Antitheton

Antitheton (an-tith’-e-ton): A proof or composition constructed of contraries. Antitheton is closely related to and sometimes confused with the figure of speech that juxtaposes opposing terms, antithesis. However, it is more properly considered a figure of thought (=Topic of Invention: Contraries [a topic of invention in which one considers opposite or incompatible things that are of the same kind (if they are of different kinds, the topic of similarity / difference is more appropriate). Because contraries occur in pairs and exclude one another, they are useful in arguments because one can establish one’s case indirectly, proving one’s own assertion by discrediting the contrary]).

The full moon was like a pitted rock hanging in the sky. Its beams of light were soft and bright, casting shadows across the mall parking lot. The street lights’ shadows stretched across the asphalt making it seem like daytime. I had been sitting there for an hour, waiting for Becky, waiting for our bi-monthly romp at the “Gallopin’ Rabbit” motel. We were both married. We were both wicked. I had met Becky at church. She sat close to me, touching me. When we stood to sing the hymn, she squeezed my butt cheek and stuffed a business card in my back pocket. My wife didn’t even notice. She was too busy praising the Lord.

When I got home, I read the card: “Lookin’ for love in all the wrong places. Becky: 214–555-6969.” Should I call her? If I do, it will probably end badly. But, I would miss out on the pleasures of the flesh that surely awaited me with Becky. i thought it might ruin my marriage. But I laughed to myself—“My marriage is already ruined. Haha.”

So I called her and we met at the Gallopin’ Rabbit. We went wild. The room’s windows were steamed up and I learned two new positions—the “Merry-Go-Round” and “Mozart’s Banana.” My life was complete. Becky had become my shelter in life’s storms.

We were going to meet tonight in my car to discuss the possibly of divorcing our spouses and getting married.

Suddenly there was a bump on my car’s rear bumper. I thought it was Becky fooling around. It wasn’t. It was a red 1960 Plymouth. I recognized it because it was the first car I ever loved as a kid. A short man with a foot long white beard wearing a New York Yankees uniform got out of the Plymouth. I got out of my car and walked up to him. He punched me in the nose and yelled “You’re wreckin’ your life boy. You’re on the highway to hell. Forget about Becky. Play ball with me and you’ll be Ok. I’m Yogi’s grandfather. Would I lie?”

Just then, Becky pulled up. She and the old man got in his car and drove away, burning rubber. I just stood there. I thought about chasing them down, but, then I thought “Why bother. I don’t want her any more. She’s no good.” Then the Plymouth flew overhead with the Shirelles blasting “Will you still love me tomorrow.” That was like another punch in the nose, but the flying Plymouth erased all my doubts about everything I ever doubted. Nobody would believe me when I told them about it. I gave up and stopped caring.

One day when I was headed out to work, I saw Becky dead on my front lawn. She was wearing a short black dress and red high heels. She looked like she had fallen from the sky. Her neck and back were broken. I knew exactly what had happened, but I wasn’t going to tell anybody. I reported it to the police and went to work. Later that day I was called in for questioning. The police had found a nude photograph of me tucked in Becky’s bra. I was arrested and tried for murder. In the newspaper it was called the “Front Lawn Murder.” I got off on a technicality. I had a nervous breakdown and am currently under care at “Root and Branch Home for Total Lunatics.” One of the orderlies is a short old man with a foot-long white beard. Whenever we cross paths he points at me laughs and I yell “Murderer!”

I was finally allowed to go on a home visit. When I got there in a cab, I saw a red 1960 Plymouth back out of the driveway and run over the spot where Becky had fallen from the sky. The Shirelles were playing on the radio. I got out of the cab, walked to the front door and rang the doorbell. My wife answered the door wearing a scanty nightgown, surely from Frederick’s of Hollywood. She said, “I wasn’t expecting you.” I took her by the hand and walked into the kitchen, turned on the blender and stuck her hand in it. We told the insurance company it was an accident. She was remorseful about the bearded man and told me she would never tell how I was responsible for the loss of her left hand. Then, I heard a horn honking in the driveway. It was the red 1960 Plymouth. I ran upstairs and got my .45 so I could blow the bastard away. By the time I got downstairs, he was gone. There was a note in the driveway: “I hope you’re enjoying my twin brother’s company at Root and Branch. Haha. Lunatic.”

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

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