Hooshla Fox

Contracts

In a local cafe, he saw what I was reading and sat down at my table and said, "That happens to be one of my favorite books," and went on to give an incisive ten-minute analysis of the novel. I’m generally suspicious of strangers, especially bold ones, but I was trying to be more gregarious and open, so I made myself forgive his inconsiderate revelation of the story’s outcome and asked him about the curious, faded scar on his arm. He didn’t answer, but we ended up chatting jovially for two hours about this and that.

Eventually, I announced, "I have to go. But let’s meet for dinner tomorrow and finish our conversation then."

"All right," he agreed. "Where and when?"

"How about Luisa’s on Fifth? At, say, seven-thirty."

"Sounds good," he nodded.

He then lifted a large, worn briefcase onto his lap and slid out two identical printed sheets of paper and a pen. He meticulously filled in some blanks on the pages, then handed the papers to me. Their header said, "Contract for Engagement." The document was all in pseudo-legal language and basically stated that blank and blank would meet at blank at blank o’clock on blank day of blank month. He had written his name, the name of the restaurant, and the day, month, and time. He had marked X’s where I was to print my name and sign it. He hadn’t signed yet.

"What’s this for?" I asked.

"It’s pretty straightforward. It formalizes what we just agreed to," he answered.

"You want me to sign a contract so you can be sure I won’t stand you up?"

"It protects both of us," he said. "It’s mutual. The second copy is yours."

"And what if something were to prevent me from showing up?"

He pointed to Section VI of the contract and read, "If either party is unable to fulfill his/her obligation, he/she must orally inform the other party no fewer than two hours before the time of the engagement, and furnish a detailed explanation in writing within three days of the failed meeting."

"I’m sorry," I said. "I don’t mean to be rude, but this is kind of weird and I don’t sign anything I don’t fully understand. I would have to see a lawyer, at least."

"I am a lawyer," he said, reassuringly. "I don’t practice, but I did go to law school. Here’s my degree." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a laminated diploma.

I shook my head. "I’m sorry," I said.

"That’s too bad," he frowned. "You understand that in that case I can’t meet you for dinner?"

"Oh," I said, shrugging. "Well, maybe I’ll run into you here again sometime."

As I was standing and preparing to leave, he beckoned to the waitress and took from his briefcase a form entitled, "Record of Patronage." He noticed me glancing from it to his scar and looked up with a strangely somber smile.

"A guy’s gotta watch his back," he said.

Hooshla Fox is a plush fox polymath currently residing in and representing South Pasadena, California. He may be contacted at hooshla@hooshla.com.