Conventional Misdeeds

It was that day where I had learned several important lessons about life . . . 

I had maneuvered through the pedestrian traffic of the Capital, retrieved my entry pass and ID numbers from the ticket booth, raced into the modernized, warehouse-type convention center, and charged into the auditorium just in time to hear the introduction for the fabulous event. “Here in the majestic city of Washington D.C., we’ve got great lawyers, great whiners, and last but not least, great complainers! Hello, litigious plaintiffs! Accusatory prosecutors! All and sundry here with us today for this wickedly awesome day! Welcome to the first annual Suing Convention!” A cheer erupted from the lively crowd of suited suers that were seated.

“I am Wilson Wilson, your beloved host for today!” The crowd roared, rising from their seats to applaud the announcer. Now, Wilson Wilson was a tall man, with a stretched face that one would get from having plastic surgery one too many times. Upon his head laid a failed attempt at concealing the effects of aging. Wisps of grey hairs sprouted from his scalp and chin, as his hairline seemed to inch away from his forehead. His nose, once round and crooked, was now a single point emerging from his face. Wilson smiled, showing every one of his blanched teeth and not a single wrinkle. 

“Today’s convention is packed to the brim with amazing events all about⸺suing! We’ve got suing-themed food and suing-themed drinks. Suing-themed music and suing-themed games. And the one thing you’ve all been waiting for . . .” He paused for excessive but necessary dramatic effect. “The Suependous Sprint!”

“Are you ready?” Wilson shouted, his voice cracking from the effort. The crowd screamed. “I said: Are. You. Ready?”

I leaped from my seat, my voice going hoarse from screaming. My hands were now red from the ample amount of clapping I had gotten in whenever I could. This event was the epitome of suing, and I had spent the last 168 hours preparing for this very moment: I had run through town until my legs hurt, watching for any sign of misdeed; scrutinized the book Sue the Bastards, identifying the main points and the details; got under people’s skin, hoping they’d make even the smallest mistake; and spied on, what I call, “the enemy.”

Wilson raised his hand, the shouts turning into not-so-quiet whispers.

“Today, fifty felicitous suers will be randomly picked from my trust: mister ol’ tophat here from my days as a lawyer. It’s full of mothballs, cat saliva, and an old man’s hair, but it should do the trick.” He sniffed the hat, immediately gagging afterward. 

“Please identify the ID number that you were given on your way in, as this will be involved in the method of selection. The winner will receive this shiny trophy right here that I did definitely not buy from the dollar store this morning, and four thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars and forty-nine point seven cents! How about that?” The people around me went silent, for they attempted to comprehend how someone could award them point seven cents. Meanwhile, I enthusiastically pounded my hands together.

Wilson’s smile dimmed ever so slightly, though it recovered almost instantaneously. “Well, then. Let’s get to the picking, shall we?”

I released an excited, high-pitched scream, turning the heads of my fellow suers. Brigham Mcmaan, My mind whispered, Brigham Mcmaan. Wait, wasn’t it by ID numbers?

“89032,” Wilson called. I scrambled to pull my ticket from my wool coat, only finding spare candy wrappers and sticky notes. In the meantime, a thin, scrawny man had scrambled up to the heavily lit stage. He wore a sharp, custom-tailored suit that contrasted his sagging face.

“Your name, son?” He asked.

“Alphonse Eierkuchen,” the man stated, his voice overflowing with contempt.

“Thank you Alpon-e Ee-er-cu-han.” Wilson Wilson was struggling with this man’s name. My name would certainly roll off his tongue like an ice cube.

“98327,” Wilson said as I fiercely shook my coat, sending oreo cookie crumbs flying across the room.

“Bibina Rodriguez.” A lean man grunted, his eyes hidden behind his greasy, long hair. I was becoming desperate, now dumping my belongings onto the carpeted floor. The ground surrounding me was now littered with candy wrappers, spare dollar-bills, crumpled sheets of paper in the case of a suing emergency. I was now standing in the center of a trash halo. My fellow suers slowly shifted in their seats, inching away from what seemed to be a sociopathic, narcissistic weirdo by the name of Brigham Mcmaan.

“43287.”

“38084.”

“83478.”

“01834”

“Hatcher Rose.” One contestant answered.

“Sariti Arora.” Said another. One by one came another. And another. And another. I had emptied my pockets, nothing. 

Only five left.

“Ria Ramirez.” A woman said, blinking rapidly.

Four left.

I dug through my jeans, aware of the stares from my neighboring suers. I pulled out a small card, a set of numbers written on the front. 39481, 39481. 

“73894.”

39481, 39481.

“87492.”

39481, 39481.

“32789.” 

39481, 39481.

“39481.” I opened my eyes as the world went still around me. I raced down the stairs, jumping up and down like a child that had just bought ten packs of cotton candy, after escaping from their parents, that is.

“Yes! Yes! I’m the great Brigham Youngs, the one you’ve all been waiting for. The most experienced and detailed suer in the field! Feel free to call me Brigs. And if any of you need suing assistance, just dial my suing hotline at 703-183-1222.” The auditorium had once again fallen silent, staring at me in a state of somewhat mild shock. I cleared my throat, “Forgive me, go on.” 

“That concludes our Suependous Sprint selection!” Wilson Wilson glanced at the clock, mounted in the front of the stage for timekeeping purposes. “Oh geez, that ol’ tophat was pretty inefficient. At the next annual convention we’ll use the digital program.” Wilson Wilson proclaimed. 

“Alright, contestants, please transfer your attention to the projector. These are the guidelines for today’s epic game. There are only four, so, for those of you suers with short term memory loss, we’ve kept you guys in mind. One, you can only sue in this town; two, you can’t sue your competitors; three, you must return to this auditorium in precisely seven hours; four, follow the rules one, two, and three.”

The audience watched without a word, their eyes wide with anticipation. I shifted my feet, preparing to run.

“Three!” Wilson shouted, “Two! One! Go!”

All the contestants burst out of their seats and raced towards the exit of the building at once. I ran towards Lafayette Square, my eyes darting around the plaza. A car drove by, moving rather slowly. I paused, squinting at the tinted window. The woman’s fingers tapped rapidly against the screen, her eyes flicking to the road then back to the phone. Without a moment’s hesitation, I sprinted towards the road, waving my arms maniacally.

“Stop!” I shouted, “Wait, stop!” The woman didn’t seem to hear, for she was viciously tapping on her screen while waiting for the light to turn green. I leaped up onto the hood of her BMW and observed a small dent forming beneath me. Then I proceeded to rap her windshield. “Open up, open up. It’s the BMSA, the Brigham McMaan Suing Agency.”

She reluctantly rolled down her window, slipping the phone into her pocket.

I cleared my throat, “Unfortunately for you: I caught you texting while driving, an illegal act that can put you and others in danger while on the road. Much to my dismay, I must ask for your name and fifty dollars as well.”

The light switched to green as the woman glared at me, “No.” 

“I’ll go file my claim; thank you for your participation, mam,” I shouted after her as she vanished into the teeming crowd of motorized vehicles. I turned away, straightening my suit jacket, and scrambled back onto the sidewalk. “Well, that went well.”

In the nook of my ear, I caught the wistful melody of a violin tune. I turned around and observed a bulky man playing. The beguiling piece had entranced me, and I strutted towards him. His setup was considerably simple; a sheet music stand, a mic, a speaker, and a violin case on the ground filled with dollar bills. The music came to an end, finishing with a long, slow note. He bowed, putting away the folded papers.

Clapping, I bent down, placing a dime into the velvet case. As I did so, the violinist pulled out a piece of watermarked paper. The words “Preview Only” written in grey glared back at me. I ripped the pernambuco wood bow from his meaty fingers and threw it upon the ground.

“Excuse me, sir, I have reason to believe that you are infringing upon Title 17 of the United States Code, the Copyright Act of 1976.” I stated, “You may face legal ramifications of up to $30,000. Please hold my hand, and I will escort you to the police station.”

I smiled, glancing around me for a sign of approval. However, I was met by disapproving whispers and critical glares from the others. Meters away, a thin man strolled up to a trumpet player seated on a bench.

He waited for the man to finish the jazzy piece before approaching him. “Forgive me for taking up your time, sir.” He said politely, “Your playing is absolutely lovely, but your sheet music, unfortunately, is illegal. I won’t pressure you to pay any huge fines; ten dollars is all I ask you to pay.” The trumpet player nodded, mumbling, “Forgive me, I didn’t know,” under his breath.

Those civilized ways are for the weak, better to be barbaric and efficient, I thought, before setting off to bring justice to this city.

***

“Welcome back, my fellow suers!” Wilson Wilson shouted into the microphone, “You ready to announce our Suependous Sprint?”

The audience whooped like lunatics, my voice heard above them all.

“Our fifty contestants have had seven hours to sue as many wrongly citizens as possible. But only one can take home the crown.” A tense silence crept through the room. “In third, we have Hatcher Rose, with eleven sues!” The crowd clapped, though not nearly as loud as before.

“In second, we got . . . Alphonse Eierkuchen, with seventeen sues!” More clapping and cheering. I held my breath, my knuckles going white in my lap.

“And in first, we have . . . drumroll please.” The audience rapidly beat their palms against their thighs. “Brigham Mcmaan, with twenty-nine sues!” The crowd went wild, leaping from their seats as they pumped their fists into the air. I skipped up to the stage and held the gold trophy above my head, releasing a loud “Whoop!”

The doors burst open, revealing a mob of raging defendants. They carried posters of all sizes with the words “Mind Your Own Business” and “We Want Refunds” written in red, as they shouted, “screw those suers” to our faces. A woman strutted up to me: her phone tucked safely in her pocket.

“Unfortunately for you, I caught you suing multiple people while charging an unfairly high fine. Much to my dismay, I must ask for your name and five-hundred fifty dollars as well.”

***

“Do you concur that you incorrectly sued twenty-nine defendants?” The man asked.

I sagged in my seat, “Yes, sir.” It had been a week since the convention, and it seems that someone filed a claim against me. Even though I was a professional plaintiff, I had never once thought to practice defending myself. Here I was, stuck in a circuit court.

“Do you acknowledge that there are specific steps that must be taken to sue someone?”

“Yes, sir,” I grumbled, practically disappearing beneath the table.

“Very well then, you can escort yourself out with a fine of four thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars and forty-nine point seven cents.”

I grunted, heading towards the glass doors of the court building. A car sped by, the figure of a texting person barely visible through the tinted glass. I squeezed my briefcase, my eyes following the car. Then I headed down the streets, no longer concerning myself with the matters of misdeeds.