Category Archives: diacope

Diacope (di-a’-co-pee): Repetition of a word with one or more between, usually to express deep feeling.

I need new shoes. I want big black shoes. The shoes will shine. The shoes will enable me to glide into the future. They will be my chariots of leather—magical clipper shoes conveying me to Xanadu and beyond—to the halls of Montezuma and the shores of Tripoli.

But no! My mother was taking me to Buster Brown’s, the kid with the idiot hat who lived in a shoe with his drooling cross-eyed mutt, Tigh. Buster wore sissy shorts and a shirt with a big lace collar with a red bow-tie made out of what looked like a blue dish towel tied around his neck. The worst was his hat—it looked like a red cowboy hat that had been run over by a truck.

My mother wanted to buy me special shoes sold only at Buster Brown’s. The had shark skin toe caps and were reputed to outlast leather toes by hundreds of miles. My mother bought the shoes. They were the color of dog shit and they were heavy and tight-fitting.

Somehow, I had to get rid of them.

I walked by the Farnham Johnson Land Fill on my way to school every day. I could chuck the shoes in the landfill! I would tell my mother that I was mugged on my way home after school. I tore off my Buster Jack-Weed shoes and threw them as far as I could into the landfill. For good measure, I threw my shirt in too. When I got home, I sobbed “Ma! They got my shoes and the shirt off my back too!” She was sympathetic and made me some hot cocoa.

We couldn’t afford to replace the shark-tip shoes. So, Mom bought me a pair of big black wingtips that had been left at the shoe repair shop by a customer who never picked them up. I loved them! They smelled like shoe polish and were already broken in!

Then, two days later, I saw our garbage man Mr. Crozeman wearing my shark-tip shoes. He must’ve found them in the landfill. If Ma saw him, I would be dead meat. The next day was garbage pick up day. I hid in the bushes by our garbage cans and bopped Mr. Crozeman over the head with a wine bottle when he came to pick up our trash. He went down in a heap and I pulled off the shoes. I burned them to ashes on one of the charcoal grills in the town park.

Mr. Crozeman was seriously injured and the police were looking for his assailant. There was a police artist’s sketch published in the newspaper. It did not look anything like me—it looked like President Kennedy. Clearly, the police artist was incompetent. That was ok with me!

Mr. Crozeman got well, but whenever I saw him he squinted at me and backed up. It worried me a little bit, but with his brain damage, he’d never recognize me.

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

The Daily Trope is available 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.

Diacope (di-a’-co-pee): Repetition of a word with one or more between, usually to express deep feeling.

Trouble, gargantuan sky-scraping trouble. Trouble—life threatening trouble. I’m so frightened I can’t stop wetting my pants. I don’t know how it’s possible, but my pants are dripping wet and I smell like a Thruway restroom. I’m in trouble, BIG trouble.

I stole a “Little Debbie” Jelly Nougat Bomber Log Roll. I don’t know what happened to me. I saw it. I grabbed it. I ran out of the Winky Mart. They got me on CCTV. If I had walked out the door, nobody would’ve noticed and I’d be eating my Little Debbie, sitting on a log here in the woods. Instead, I’m being hunted by dogs—BIG dogs. I’m running and eating my Little Debbie at the same time. If they catch me, there’ll be no evidence except maybe the little bit of jelly on my T-shirt.

I came to a small creek. I saw in a movie how a fugitive evaded the police dogs by wading in a brook. Dogs can’t smell in water! Hallelujah! I was saved. I was wading in the creek when I heard the dogs come up to where I had stepped in. They were whining in frustration. I had foiled them! Thank God for movies—I think it was titled “Escape From Jesus.” But that’s beside the point. I was standing there celebrating in my head when I felt somebody tapping on my shoulder. That was it. I was dead meat. I turned around and nobody was there. I was losing it. Then I heard one of the men hunting me yell “I can smell you Mr. Piss Pants!” I took off my pants and underpants and hung them in a nearby tree. I rolled around in the creek and washed off the pee smell. I kept running and heard gunfire. They had shot my pants and underpants, mistaking them for me hiding up in a tree.

I came to a bridge and climbed up out of the creek. I wrapped a strand of wild grape vines around my waist covering my privates and started hitchhiking. The first car slammed on its brakes a backed up. It was Ms. Hander my art teacher from high school. I hopped into her car. She told me she thinks of me often and that she thought my clothing motif was creative and innovative. She put her hand on my leg. Since I had graduated two years ago, I guessed she thought I was fair game.

I didn’t know what to do, so I put my hand on her leg. We rode along in silence, hands on each other’s legs. We pulled into the parking lot of the Bumkiss Motel—a notorious playground for deviants of all kinds. I got out of the car and started running—a tryst with Ms. Hander was the last thing I wanted. I wanted to go home.

It was a short run from the motel. I walked in the front door wearing my grapevine skirt. I walked past my father and he yelled “Stop you little bastard!” I stopped. He eyed me up and down, snorted, and went back to watching Lawrence Welk with mom. I could Lawrence saying “A one, and a two, and a three” as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and sat on my bed.

I vowed never to steal again. They had me on CCTV. I knew it was just a matter of time before there was a knock on my door. I regretted turning down Ms. Hander at the Bumkiss Motel. Just then, the doorbell rang. It was Ms. Hander. She told me she loved me and that she was leaving town to start a new job out West. She wanted me to come with her.

I packed my bags, said goodbye to my parents, and jumped in her car. We drove two days to Las Vegas where we’re getting a “fresh start” as newlyweds. She works at UNLV as an assistant professor. I’m studying slot machine maintenance and repair at Caesar’s Palace Community College.

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

The Daily Trope is available 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.