Mesozeugma (me’-so-zyoog’-ma): A zeugma in which one places a common verb for many subjects in the middle of a construction.
I was going to the park, to the mall, to the community swimming pool, to Cliff’s, to the landfill. I suffered from Chronic Wandering Syndrome, or CWS. It is a curse. When I was a kid my parents would have to call the police for help finding me. They’d fan out all over town. They never found me in the same place twice. Once they found me in the walk-in humidor adjacent to the gas station on the Native American reservation. I loved the smell of cigar tobacco. Once they found me on top of the town water tower basking in the sun in my gym shorts. Once they found me under a picnic table in the town park. I was pretending to be a dog begging for table scraps while a family played along, feeding me a hot dog and some macaroni salad under the table while they enjoyed their meal together. The little boy named me Roscoe and I would yip when he called my name.
As I got older, my CWS worsened. I could ride my bicycle to wander. I never knew were I was going, but I always ended up somewhere, for better and for worse. The most memorable was the Hippy camp outside of town. It was called Rainbow Binge. At least 50 Hippies lived there—whole families and pets too. I met a girl named Potatochontas. She was beautiful. She had purple hair. She wore a dress made out of a flour sack and she was barefoot. She told me is was time for her to take her medicine. She asked me if I wanted some too. I said “Yes!” And she handed me a little piece of paper with the Disney character Goofy’s picture on it. “Just put it on your tongue,” she said. I did, and we sat there. About ten minutes later she turned into a giant bullet. I hugged her, hoping she would fire. She didn’t. Instead I became a bottle of raw milk and I was begging for her to shake me. She grabbed me by the neck and started shaking me up and down. She shook me too hard and I turned into a slice of American cheese, and then a Persian carpet decorated with Humvees and helicopters. She sat on me and wept. I needed to get out of there, but I did not know where I was going next. I got on my bike—it had turned into uncooked spaghetti. I rode away on it anyway, following the road’s white line, hoping I wouldn’t be killed. The police found me jumping up and down on a trampoline at “Lucky Bounce” trampoline park, wearing only gym shorts with a peace symbol painted on my chest.
I was institutionalized. My therapy consisted of “travel agency” where, before I was allowed to go anywhere, I had to tell my therapist where I was going, how long it would take to get there, why I’m going and when I will return. Given the range of destinations at “Mind Passages Mental Facility” there weren’t many opportunities to work on itinerary building, but I did my best. I did well at bathroom, my room and cafeteria. Then, my parents’ insurance ran out. I was discharged with a roadmap and a pair of very good quality walking shoes, but I didn’t know where to go, so I wandered off. My parents had given up. I knew they had stopped retrieving me. It was sad, but necessary. Anyway, I was 25 years old.
I wandered onto a university campus and into the Human Resources office. I told them I was wandering. “Oh, you must be Professor Wandering, the new hire in the English Department” said the receptionist. “We’ve been trying to reach you for a week. I’m glad you’re safe and sound. Your students are waiting for you in ADMIN 312. Your class ‘From Pixels To Pixies in Marshall McLuhan’s Gutenberg Galaxy’ looks fascinating. Good luck and welcome!” As I headed down the hall, I knew where I was going, and for better or worse, I wanted to go there! My first-ever desire for direction. It was magic. I lectured about the “Pixies” a 1960s all-women rock group whose “Goin’ it the Chapel of Love” critiques the commodification of love in post-printing press America. I got a standing ovation.
The real Professor Wandering never showed up. I hope he’s dead. At any rate, my wandering days ended at “Mr. Jones University. I lectured, I published, I served, I’m tenured. I keep my roadmap and walking shoes as reminders of my past and my sojourn at “Mind Passages.” Every once-in-awhile, just to stay in practice, I share my itinerary with my Secretary when I’m going to the library. She humors me and laughingly asks if I need a cab or a map.
Heading to the library, I see a slightly aged Potatochontas sitting in a flour sack dress on a bench in the hall. I am shocked, but filled with joy. There’s a toddler sitting next to her dressed in a flour sack too. Potatochontas smiles. We embrace. I look over my shoulder and the little girl says “Hi. You are my daddy. My name is Rose. Mommy loves you very much.”
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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