I’m reading your book

“I’m reading your book,” my Aunt Toogie piped up over breakfast.

 

I interpreted her remark as trendy agreement with an explanation I had just delivered on my plan to add more starting pitchers to my fantasy baseball lineup. As the season nears its close, this maneuver will preserve my lead in innings pitched. I launched into a compliment of her fantasy baseball skills when my lovely wife, Grace, interrupted.

 

“I think she means my ladies’ book club book. The one about Wallis Simpson and King Edward, although his real name was David.”

 

“I’m not talking about either of those. I’m reading your book!” Toogie declared, holding up a copy of “Dalton and Grace, Whimsical Short Stories of Life in Charleston.”

 

“How nice,” Grace cooed. “Did you buy it on Amazon?”

 

“Shucks, no,” Toogie shot back. “I got it from that box of books in Dalton’s man cave.”

 

“I was going to give those, you know, to ... some family ... and friends,” I stammered, realizing as I said it that my aunt fit the definition.

 

Toogie just smiled and then said softly, “Well, I took care of one delivery for you.” When I didn’t reply, she added, “And I need some more for my pickleball group.”

 

“How nice,” Grace remarked again.

 

“You play pickleball?” I gasped, trying to visualize her hopping around that tiny tennis court while also trying to gauge how many more books I’d have to give her.

 

After a pause, she lowered her eyebrows a tad and growled, “Plus, I got a bone to pick with you.” When I didn’t respond again, she added, “I don’t chortle.”

 

“You don’t what, dear?” Grace asked

 

“Chortle,” Toogie replied. “He says I chortle,” she hollered, pointing a finger at me. “Right here; in this book. A whole bunch of times!”

 

Seeking to temper the tumult, Grace interjected, “It may be artistic license. You know how Dalton uses hyperbole at times to amplify his stories.”

 

“Hyper-what?” I inquired, tilting my head toward Grace.

 

“She said sometimes you lie,” Toogie chortled (make that giggled), rising to refill her coffee cup. When she returned to the table, she moved the discussion down a new path. “You gonna make any money off this caper?”

 

“Well,” I began, not sure how deep to go into the topic, “we will get royalties on book sales.”

 

“How much?”

 

“A few bucks.”

 

“Hmm,” she mused, adding, “How much of that do I get?”

 

I thought my reply was clever, forming a circle with my thumb and forefinger, but it only added fuel to the fire. 

 

“Nothing?” she roared. “For all my contribution?”

 

“What contribution? I wrote the stories and Grace edited them,” I replied.

 

“I’m in over half those stories,” Toogie retorted. “You wouldn’t have much without me.”

 

Realizing I needed to nip this nonsense in the bud, I stated firmly, “Read my lips. Nothing. Nada!”

 

“Okay, how about nil?” Toogie asked.

 

“Nil is good, too,” I answered.

 

“So let me get this straight,” Toogie declared, rubbing her chin. “Are you saying you are giving me nil?”

 

“Yep!” I grinned, now feeling in control of the situation.

 

Toogie nodded her head a few times, widened her eyes, and inquired slowly, “You do know what NIL is, right?”

 

“Yeah,” I replied, again holding up my thumb and forefinger circle, “Zero. Zilch.”

 

“Not so fast my numbskull nephew!” Toogie shot back. “‘NIL’ stands for name, image, and likeness.”

 

“For what?”

 

“College athletes now get paid when their schools use their name, image, or likeness,” Toogie explained. “They refer to it as NIL.”

 

“They make money off this?” 

 

“The kid who is quarterback at Alabama is already a millionaire, and he’s a freshman.”

 

Caught off guard, I finally managed, “Well, this is a book. It isn’t football.”

 

“The legal concept sure seems the same to me,” Toogie proffered. “And Grace is my witness that you agreed to NIL.” 

 

I was too stunned to respond as Toogie proceeded toward her closing argument. “I’ll have to talk this over with Brevard. He knows a lot of legal bigwigs downtown.” Holding our “Dalton and Grace” book and waving it back and forth, she concluded with, “And, I’m pretty sure he’ll be mad as a hornet when he reads how you portrayed

him here in Exhibit A.” 

 

“Are you ... you ... my very own aunt ... saying you would take me to, like, court over this?” I stammered.

 

“Unless we can negotiate my commission, I just might. And if I do, I’d bet you a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle that the jury will throw the book at you,” Toogie chortled.