Category Archives: metallage

Metallage (me-tal’-la-gee): When a word or phrase is treated as an object within another expression.

“That’s it. Say ‘I can’t do it’ once more, and I’ll make sure it’s true. You’ll never do anything again. Nothing. Got it? I learned how to drive a car. So can you. Anybody can, unless you’re disabled somehow, and you’re not.”

This is how it went. I would say “No” and Dad would threaten to kill me if I didn’t do what he wanted me to do. He was bossy to the max. It was like living with an angry dictator. The “learning” thing wasn’t something I wanted to do outside school—that’s where you learned—where you were supposed to learn. Not with your crazy father yelling at you.

Take this for example: Dad decided it was time for me to learn how to use the power mower. I said “No” and he said he would kill me if I didn’t. So, it was time to learn how to mow the lawn with gasoline mower.

My father said “Hold over there on that thing.” He pulled the rope on the side of the lawnmower it started, and took off with me dragging behind it. I got to the edge of the yard and my father was yelling “Disengage the clutch!” I had no idea what he was yelling about. I let get go of the lawnmower. It took off across the street and headed for the neighbor’s dog sleeping under their car in the driveway. The dog jumped up and bumped his head on the rear bumper and ran away. The lawnmower hit the car’s bumper, bounced off and took off in another direction with me chasing it. It was too fast for me. I watched as it rolled down the sidewalk through the gate to the municipal swimming pool, and into the water. Me and Dad pulled it out of the pool and dragged it home. Dad told me he was hiring a hit man to take care of me. I was terrified for a week. Then, he told me he was going to give me another chance. He had a landscaper friend who taught me how to run our new power mower.

So, home learning was two phases: Phase 1. Dad doing a terrible job leading to a catastrophe, blaming me and threatening to kill me. Phase 2. Finding somebody who knew what they were doing to teach me. Dad just couldn’t give up Phase 1, no matter what. So now I was going to learn to drive a car—a big metal car—a potentially fatal lesson. I begged and pleaded for a proper instructor, but two days later I was sitting behind the wheel of our Oldsmobile with Dad in the passenger seat. He pointed and said “Turn that key until the motor starts. Pull that lever down from P to D and press on the pedal on the floor.” When I pressed on the pedal, nothing happened. Dad said, “That’s the brake pedal nit wit.” We were starting to roll down the street. I located the gas pedal to the right and pressed it down, the tires squealed and I could smell burning rubber. We went roaring down our residential street, hitting 50mph. We were headed for our neighbor’s house at the end of the street. I remembered the brake and pressed it. The Oldsmobile skidded to a stop sideways.

Mt father said, “Get out of the car and walk home loser. You better start thinking about the future now, because you don’t have much. The mob will take care of you, and don’t beg—I’m just sick and tired of your stupidity.” I knew it was an empty threat and I didn’t worry, until I saw this guy with a mustache and a bulge in his jacket walking up our sidewalk. I ran out the back door. When I came back home, my mother told me my driving instructor had been looking for me and had left his card.

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

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Metallage (me-tal’-la-gee): When a word or phrase is treated as an object within another expression.

“Hell” is right next door—it’s name is Mrs. Mubert and I don’t want to hear another “quiet down” out of her window when we’re playing in my yard. Playing involves making noise and there’s no law against it. Mrs. Mubert’s admonitions are unethical, if not illegal. The next time she yells “Quiet down” out her window, I’m going to walk up to it and yell “You quiet down, you broken-down old fat neighbor!” RX Jones thought it was a great idea. We called him “RX” because of all the medications he had to take, or he would die (or so his mother had told him).

The time had come. We made as much noise as we could; Michelle played he violin. Joey had one of those Vuvuzelas his grandfather had gotten at the 2010 FIFA World Cup in South Africa. Tommy had one of those yacht aerosol fog horns. “Blammer” Bombinski blew off fireworks. Norma Rock banged a wooden spoon on a saucepan. The topper was Giles Well’s hand-crank air raid siren that his great-grandfather used to warn people during WWII of impending bombing raids. We lived in Ohio, so the siren was never used.

So, we had a double-din going. The racket of all rackets. But where was Mrs. Mubert? We had expected that it would take no longer than five minutes for her to get to the window. If we couldn’t meet her at the window, we could meet her at her front door. We marched to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. What was going on? The front door wasn’t locked. We deliberated for a minute, and then we marched in.

The drapes were pulled and it was dark. Mrs. Mubert had a gold-colored, jewel encrusted throne in her living room. She was sitting in the throne holding a gold-colored scepter across her chest. She was wearing sunglasses and what looked like a wedding dress. She looked dead. Then, suddenly, she said “Quiet down” in a soft, yet earnest, voice that had a threatening edge to it. We jumped back and huddled together, totally freaked out. Nevertheless, according to plan, I yelled “You quiet down, you broken-down old fat neighbor!” Mrs. Mubert pointed her scepter at me and slowly stood up. I could feel a tickling in my chest as I was lifted off the floor, and then fell to the floor. “Let’s get the hell out of here!!” I yelled as I headed for the door. It was locked. Mrs. Mubert made a snarling noise, like a bad dog. I noticed she had fang bite marks on her neck. I pulled my crucifix out of my shirt and pointed it at her. She started to writhe around and smoke. Two other kids were Catholic and pulled out their crucifixes. Mrs. Mubert fell down and we dragged her out the front door, into the sunlight. She burst into flames and became a pile of ashes in a minute.

We knew nobody would believe Mrs. Mubert was a vampire and she would yell at us to “be quiet” because she needed to sleep during day so she could stalk people at night. So, we told the police she had invited us in for cookies and milk. She was going to have tea and her dress caught on fire when she reached across the lit burner to grab her teapot. We told the police what a nice women she was and how heartbroken we were when she caught on fire and our efforts to save her failed.

Evidently, Mrs. Mubert was a Class 2 Vampire. She fed on raccoons, feral cats, rats, opossums, and homeless dogs. I determined this after discovering that no people were ever found with their blood sucked out, but there were numerous animals that had been drained, and found their way to Mrs. Mubert’s trash can—which the police examined after her death.

I managed to nick Mrs. Mubert’s scepter. It’s like a flashlight with a button on the side. I figured out how work it and I’ve been flying my little sister’s pet bunny around the house when I’m home alone. I am tempted to give my baby brother a ride, but I need to get him a helmet. I’m saving my money.

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

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