Diacope (di-a’-co-pee): Repetition of a word with one or more between, usually to express deep feeling.
Trouble, gargantuan sky-scraping trouble. Trouble—life threatening trouble. I’m so frightened I can’t stop wetting my pants. I don’t know how it’s possible, but my pants are dripping wet and I smell like a Thruway restroom. I’m in trouble, BIG trouble.
I stole a “Little Debbie” Jelly Nougat Bomber Log Roll. I don’t know what happened to me. I saw it. I grabbed it. I ran out of the Winky Mart. They got me on CCTV. If I had walked out the door, nobody would’ve noticed and I’d be eating my Little Debbie, sitting on a log here in the woods. Instead, I’m being hunted by dogs—BIG dogs. I’m running and eating my Little Debbie at the same time. If they catch me, there’ll be no evidence except maybe the little bit of jelly on my T-shirt.
I came to a small creek. I saw in a movie how a fugitive evaded the police dogs by wading in a brook. Dogs can’t smell in water! Hallelujah! I was saved. I was wading in the creek when I heard the dogs come up to where I had stepped in. They were whining in frustration. I had foiled them! Thank God for movies—I think it was titled “Escape From Jesus.” But that’s beside the point. I was standing there celebrating in my head when I felt somebody tapping on my shoulder. That was it. I was dead meat. I turned around and nobody was there. I was losing it. Then I heard one of the men hunting me yell “I can smell you Mr. Piss Pants!” I took off my pants and underpants and hung them in a nearby tree. I rolled around in the creek and washed off the pee smell. I kept running and heard gunfire. They had shot my pants and underpants, mistaking them for me hiding up in a tree.
I came to a bridge and climbed up out of the creek. I wrapped a strand of wild grape vines around my waist covering my privates and started hitchhiking. The first car slammed on its brakes a backed up. It was Ms. Hander my art teacher from high school. I hopped into her car. She told me she thinks of me often and that she thought my clothing motif was creative and innovative. She put her hand on my leg. Since I had graduated two years ago, I guessed she thought I was fair game.
I didn’t know what to do, so I put my hand on her leg. We rode along in silence, hands on each other’s legs. We pulled into the parking lot of the Bumkiss Motel—a notorious playground for deviants of all kinds. I got out of the car and started running—a tryst with Ms. Hander was the last thing I wanted. I wanted to go home.
It was a short run from the motel. I walked in the front door wearing my grapevine skirt. I walked past my father and he yelled “Stop you little bastard!” I stopped. He eyed me up and down, snorted, and went back to watching Lawrence Welk with mom. I could Lawrence saying “A one, and a two, and a three” as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and sat on my bed.
I vowed never to steal again. They had me on CCTV. I knew it was just a matter of time before there was a knock on my door. I regretted turning down Ms. Hander at the Bumkiss Motel. Just then, the doorbell rang. It was Ms. Hander. She told me she loved me and that she was leaving town to start a new job out West. She wanted me to come with her.
I packed my bags, said goodbye to my parents, and jumped in her car. We drove two days to Las Vegas where we’re getting a “fresh start” as newlyweds. She works at UNLV as an assistant professor. I’m studying slot machine maintenance and repair at Caesar’s Palace Community College.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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