put my signature. With a flick of my wrist, it’s done. I sign the nondisclosure agreement too and look at the other items inside. They’re asking me for my Social Security number and other personal information. I guess since they’ve already found me, it’s not like I need to hide my address or anything like that. I fill in all the necessary details and close the folder. Then I wait.
I can’t remember the number of the extension she gave me, but surely she’ll come check on me any minute. After ten minutes go by, I realize she’s probably going to be happy to leave me here all day. I walk out into the hallway, glancing right and left. Everything looks exactly the same and there’s nobody around. Ghost town.
I head left, assuming this is the way I should go in order to get back to the reception desk, since it’s the direction I came from. Unfortunately, my sense of north, south, east, and west proves to be very consistent, and I end up once again in the copy room. The familiar scent of warm paper and chemicals hits me.
“Hi, Linny Lister.” I smile at the girl whose back is to me.
She mumbles something under her breath.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I said I’ll be out in a minute.”
I should probably walk away because she doesn’t sound happy, but she’s just a kid. And she’s stuck in this stupid copy room when I’m sure there are a thousand other places she’d rather be. I walk in farther and stop when I’m standing next to her. When I glance sideways at her profile I can see that she’s been crying.
I know kids are sensitive about their emotional lives, so I try to make a joke out of it. “Did you get busted for making a copy of your butt?”
She slowly turns her head to look at me. “What did you just say?” She doesn’t believe she heard me right. I doubt Uncle Lister would ever ask her a question like that.
I try not to smile. “Are you crying because you got busted for making a photocopy of your butt?”
She looks confused at first. “No?”
I frown. “You didn’t do your boobs, did you?”
She starts to smile. “No. I’ve never done anything like that in here.”
I shrug. “I don’t think I’d be able to work here without trying it at least once.”
She looks back down at the copier and wipes her face. “I’m just having a bad day.”
“Yeah. I hear you.” I rub her back a little. “I get those from time to time.” I tap my finger on the top of the machine. “You know, though . . .
Fun with copiers could go a long way toward cheering you up. Regardless of what’s getting you down, nothing is more cheerful than a nice photocopy of a set of bare buns.” I know this because I saw one once in college and swore to myself if I ever had the chance, I’d make a copy of mine one day. I think today might be that day! I’m ridiculously excited.
She chews her lip. “I did used to make photocopies of my hands at Thanksgiving and turn them into turkeys.”
“Into turkeys?” Now it’s my turn to smile.
“Yeah. You know . . . how you make the fingers look like feathers and the thumb look like the head and you color it in?”
“Ah, yes. I did those at home when I was little.” Sadly, our mothers still have them hanging on the fridge every November.
She loses her smile. “Yeah, well, after you do about twenty of them, it gets boring.”
“It’s time to up your game.” I don’t know what wild hair gets up my butt in that moment, but making Linny happy becomes tops on my priority list. And although I’m about to walk away from this place with ten grand in my pocket and another ten grand two weeks from now for what I’m sure will prove to be a shit-ton of work—I mean, why else would they pay me so much?—I still feel like I can afford to be generous with my time.
I elbow her gently. “Okay, step aside. Show me how to work this thing. I’m going to show you how to make a really cool photocopy. Better than hand turkeys by a mile.”
She stares at me with her jaw open, excitement dancing in her eyes. She points. “Just press the green button, and it’ll make one copy of whatever you put on the glass.”
I search the machine. “Show me where the glass is. Is it here?” I lift part of the lid on the machine but I don’t see anything but more plastic.
“No, you have to grab this part here.” She lifts a big section of the machine up to reveal the glass. I’m not quite tall enough to make this happen, so I race over and grab a footstool that I saw in the corner of the room and bring it back. I step up on it and pause to look down at her. “Are you ready for this?”
She nods vigorously, making her ponytail swing around. Her tears are forgotten. “I am totally ready.”
I lift my top and take my bra along with it, exposing my breasts. “You’ll have to excuse me; I grew up on a hippie commune. We’re kind of free with nakedness.”
She starts giggling. “Don’t worry. I have a pair of my own.”
I lean over and place my boobs on the glass, my head to the side. “Whoop! Whoa, that’s cold.”
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, you are so crazy.” She’s laughing so hard, she starts to fold in half.
“Where’s the green button?” I look to my right but I’m bent too far over to see it.
Linny runs around the other side of me, still laughing and gasping for air. “I got it, I got it. Are you ready?”
“I am ready! Five—four—three—two—one! Hit it, sister!”
She presses the button and a bright light flares up in my face and then slowly scans across my chest.
“Oh my god, you are so crazy,” she says between giggles. She runs back to the other side of the machine.
As soon as it’s done, I stand up and pull my shirt down. “Behold. The awesome boob shot.” I step down from the stool and lean my arm inside the copier over the glass, using the sleeve of my shirt to rub any prints off the surface. Lord knows this firm doesn’t need the ghost of Amber’s boobs haunting their precious legal documents.
Linny pulls the paper from the tray. She holds it up and giggles, dangling it in front of her. Her eyes are sparkling. “Oh my big butt, look at your boobs. They look huge.”
I take it from her and look down at them, smiling. “They do. Like two giant headlights.” I snag a pen from a nearby counter and quickly sketch the grille of a car around the headlights before handing it back to her. “There. Now that’s something you can hang on your fridge at Thanksgiving instead of the turkey hands.”
“Are you done?” says a voice from the doorway.
My heart drops into my shoes. Linny’s smile disappears and her complexion goes stark white. We both turn at the same time to face the man in the doorway.
Lister’s face looks as though it’s been carved out of granite.
Holy hell . . . how long has he been standing there?
“I think so,” I say with false cheer. I give Linny a quick hug and whisper in her ear before I let go, “Burn that. And no more crying today.”
She hugs me back stronger than I expected her to as she whispers her response. “Thank you for cheering me up.”
I walk out of the copy room with my head held high, following Lister down the hallway. Mission accomplished.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I cannot believe I just put my boobs on the glass of Lister’s copy machine. Am I insane? I think Em was right about me; when I see problems, I feel like I need to solve them, regardless of whether it’s a good idea or not. I need to learn how to control myself, because I’m in a city loaded with people who have issues.
Lister goes into the conference room where my papers are still sitting and waits for me to take a seat. My face is burning so hot, I know it has to be flaming red, but he doesn’t say a word about it.
“I see that you signed all the documents.”
“Yes. I couldn’t remember the telephone extension Jennifer gave me, so I went looking for her and ended up . . . in that other room.” I finish weakly, knowing that this does not explain why my breasts were pressed up against the glass of his copier.
“Wait here and I’ll have a check brought to you for the advance.” The jaw muscles on his face are clenching and unclenching.
I look up at him as he towers over me. He’s staring at the papers, but I know he sees me. “Are you upset about me taking this job or about the copy machine?” I cringe, waiting for his answer.
“How I feel about anything with regard to you is irrelevant.” His voice is as cold as ice.
“Maybe to you, but not to me.”
“Let me give you a little tip.” He finally looks at me. “You’re not going to get very far in this business if you’re always worried about what other people think about you.”
“What business?”
“The business of working in the music industry.”
“But I’m not working in the music industry.”
He stares at me with his eyebrows scrunched together.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that again?”
“What did I tell you just a minute ago?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” This is a test and I’m clearly failing it.
“Don’t worry about what others think about you. Just do what you need to do.” And with that he leaves the room with the folder of papers in his hand.
Ugh, what a jerk. I’m so glad I’m not going to be working with him every day. It’s then, as I think this, that I realize I don’t even know who I’m going to be working with or how I’m supposed to contact that person. Whoever brings me that check better have some answers for me, or I’m going to have to go hunting for Lister again, and who knows where I’ll end up this time. I can’t promise there won’t be more naked boobs involved, because he’s annoying the heck out of me, and I need to release the stress somehow.
I wander around the room, circling the big table for a full ten minutes before Jennifer comes back. She has a big check in her hand, which she slides into an envelope and hands to me along with a copy of everything I signed.
“Thank you,” I say, taking it from her and putting it in my bag. “I have a question for you. Who is my contact person for this project?” I feel very official asking this question, like a real businesswoman. I’ve got plenty of sales experience from my many years running a stall at the farmers’ market, but this is the first time I’ve ever felt big-time.
“I don’t know. I think you’d better ask Greg.”
“Could you bring me to his office? Every time I try to find my way around
here, I get lost.”
“He’s not available right now.”
“Oh. Well. This is very inconvenient.” I really don’t want to hang around in this office any longer than I already have. “Can I leave a message for him to call me?”
“You certainly can.”
I wait for her to say something else, but she leaves me hanging. I have to ask the question or I’m going to wonder all day long. “Did I just leave a message for him or not?”
“With me? Yes, you did. I will tell him that he should call you at his earliest convenience.”
I sigh in relief. She gets me. “Okay, cool. Thank you very much.” We both walk to the door together, but I hesitate at the threshold when I realize I have a somewhat worthless piece of paper in my bag.
“Is there something wrong?” she asks when she realizes I’m not right behind her.
“I don’t have a bank account here in town, and the one that I use back home is a credit union for farmers . . . so I don’t know how I’m going to cash this check or whatever.” I sure as heck don’t want to walk around with ten grand in my bag, but my room has a safe; I could stash most of it in there if I could only cash this thing.
“Wait here for a minute; I’ll be right back.” Jennifer leaves me alone again.
I expect another ten-minute pause in my day, but she returns in less than half of that, handing me a business card.
“Call this person and make an appointment. He’ll help you open an account and give you access to the funds right away. They work with our firm all the time.”
I look down at the business card and see that I will soon be dealing with HSBC Bank in their Fifth Avenue branch.
“Thank you. I really appreciate your help. I just need one more thing.”
“What’s that?” She folds her hands in front of her.
