Infringed

2/20/2024

“Do you take this man to be your husband, to love and cherish, to keep in sickness and in health, to honor and comfort, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?”

Our eyes lock and I am struck speechless, lost in her hazel green eyes and radiant smile. I find myself there for who knows how long, lost in her beauty as everything around me fades away. There is just her and I, as warmth spreads throughout my entire soul, and the one, constant, thought running through my mind is “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with this woman.”

“I do,” the bride says, drawing me out of my musings and bringing me back to reality.

The future love of my life winks at me before turning her attention back to her sister and the groom sharing a kiss. The crowd around me breaks out into a cheer as I belatedly find myself clapping along, my mind still not quite with it, as if I find myself in a fog.

A fog of lust judging by the state of my pants.

Hey-yo!

After much hand shaking, picture taking, food eating, speech reciting, and overall fun, I finally find myself standing in the reception hall face to face with the most beautiful woman in the world. She gives me a fleeting kiss on the cheek and hands me my seventh glass of champagne, which I promptly swallow in one ginormous gulp.

What? Champagne is simply carbonated flavored water.

“I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to come to my baby sister’s wedding with me, especially with such late notice,” she praises for the umpteenth time, causing me to blush, unused to beautiful women praising me. “Who would have thought? Hitting you with a dart one night, and days later you’re at a wedding filled with hundreds of people you don’t know… Why did you agree, again?”

She’s laughing as she asks, but her laughter is cut awkwardly short as I answer with all sincerity, “Because you asked.”

Yeah, I may have it bad.

The smile I get in return strikes me dumb, once more, as the two of us simply stand there staring at one another. If I weren’t so lost in her eyes I’d probably think we looked pretty foolish but as far as I was concerned there were only two of us here at this moment in time.

Suddenly music can be heard as the DJ gets on the microphone and introduces the first dance. The vision to my side gently places her arm into the crook of my elbow and allows me to guide her to the edge of the dance floor, no words were spoken, no words were needed. I knew what she wanted and simply led the way.

After the traditional dances the dance floor opened up to one and all, and again, without missing a beat I held my hand out to her and asked, “Would you care to dance?”

I feel like Augustus Gloop slurping chocolate from the river. Sure I was going to end up in pain and misery, and my diabetes was going to be running amok, but in this brief moment I was in heaven. Pure bliss. It was time for shock and awe.

Twirling around to the beat of some classical ditty, the vision in my arms begins to laugh joyfully, looking at me with wonder in her eye. “How is it that you dance so well?”

“When I was fifteen, full of hormones and a room covered in crusty socks, my mom told me the quickest way into a ladies britches was through dance,” I chuckled as her eyes grow wider and her smiles grew bigger. “She says showing them what you can do on the dance floor gives them an idea of what you can do in the bedroom.”

“Was she right?” Malibu asks, with a mischievous gleam in her eye.

“Pretty much,” I begin innocently enough, before following up with, “You’ll get about two minutes of fun, then I’ll be out of breath, covered in sweat, and wanting a good long nap. You’ll be looking for your next partner, wondering if perhaps you should just bite the bullet and dance with another woman for once.”

It takes a moment but when it sinks in she begins to laugh uproariously, causing some around us to look at her with disapproval. She slaps my arm playfully as I simply glide along smiling triumphantly.

“How do you know I’ve never danced with another woman before?” The question catches me off guard, and once again the two of us are laughing hysterically.

We continue to dance the night away, talking and laughing the entire time. Hours pass, my feet normally would be screaming in agony, threatening mutiny. My body would be curled in a ball of pain and discomfort, my belly rumbling in hunger, and my balls would be bluer than that dog from that kid’s show. But instead I’m on cloud nine, bouncing around on the balls of my toes to the rhythm of Taylor Swift. Twirling around to the sounds of Bach. Swing dancing to the tunes of JD McPherson. Line dancing to the tunes of Copperhead Road.

Come on, I’m a Texan, of course I can fucking line dance.

But as they say, all good things must come to an end, and tonight long after the bride and groom have been sent off amidst a swarm of bubbles, and the drunken guests have been carried to their Uber, my date and I share a warm embrace and a light kiss on the lips before heading off into the sunset.

As I walk towards my car I can’t help but hum the tune “(I've Had) The Time of My Life” by Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes, picturing that scene in Dirty Dancing where I lift her up in the air above my head..

Out of nowhere, just as I was about to start singing out loud I hear a faint, but familiar, voice “This could be looooove!”

Yes it could.

—-----------------------

3/4/2024

“Welcome to the law offices of Taylor, Thompson, and Taylor,” the bubbly receptionist greets as Annabelle and I walk into the plushily decorated office building. “How may I assist you today?”

“I’m here to talk to Mr. Taylor about a case of identity theft!” I sputter, spittle flying out of my incensed mouth, my face flush with Chicago Bulls red hot anger.

“This is soooooooo stupid,” Annabelle mutters under her breath, but just loud enough for me to hear. Typical of a teenager, talking shit just loud enough so you can hear it but soft enough to claim ignorance if called out.

The receptionist smiles while rising from her chair, having verified the appointment with a quick glance at the computer monitor in front of her. “Right, please if you will, follow me. And if I could get either one of you a drink, please just say the word.”

“May I have some water please?” Belle asks nicely, flashing an appreciative smile at the woman, as we enter a large conference room with a massive table that could easily seat 18 people. Or 6 my size.

“Good afternoon” the nasally voice of my attorney, Michael, don’t call me Mike, Taylor, greets, as he enters the room as we were taking our seats. “I have to admit when we talked over the phone, your case intrigued me. I’m not quite sure I’ve ever heard of someone suing another person for gimmick infringement before.”

After a limp wristed handshake the four piece suit wearing lawyer primly takes a seat in a chair across the table. “I’ve seen cases before where the infringement is on a product being sold, but again, never with an actual person.”

“Well, I don’t know what to do here,” I spit out, still overwhelmed with the rage bubbling in the pit of my stomach. “Every time I see his face it’s like looking in a mirror. Every time I hear his voice I think to myself, “I don’t remember saying that.” The things he does are the things I would do! The situations he finds himself in are the same situations I find myself in! I swear, it’s like he’s embedded a chip in my brain and knows exactly what I’m going to do before I do it!”

Annabelle is rolling her eyes, while swishing her chair side to side, her body language is one of impatience and annoyance. I ignore her, after also ignoring her ramblings of discord for the last three days as she told me not to follow this line of thinking, and how it would simply be a waste of time and money.

“Did you bring any hard copy evidence like I instructed?” Michael asks, leaning forward hungrily as I lay the thick manila folder onto the table.

Flipping the folder open, his eyes grow wide as picture after mouth watering picture of various foods are shown. The details captured in the photographs are intricate and delicious.

“I am so sorry,” I profusely apologize as I haphazardly reach out and grab the pictures, shoving them in the folder as quickly as I can, face now flush with embarrassment rather than anger. “I can’t believe I did that. Oh man, I must have grabbed the wrong folder this morning when we left. The evidence folder must still be on my bedside table.”

The lawyer’s eyes flash to me, and I can see the thoughts running through his head. Why would I keep a folder of food on my bedside table? What would the purpose be?

I answer before he has a chance to ask. “You’ve heard of a spank bank, yeah?” To which he nods, afraid of where I’m going with this. “Well, this is my food bank.”

I take the folder and set it aside, oblivious to the look of incredulity on his face. With the folder tucked away I grab my phone and with a quick, but complicated password entry of “1, 3, 6, 9” I open the photo gallery, sliding the phone over to the lawyer, who is almost afraid to take it.

“I got these from my PI just this morning and I haven’t had a chance to make hard copies yet.” I inform him as he swipes through the series of pictures.

Fred Dick jumping on a trampoline holding a television.

Fred Dick upside down in mid front flip. There would be loads of this one.

Fred Dick botching a gainer.

The lawyer looks from the pictures to me, back to the pictures, a look of absolute confusion on his face. As if he’s asking, “What the fuck am I looking at?”

“I KNOW!” I scream in outrage, as if we were all on the same page. “I don’t get it. Why is he on a trampoline!? Everyone knows you don’t get the same trajectory or bounce in a bouncy house as you would a trampoline. If he were going to prepare for our match shouldn’t he at least find a house with a bouncy castle?” I explain the obvious to my lawyer to which my daughter simply shakes her head, once more, “But anyway, that’s the man who’s trying to infringe upon my gimmick and steal my identity.”

Michael Taylor has been a lawyer for over 20 years, he’s seen just about everything you can imagine, but in all his years I don’t think Michael Taylor has ever met a client quite like me.

“Tell him why you think he’s infringing upon your gimmick, Dad.” Annabelle says, with a smirk on her face, as if telling the lawyer “Just wait for it…”

“1. He’s fat, 2. He’s dumb as a rock. 3. He’s overtly sexual. 4. He has a favorite color, and everything about him revolves around that color. 5. He sucks at wrestling, but he’s gotten lucky with the draw. 6. He’s somehow undefeated. 7. He’s a lovable loser. 8. “

I’m interrupted as the lawyer leans forward and slides my phone back towards me with the tip of his finger, as if it’s poisonous. He looks between my daughter and I, before shaking his head sadly. Without a word he rises from his chair and pauses, again looking at me with an indiscernible look on his face. Then, still without saying a word, he turns and walks back towards his office.

“Where’s he going?” I ask Annabelle rhetorically, “should we follow him? Does he need to go draw up the paperwork? Are the odds of us winning so good he’s speechless?”

“I think he’s going back to his office to call his mom and tell her she was right, he should have gone to medical school like she said,” Annabelle offers while rising out of her own chair, clapping me on the shoulder reassuringly. “Come on Pop, let’s get out of here.”

“Maybe we should see one of his partners?” I offer as I follow her out the door, but refusing to give up on the idea. I mean, why should I give up, I’ve been infringed!

“Dad, I get it, you’re worried about losing your streak so you’re scrambling,” she looks at me with concern on her face while the two of us stand in the elevator. “Grasping at straws, looking for whatever loop hole you can find.. Google Docs says 3,560, the site says 3,500, maybe we should stop looking to win on a technicality and start focusing on actually winning a match legitimately?”

“Ugh, it’s like you’re not even my kid anymore!” I mutter as the elevator doors open.

—-------------------------

3/9/2024

I couldn’t remember the last time I went on an actual date. I mean, the wedding was one thing, but I didn’t really consider it a traditional date. It was more like a favor for a friend. But today? Today we were meeting up at a place called the Bouncy Bear.

Sounds like a gay club, but it was actually an indoor jump place. Picture this, a giant retail center filled wall to wall, floor to ceiling with a myriad of bouncy houses, castles, obstacle courses, even pedestals with a giant inflatable pole that whirls around while you have to leap over it, or eat shit.

This place was a little kid’s wet dream, and today we were there to train, I mean play.

I have to admit, when I saw the pictures of Fred jumping on the trampoline, the light bulb came on and I realized if I’m about to compete in a bouncy castle match I ought to at least prepare with an actual bouncy house!

When I mentioned this on the phone, she thought it sounded like fun and basically invited herself along. I was just sad that Annabelle chose to stay behind with Doozer and Cancer, instead of coming with us. Something about a secret project that she was working on.

“Heeeeeey!” the intoxicating voice greets, causing me to spin suddenly as a giddy little giggly escapes me. “That sounded manly,” she laughingly chides as she comes up and gives me yet another fleeting kiss on the cheek. “Are you ready for some fun?”

I find myself at a loss for words when I’m with Malibu, like my brain takes a detour on its way to my mouth. So by the time I’m ready to say yes, we’re already inside and I’ve got my wallet in hand as the pimply faced sixteen year old behind the counter is giving us some odd looks.

“Uhm, where’s the kid?” the no-named, judgy eyed teenager asks, with a tone that would make Annabelle proud.

“He’s right here, obviously.” Malibu answers, doing a fine impression of Vanna White as she waves her arm in my direction. “It’s his birthday, he’s turning thirteen today.”

“Fourteen,” I corrected deadpan, causing her to nod.

“My mistake, he’s fourteen and all he’s been asking for is a nice long bounce or two.” Her words are filled with innuendo which cause my overworked heart to skip a beat.

“But he’s fat,” the teenager answers with disdain. “No offense of course, but if you jump in these they’ll not just pop, they’ll explode!”

“He’s not fat, he’s just a big ole cuddly teddy bear!” Malibu defends with some serious heat in her voice and a fire in her eye, as if she’s got no problem socking a child in the mouth. I have to admit, I’m about to have a situation that’s gonna get me kicked out of here and probably add my name on an exclusive list no one wants to find their name on!

“Listen, if I pop or damage any of these things, I’ll pay for them,” I promise while pulling out a credit card that Coral Avalon has been searching for for days. Ultimately the kid didn’t really give a shit.

After hurriedly kicking off our shoes, the two of us find ourselves amongst a sea of little urchins. Running from one house to the next, bouncing, jumping, bumping off the walls. At one point we even donned a pair of inflatable boxing gloves, and proceeded to beat the crap out of one another.

I took it easier on her for all of three seconds before she punched me square in the nose and laughed as my eyes began to water. Honestly, I should have known better, she is from Philadelphia.

After four hours of jumping we were finally forced to leave. Three bounce houses, two castles, and an inflatable rock wall had been destroyed. I don’t even think it was the destruction of property that caused our eviction, but rather crashing that six year old’s birthday party and eating their entire cake while no one was looking was our downfall.

In my defense, Malibu didn’t believe me when I told her I could eat an entire cake in one sitting. A man can’t let a challenge like that go unanswered. Sadly, in the end she won the argument after she pointed out I never sat down.

Running from the place hand in hand, her leading the way laughing like a maniac, I realized I was having the time of my life.

—------------------------------

Later That Night

Snuggled up on the couch, with a blanket draped across our laps, a massive bowl of popcorn perched between us, we flip through the channels, looking for a movie to watch.

The remote in her hand, as my hand shovels another mouthful of popcorn down my gullet, when she happens across a classic from 1996, starring Michael Jordan and Bugs Bunny.

“Wait!” I call out, looking at Space Jam as if the name should mean something.

“Really?” Malibu asks, looking at me as if I just shat myself on the couch. I’ve seen the look before, on other people’s faces, I know the expression well. “If you ask me to watch this garbage I may have to rethink our relationship going forward. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever dated a guy with special needs before, but I feel like that’s something that should have been discussed before now, don’t you think?”

“It’s not that, it’s just that a guy I work with talked a lot about this movie just the other day,” I explain, staring off as I try to remember. “I mean, a lot, A LOT. And well, I can’t remember if it was an actual conversation based in reality or if it was like a pot brownie dream, because it was sooooo far out there, I couldn’t make sense of it.”

She simply looks at me without saying a word and then turns back to the television and pushes the button, saying Fuck Space Jam without saying a word.

I notice her eyes shifting towards me, “you know Bobby, this being our second date and all, you know what’ll happen on the next one, yeah?” Her voice is playful and full of teasing anticipation, but my hands suddenly become clammy, and a kernel decides to travel down the wrong pipe causing me to choke and cough. She smiles like a minx as I quickly grab my nearby drink and proceed to spill more down the front of my shirt than I manage to get in my mouth.

“Perhaps after your next event we can meet up and have a celebratory meal?” she hints, with a gleam in her eye. “You know, if there’s something to celebrate that is…”

Her incessant teasing, and never ending search for the perfect movie to cap our night is interrupted as the door opens and a sweat covered Annabelle walks in, holding an ice pack to her side.

“Hey Pop, bye Pop,” Annabelle says without even looking in my direction, completely oblivious to the woman seated next to me on the couch. The door to her room slams shut as we exchange a look, as if we were children caught with our hands in the cookie jar.

The door to Belle’s room bursts back open and my daughter storms into the room, she demands, “Who’s that?”

“Your new mom?” I ask with a laugh.