Mesarchia (mes-ar’-chi-a): The repetition of the same word or words at the beginning and middle of successive sentences.
I drove a truck. I drove a truck to hell and back. I drove the truck wherever I could get asphalt, dirt, or concrete under my tires. My truck was a mansion dedicated to St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, keeping them safe and from getting lost. Behind my seat I had my sleeping chateau. When I was done driving, or tired, I retreated to the chateau. It was completely dark—not a shred of light. It was soundproofed—I could pull over anywhere and shut ‘er down for some shut eye. I had a water bed with black satin sheets and pillowcases. I slept under a Spider-Man comforter in my Carlos Santana pajamas imprinted with “A Black Magic Women” from the song—which I love. My mattress sat on a hinged lid with an electric motor that raised and lowered it. Underneath was a tanning bed I used to keep from getting a prison tan—a hazard of truck driving, where your cab can be likened to a cell. I had a 35” plasma TV at the foot of my bed where I could pick up Amazon Prime, and local programming. There’s a weight-lifting set at the head of my bed, which I use for bench pressing. There’s also a reading light. Currently, I’m reading Hemingway’s “Men Without Women.” The ceiling has a moon roof I can open and watch stars at night—I love counting shooting stars. But, when I close it, it completely blocks out the light.
In the cab, I have a microwave and a mini fridge, and a two-burner stove built into the dashboard where I make coffee and hot coco, and sometimes, soup. I eat mainly microwave dinners, so I don’t have any dishes—just a couple of bowls. My truck’s name (painted booth fenders) is “Flying Iron.” I like to think of my truck as capable flight. Then, I could pick up and deliver across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans—to England and Malaysia. But, I’m just a cross-country trucker, a prisoner of RTE 80. I know every inch of it, every piece of unpicked-up litter, and enduring, unmoving, roadkills.
Driving at night across desolate stretches of RTE 80 can make you start seeing things that may not, or may, actually be there, like outside Winslow, AZ. It’s like the moon with underbrush. It was around 3:00 am and I was headed for Tahoe, a pretty good stretch. A turquoise 1961-or so Corvair panel truck came shooting out of the sky and landed in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and jumped out. Richard Nixon stepped out of the panel truck wearing lederhosen with a white shirt, vintage hiking boots, a German alpine hat with a feather in it, and an American flag pin pinned to his lederhosen’s suspenders. He said, “I’m not a crook.” Then raised two hands in peace signs, got back in the Corvair, and out stepped what was clearly a space alien.
He looked like he was made from Navy Blue modeling clay. His eyes were tiny little red beads that were very shiny. He was at least 7 feet tall and wearing lederhosen and a feather hat like Nixon’s. He didn’t need hiking boots—his feet were hiking boots. He said: “Nixon is doing well. He still insists he’s innocent. I have failed to change his mind, but we believe he is lying. Sometimes my job as intergalactic Nixon minder is boring. We’ve just been to the dark side of the moon to a music festival. There we are and Nixon’s walking around passing out his “I’m not a crook” flyers. He paused, though, when the (translated) “Pings” started playing (translated) “Outer Space.” The song questions the hegemonic foundation of the ethnocentric naming of my habitat, i.e., “Outer Space.” He told me that “outer” implies an origin that privileges a place in the universe.”
Suddenly, there was a flash of bright blue light and the Corvair was gone. I got back in Flying Iron and sat there, trying to make sense of what I just experienced. I couldn’t. So, I put the key in the ignition, started my truck, and headed for Tahoe. First, I stuck the feather I had found by my truck into the sun visor. It looked familiar.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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