Synecdoche (si-nek’-do-kee): A whole is represented by naming one of its parts (or genus named for species), or vice versa (or species named for genus).
My new soles took me along the avenue, clomping along, looking through the glass at all the wonderful things for sale from agricultural implements to zebra skin throw rugs. I came to Mr. Zeldbanger’s jewelry store. He was too lazy to clear his shop’s window at night. There were watches, rings and necklaces sitting there yelling “Steal me!”
It was 2:00 am and the streets were deserted. I was pretty sure my new sneakers could get me out of there fast enough to evade arrest when Zeldbanger’s burglar alarm went off.
Yes! I was going to perform my first heist. I took out my hammer and was about ready to smash the window, when my uncle Rosco pulled up in his pimpmobile. He blew the horn and it played Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear The Reaper.”
It was the most elaborate pimp mobile in New Jersey. It was “tomato” red with a tire mounted on the trunk lid with a picture of Al Capone painted on it with a cigar in his mouth. It said “No Law No Problem,” It had flashing blue lights in the wheel wells. it had three foot high tail fins, each with six brake lights and one back-up light. It had two specially fitted searchlights for headlights. The grill looked like a set of braces torn from a giant teenager’s mouth. The interior was upholstered in raccoon fur and there was a tanning bed in the trunk. The whole car operated as a sound system. It had a 1,200 horsepower airplane engine. The pimpmobile could go 350 MPH, but it only got 4 miles per gallon of gas.
Uncle Rosco loved his car more than anything—especially his wife and children who he characterize as “A royal pain in the ass.” He hit the automatic door opener and told me to get in the pimpmobile. His big purple hat with the mirrored hat band glistened in the beams of the interior ceiling light.
“What the f*ck are you doing?” he asked. i told him I was going to rob Mr. Zeldbanger’s jewelry store. He said “Oh, now I get it.” I showed him my hammer and told him I’d give him 10% if he’d be my getaway man. He told me he’d be honored. So, I took out my hammer, walked up to the window and smashed it. The alarm went off and I raked as much as I could from the display into my backpack. I heard police sirens and turned around. The pimpmobile was gone. “What a piece of shit” I thought as I took off running. I turned into an alley where the police cars couldn’t follow. I knew the cops were too lazy to run after me, so I got away as smooth as silk.
I saw Uncle Roscoe at the family Thanksgiving dinner a couple of weeks later. I pulled my gun and told him I would blow his balls off if he ever did something like he did at the jewelry store ever again. He said, “Get over it. If you’re going to be in the game, you’ve got to learn how to deal with betrayal. I taught you an important lesson kid.” “This is how I’m going to thank you” I said. I put my gun to his head and cocked it. Uncle Roscoe fainted face down in his mashed potatoes with gravy. Every body laughed when he came to with his face covered with mashed potatoes and gravy. Uncle Roscoe laughed too as he wiped the gravy off his purple pimp hat.
I was vindicated. I would steer clear of Uncle Roscoe and his bullshit. He was my mother’s brother. If he wasn’t, I would’ve sent him to his next incarnation, hopefully, as a pin-worm living in a dog’s ass.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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