Simile

Simile (si’-mi-lee): An explicit comparison, often (but not necessarily) employing “like” or “as.”

He thought he was a Chevy van. In fact, sometimes he made revving sounds like an engine. He’d downshift when he was slowing down like he had four on the floor. He bathed at the car wash. He slept in his parents’ garage like a proper van. Sometimes, he’d go to the drag races and compete in the quarter-mile. He’d rev up and make peeling-out sounds when the light turned green. Then, he’d just stand there and walk away when his competitor crossed the finish line. His antics were a major attraction, so “Raceway Park” let him do his thing. Sometimes he was an ATV. Once he was a tank! He clanked around the mall parking lot, firing his 105 mm gun at the parked cars. But mostly, he was a van.

One time he couldn’t get started. That morning, he was being a golf cart! Something new!

He was standing in his driveway making a sound like a battery without enough juice to get him started. He asked me to go into his garage and get the jumper cables hanging by the door. He told me to clamp on his hands—red on the left, black on the right. I followed his instructions. The sharp teeth on the clamps sunk into his hands like he was being bitten by some kind of metal predator. His hands were bleeding and he still couldn’t get started. “Take ‘em off,” “My battery’s totally dead. I need a new battery.” He pulled an AAA battery out of his pocket with his bloody hand. He said, “We’ll need some lube and needle-nosed pliers.”

He couldn’t move, so he told me to go and get the pliers out of the toolbox in the garage and the lube from his parents’ bedroom—from the top drawer in the nightstand on the right hand side of their bed. This was like some kind of science fiction movie—maybe titled “Battery Boy: The Kid Who Ran On AAAs.” Suddenly, fear and disgust washed over me like a polluted river.

Pliers? Lube? He was going to ask me to pull a AAA out of his ass and replace it with a new one. I could play along with just about anything, but not this! No way was I going battery diving up his ass with a pair of pliers.

When I got back outside I handed him the lube and pliers and “You’re like some kind of perverted psychopath, buddy. You can stick both of these up your ass yourself!” He started to sniffle and I heard laughter coming from the shrubs in front of the house. Gordon “Sting” Brookfield The Third stepped out from behind a rhododendron doubled over with laughter. In fact, he had wet his pants like a toddler. He was called “Sting” because he set people up to be suckered into doing bizarre things. Like the time he told a kid if he poured ammonia on his head it would attract to tooth fairy and he would get rich. The kid ended up in the Emergency Room and almost went blind. He had set me up with Van. He thought it was funny, but he had not totally succeeded.

Fu*k him, I was already thinking of my comeback. Sting loved splashing barefoot in puddles after it rained. There was an especially big puddle he favored. After a downpour, it was like a little pond in front of my house. He loved it. After the next rain storm, I would fill it with broken glass.