Acoloutha

Acoloutha: The substitution of reciprocal words; that is, replacing one word with another whose meaning is close enough to the former that the former could, in its turn, be a substitute for the latter. This term is best understood in relationship to its opposite, anacolutha.

I blew a hole in my garage door with my 10 gauge goose gun. The garage door opener had been going up and down for the past 20 minutes. I had unplugged the goddamn thing, but it wouldn’t stop. I pulled the rope chord disconnecting it from the door, but it wouldn’t work. In fact, it had some kind of whiplash that almost pulled off my arm—right out of its socket.

A couple of rounds from the goose gun did it in. Eventually, I had to go into the garage and blow away the opener motor. It made a whining sound as it slowed down and stopped dripping lubricant. It was almost like it was bleeding. Creepy.

I had to get a new garage door and door opener. I called “Open Doors” and made an appointment. The installer showed up an hour later with her three-person team. She was wearing a gold remote control door opener with “The Doors” engraved on it. As a joke, I asked her if she was an LA woman. She didn’t think it was funny. She slashed the air in front of my face with the screwdriver she was holding. She said “No jokes about ‘The Doors,’ next time, it’ll cost you an eye. I am known as The Liftmistress” goddess of Up and Down.”

She went into the garage with her team. They gasped and said “Oh my God” in unison. “You shot the motor. It still has pellets lodged in it” she said in a low-pitched reverent tone. I told her she was damn right—it was running wild and would’ve injured me somehow. As bizarre as it seems, she said we needed to give it a proper burial. I was so stunned, I agreed.

Lifty, one of her team, took the motor down, very gently. They rolled it up in the passenger side floor mat from my Mercedes, a fitting coffin for a garage door opener. They carried it on their shoulders to a spot under my mulberry tree. They took turns digging the grave. Liftmistress gave a brief eulogy:

“Your life had its ups and downs, opening and closing the portal of shelter for the driver and his expensive automobile. You went wild in your mission, losing your normal connection to the hand-held device controlling your trajectory. You were shot when you should’ve been repaired. You were murdered when you should’ve been made whole. Rest in peace.”

When she stopped speaking they turned and looked at me. I was terrified—I knew I had murdered the garage door opener. Liftmistress said “Pretty dramatic, huh? Time to put in the new door and motor!”

They finished up in about an hour. I had had a mild heart attack during the craziness. I went to the emergency room and was cleared. Now, my lawn mower stopped running. I’m trying to figure out what to do. I think I’ll park it somewhere in my back yard and just buy a small flock of sheep to keep the grass trimmed.

My garage door opener motor has started making a moaning sound when I open and close the garage door. I called Liftmistress and she told me I should be grateful—a moaning motor is a happy motor.

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

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.