Chapter 6: The "Roommate Agreement" Strikes Back
It was a beautiful thing, really, the way Sheldon's mind worked. Predictable in its unpredictability, a perfect, logical machine built on a foundation of pure, unadulterated neurosis. A lesser man, or a woman, would have folded after the Klingon prank. After the sonic manipulation and the haunted apartment. After Paige started her campaign of intellectual passive-aggression in his own hallowed halls of academia. But not Sheldon. No, he saw all of this not as a sign to maybe, you know, take a long walk and reassess his life choices, but as a challenge. A gauntlet thrown down in the arena of intellectual one-upmanship, and he was determined to win.
"Leonard!" a high-pitched, frantic voice echoed from the apartment below. "I have a new addendum! A clause that will, with irrefutable scientific certainty, prevent any further acts of chaos from our new, and I must say, unacceptably whimsical neighbors!"
I looked at Paige, who was sitting on my couch, a book on quantum physics forgotten in her lap. A wicked grin spread across her face, mirroring the one on mine. "He's back," she said, her voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "He's come back for more. It's like a bad B-movie franchise, but with more social awkwardness and fewer explosions."
A few moments later, a knock, precisely three knocks followed by my name, echoed through the apartment. "Adam! Adam! Adam!" It was Sheldon. He was standing there, his hands clasped behind his back, a look of profound self-satisfaction on his face that was so intense it bordered on smugness. He was holding a new, pristine document, the words "Neighbor Agreement Addendum 4A-4B" printed on top in a font that looked suspiciously like Helvetica. He held it up like a trophy, a document of his intellectual victory. He hadn't just written it; he'd mastered it.
"Adam," he began, his voice a perfect, condescending drone, "I have, in my infinite wisdom, created a new addendum to our Neighbor Agreement. A document that will, with irrefutable scientific certainty, prevent any further chaos from a certain… upstairs anomaly." He looked at Paige, who was standing behind me, her eyes gleaming with mischief. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, a look of pure, unadulterated disdain on his face before he continued, "And her… accomplice." He had a way of saying "accomplice" that made it sound like a scientific term for a particularly disgusting microorganism.
"I've included a clause," he said, puffing out his chest, "that requires you and your… associate… to engage in a series of mandatory, pre-scheduled, and intellectually stimulating conversations with me. The topics will be chosen by me, and will be based on the latest advancements in theoretical physics. I believe this will curb your 'whimsical' nature and force you to engage in a more… logical… discourse. One that is devoid of pop-culture references and other such intellectual detritus."
He handed me the document, a look of triumphant satisfaction on his face. He had won. Or so he thought.
I took the document, my mind, now super-charged with a thousand new ideas thanks to my proximity to Paige, immediately started working. My eyes scanned the text, not for its content, but for its flaws. Sheldon had created an overly-complex document, but in his hubris, he had left a loophole. A beautiful, glorious loophole.
The clause read, "All conversations must be intellectually stimulating and must be on topics chosen by the undersigned, Sheldon Cooper." But he had not included a clause that defined what "intellectually stimulating" meant, or how it could be determined. He had also signed the document, making him "the undersigned." But, and here was the beautiful part, I was also "the undersigned." So, if the document didn't explicitly say that only he could choose the topics, and it only said the topics must be "chosen by the undersigned," then by the rules of his own legal masterpiece, I was also allowed to choose.
"Sheldon," I said, a wide, triumphant grin on my face, "I'll sign it. But I have one condition. We get to pick the topics. Or at least some of them."
His face, a moment ago a mask of self-satisfaction, now broke into a look of profound horror. "You… you can't!" he sputtered. "The clause clearly states that I get to pick the topics!"
"Ah, but it doesn't say that the topics can't be chosen by us," I said, a small, knowing smile on my face. "It just says that the topics must be 'intellectually stimulating' and 'chosen by the undersigned.' And since I'm also 'the undersigned,' I believe we have a legal precedent."
Paige, who had been listening to the conversation with a look of pure, unadulterated delight, let out a short, bark-like laugh. Sheldon's face, a second ago pale, now broke into a look of pure, unadulterated panic. He was trapped. By his own rules.
"So," I said, a mischievous glint in my eye, "since we have to have a mandatory, pre-scheduled, and intellectually stimulating conversation, how about we start with the philosophical implications of reality television?"
Sheldon's face went from pale to ghostly white. He looked like he had just seen a ghost. "The… the reality television? The… the endless parade of vapid, insipid human interaction?" he stuttered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and indignation. "But… but they're not… they're not intellectually stimulating! They're a series of manufactured conflicts and scripted drama with no discernible plot!"
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Sheldon," I said, a wide, triumphant grin on my face. "The shows are a commentary on the nature of human tribalism, the human condition, and the arbitrary nature of a universe governed by chaos. It's a masterpiece of modern social observation. And we're going to discuss it. For a full two hours. Every single day."
Paige, unable to contain her laughter, collapsed onto the couch, her face buried in a pillow. Sheldon, in a moment of pure, unadulterated horror, let out a small, pained wail and retreated back to his apartment, the addendum a crumpled mess in his hands. I looked at Paige, a triumphant grin on my face. "That, my friend," I said, "is how you get a taste of your own medicine."