Aposiopesis (a-pos-i-o-pee’-sis): Breaking off suddenly in the middle of speaking, usually to portray being overcome with emotion.
“This is, is . . .” I couldn’t finish my sentence. My crazy brother-in-law had duct taped me to a kitchen chair and was holding a corkscrew over my eyeball, twisting it menacingly and saying over and over “Your sister is going to have a baby.” I didn’t know if this was some kind of post-modern celebratory announcement, or if he was angry at me about my sister’s pregnancy—a really perverted view of things. I was squeaky clean and so was my sister—we could never imagine having sex together, the thought of it made my stomach queasy.
He had the corkscrew in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. He held up the piece of paper. It was a DNA test. It had his name on it as the father of the child. I pointed that out to him. He said “Oh. I must’ve read it wrong.” “Wrong?!” I yelled. “”You are the biggest . . . Oh, forget it. I just can’t believe how stupid you are! Get this duct tape off me!”
Just then my sister walked into the kitchen. “What the hell is going on Nolo?” “I was going to gouge your brother’s eyeball out because I thought he got you pregnant.” Nolo said. My sister hit him across the face with a Teflon frying pan—it clearly hurt him, but it wasn’t fatal. Nolo started crying and cutting me loose from the chair. My sister was standing by the refrigerator apologizing to me and cursing out Nolo.
I was beginning to think this could be the end of their marriage. My sister was a genius with a PhD in astrophysics. Nolo was a dull-witted freak. He had trouble tying his shoes and mowing the lawn. He worked loading UPS trucks and frequently misrouted packages, leading to floods of complaints and frequent near-firings. My sister, on the other hand, was an award-winning tenured professor at MIT.
It didn’t add up. There had to be something going on there that I needed to find out about. So, I looked in their window one night. They were playing “Patty-Cake” on the living room couch. I almost screamed with terror. I watched for a half-hour and went home. I drank a half-bottle of vodka and stumbled to bed and passed out. I got up the next morning feeling pretty shitty. I had four cups of coffee and pulled my college textbook on interpersonal relationships down from the bookshelf. I knew it would help me understand my sister and Nolo better. I opened the book and there was highlighted text: “People are unique choice-making beings who are capable of change.” That was it! “Unique!” I had to understand their relationship in its own right instead of comparing it to stereotypical concepts of what a “good” relationship is. Ignoring, abusive relationships, including spousal murder, I had found the answer to dealing with Nolo and my sister. They are unique individuals, even though their baby turned out looking just like Nolo—big hands and a budding unibrow. They’ve named it “Subaru” after their car and have it wear sunglasses (even inside) to conceal its identity from the “Iron Men” who pose a danger to themselves and others. Normally, I would call this crazy, but with my new-found interpersonal sensitivity, I know it is just an expression of their “unique choice-making beings.”
Nevertheless, it is hard to keep an open mind about my sister’s and Nolo’s construction of reality and their sanity. But they are moving right along down life’s highway, although Nolo lost his job at UPS for routing a package to North Korea. He starts his new job at “The Dollar Store” next week. He told me he was impressed with all the different brands of toilet paper they sell and can-openers too. He told me he’s “specializing” in two-year old canned minestrone soup. I don’t know what that means, but I accept it, respecting his uniqueness.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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