Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

He was like a bee gathering pollen from Hog Weed.

He had spent 3 years in the Army as an enlisted man. He was used to taking orders, not giving them. You couldn’t just say “Meet me at the mall.” You had to say “Convey yourself in your motorized transport vehicle to the west end parking lot, exit your vehicle and make your way to the portal marked ‘Entrance.’ Take 25 steps and turn north. Proceed to the fountain in front of you. I will be positioned at 11:00 o’clock on the ledge circling the fountain, with Dick’s marking 12:00.”

I put it in writing. As I handed him the paper, he said, “I appreciate the written documentation, but I’m afaraid I’ll lose it. Can you just tell it to me again so I’m sure to follow your orders? I’m a good listener.”

Actually, he was like a slug in blue jeans. He was like a piece of gum that needed to be scraped off the floor. He needed to get out of the habit of needing a book, or a spreadsheet, or a roadmap to tell him what to do.

His retraining began at my house. I thought I could help him. He was sleeping over. I was going to say “Time for bed” to kick things off. We had just finished watching “Barbie.” It was 11:30. I looked at him and said “Time for bed Carl.” He looked at me with a blank look on his face—like a dog who had lost its hearing—like he knew I wanted him to do something, but he didn’t know what. So, I said it again: “It’s time for bed.” He started squirming around and scratching his armpit. I wondered what the hell that was about. Acting like nothing weird was going on, Carl asked me to give him a couple minutes while he got a drink of water from the kitchen. I said “Roger that.” He headed into the kitchen. The next thing I knew, I heard the kitchen door slam. I looked out the window, and there was Carl running down the driveway carrying my toaster oven. That was it. I took off after him. He dropped the toaster oven and climbed a small apple tree. I hit him over the head with the toaster oven and knocked him unconscious. I ran back to my house a got a roll of duct tape. He was coming to just as I got back to the tree. I grabbed him and wrapped duct tape around his wrists, behind his back. Then, I marched him back to my house and sat him down on the couch. I asked him: “What the hell is going on?” With great effort, sweating, eyeballs popping, he answered my question.

“There is a psychological disorder endemic to the military. It is called Obedient Solider Syndrome (OSS). It happens when a soldier becomes obsessively concerned with following orders and cannot do what he is expected to do unless it is spelled out in great detail. These soldiers end up in a Psych ward, and subsequently, they are discharged. I am one of them.

I have a particularly acute case of OSS and the VA will be employing me to write instructions for shampoo bottles, assembly manuals, for camping tents, and lawnmowers, recipes for cookbooks, and myriad other things where my malady is a benefit. I thought, “This is the craziest bullshit I ever heard.” I asked Carl: “Are you going to get help for your condition?” He asked, “Can you be more explicit?”

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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