Enallage

Enallage (e-nal’-la-ge): The substitution of grammatically different but semantically equivalent constructions.

“I don’t know nothin’ about who your father is.” I lied. I knew everything. I had succumbed 20 years ago to my fat sweaty neighbor’s charms. He had a gold tooth, a big wristwatch and wore reddish-brown ostrich skin boots. He also wore a snap closure shirt—white with horseshoes embroidered on the shoulders. His belt buckle was a silver heart with “Hey Baby” engraved on it.

His name was Mel and he tended bar at the AI Pub. The clientele was mixed from underage college kids to bent over blue-haired grannies high on their Social Security checks. I went there every night and got fairly drunk and chased after the horny college boys, getting my fair share of bangs in the parking lot. I was 18, so I figured it was ok. Mel would always slide me a couple of extra shots of vodka free of charge. I wondered why he didn’t want to take a trip to the parking lot. Then, I realized he couldn’t because he was tending bar. That’s when I got the idea to “do it” behind the bar. It would take us both to the outer limits of our humping skills.

The next night I climbed over the bar and bent over by the beer taps. I dropped my pants and Mel came up behind me with his jeans down. The bar concealed what we were doing. Mel even poured a couple of beers while we were at it. After we finished Mel whispered in my ear: “Do you take birth control pills? I didn’t wear a condom.”

Damn! Right then I knew I was going to be a mother. I had gone a week without the pills. I couldn’t believe it. I was too lazy to have my prescription filled.

I asked Mel if he’d take care of me. He laughed and said “Once in a blue moon.” I was pretty sure that meant “no.” I was right. When I started bulging out he wouldn’t even look at me. He’d cover his eyes and snicker. How could a man who dressed so sharp be so mean? I spent a lot of time crying and plotting to murder him. But, before I could take him out of play, he ate a bad oyster and died of food poisoning. First, his brain went, and then, his kidneys exploded. Women from hundreds of miles around came to his funeral. Most of them cried during the eulogy. Some of them were pregnant.

The most amazing thing was he left everything to you, our unborn child. You inherited his gold tooth, ostrich boots, big watch, snap shirt and heart belt buckle. You look so dashing! The tooth is like a shining star twinkling in your mouth. But, he also left you $500.00 and his 2009 AWD Chevy pickup. Oh—and his guns too—he always said his flintlock belonged to Davy Crockett.

Even though you’re a girl, the clothes you inherited, and the tooth, and the truck and gun are gender neutral. You’ll be able to enjoy them, wearing the clothes wherever you go. Also, I never told you I named you “Dick” in memory of your father, for the kind of man he was. Your middle name is Jolene and you’ve been using that since you could talk.

Well, there you have it. You know most of this already. But now, you know something about your father too and how you were conceived. I’m sorry it took so long to tell you.

You should take a DNA test. I have been saving one of your father’s hairs that fell out when we were doing it behind the bar. You can use it. If you don’t get a hit, you’ll probably want to get a sample from the Mayor, and Nicky Dorn of “Nicky’s Honest Used Cars.” Oh. Also “Stimpy’s Miniature Golf and Pizza.” If none of these register, there are a couple dozen more names I can give you.

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

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