Epizeuxis: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for palilogia.
“Hope, hope, hope,” that’s what my friend Lyle yelled every time we took off for the Passaic River. We were ten years old and we had watched too much “Sgt. Preston of the Yukon, and His Faithful Husky King” on Saturday morning TV. I started calling my beagle King. His real name was Checkers, but he didn’t care.
Lyle and I had decided we should be gold miners like everybody on “Sgt. Preston.” The Passaic River ran past a golf course near where we lived. We took pie pans from our mothers’ kitchen cupboards. We practiced with the pie pans in my bathtub using marbles for gold nuggets. We got pretty good. The next day I hid my pie pan under my shirt, and my sock to hold nuggets in my back pocket, and headed for the door. My mother said from her chair, “Stop!” I thought I was caught, but she just wanted to give me a hug.
I rode my bike and met Lyle at the caddy shack and we took off across the street to the river. The banks were too high to pan, so we walked along the bank looking for a low spot. We walked past rusted shopping carts, a baby crib, a rotted mattress, and a lawn spreader. What a mess.
Then, we came to a low spot. It was sandy. We dug in our pie pans and swished the river water around. We did that for a half-hour to no avail when I hit something that looked like canvas. I pulled it out of the sand and rinsed it off. I instantly knew what it was! A mail pouch just like the one Sgt. Preston carried to Moosejaw once a week. Then, I noticed it said “Madison National Bank” across the front. On the back it said in big red letters “DEPOSITS.” The pouch was locked.
I pulled out my switchblade and flicked it open. It was illegal, but I carried it out of respect for my grandfather who had given it to me a couple of weeks ago on my tenth birthday. I slit open the pouch and a black balaclava fell out along with a little .25 auto pistol. I was elated! Now I could hunt squirrels in the woods behind my school!
But then! Bonanza! Money started falling out. $100 dollar bills wrapped in bands saying $20,000. We were rich. Neither of us had a backpack. So, we split the money and stuffed it into our shirts, our waistbands, our socks, our Yankees hats, and our underpants. I put the pistol in my nugget sock and tied it to one of my belt loops. I threw the balaclava into the river.
We could hardly walk, but we didn’t care. We yelled “Rich, rich, rich, we’re fu*kin’ rich!”
We walked our bikes out of the woods, waddling with our loads. There was a black Cadillac parked sideways at the head of the trail. The back window went down. It was Big Al whose “Sporting Good” store sold dynamite, fully automatic weapons, hand grenades, LAWs, silencers and switchblade knives along with fishing lures, worms, shotguns, rifles, fishing poles and reels, and ammo.
Big Al looked directly at me and said, “I think you have something that belongs to me.” I almost shit my pants, but I held it for the sake of the money stored in my underpants. “What?” I asked. Big Al asked me if my grandfather had given me a switchblade for my birthday. I said “Yes.” “That old fu*k stole it from my store. Give it back now and Melee won’t slice you up into little meat cubes with his machete.” Big Al said with a smile. With great care I fished out the knife and waddled over to the Cadillac and handed it back to Big Al. “You better do something about that crotch rash” he said as he rolled up his window, Melee drove them away.
Lyle and I were elated. We did it. In great pain we rode our bikes home. I waddled in the front door and Mom asked if I was ok. I told her I was fine and crawled up the stairs to my bedroom. I unpacked my self, throwing the money on my bed. The pile was high. I didn’t want to count it.
I got a safe deposit box at the bank. It was New Jersey, so there were no questions. All I needed to do was sign a signature card. I rented two of the biggest boxes. I wrapped the money in a blanket and put it in my wagon and pulled it back to the bank. I was given a private room where I stuffed the money in the two boxes.
I was home safe. When I was old enough to drive, I bought a red Thunderbird for cash. I paid my college tuition in cash. I’ve funded a revival of “Sgt. Preston of the Yukon.” The only differences from the old show are that the sled dog King was replaced by a snowmobile, and Sgt. Preston is bipolar.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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