Synonymia (si-no-ni’-mi-a): In general, the use of several synonyms together to amplify or explain a given subject or term. A kind of repetition that adds emotional force or intellectual clarity. Synonymia often occurs in parallel fashion. The Latin synonym, interpretatio, suggests the expository and rational nature of this figure, while another Greek synonym, congeries, suggests the emotive possibilities of this figure
Wheels. Rides. Machines. Heaps. Automobiles. I had it every way. I was obsessed with cars. Ever since I drove the family car through the garage door and caused a fire, the word “car” and all its synonyms bounce around in my head like little pinkie balls against a cinder lock wall. I got the urge—the unstoppable feeling, the unwarranted desire to buy cars. Maybe it’s to atone for smashing the garage door. I didn’t care if my purchase was old or new, or if it ran—it just had to be a car, not a truck. And it had to be still standing on all four tires. I kept a really low profile so I wouldn’t have a steady stream of hucksters trying to sell me their cars. I had connections on car lots across the US and charitable organizations that collect “dead” cars that are supposed to be given away as charitable donations.
I’ve tried to be cured of my car fetish. Once, I had the air let out of tires directly in my nostrils. After 8 tires my nose started bleeding and I quit, to no positive effect. Another time, I spent a day looking under car seats. I found a lot of weird stuff, but all I got was a brutal stiff neck. I had to get a massage to unlock my neck. The worst was getting run over by a car. My therapist pushed me into traffic. I could’ve been killed but luckily I survived with a concussion, a broken leg, crushed ribs and a torn off ear. Getting hit was supposed to induce a car-phobia. It didn’t. It just led to a lawsuit. I settled for $1,000,000. The fetish goes on.
I have 600 acres of land in a secret location, somewhere in North America. There are hundreds of cars parked in neat rows. When I fill the field, I will buy another one. For some reason, most of the cars are Fords. Most of them have come my way through the enforcement of lemon laws. Their paint jobs are funky, peeling off the hoods, roofs, and trunks. Often, obscenities are keyed on their doors, like “Piece of Shit” or “Scum on Wheels.”
I have security people who circle the lighted perimeter at night. There are certain spare parts that the cars have that are quite valuable. For example, rims for a ‘69 Chevy or a sunroof crank handle for a ‘58 Volkswagen. I won’t sell my cars’ parts. For me, it is like butchering them for profit. My cars are my family. They sit quietly, rain or shine. I talk to them. I sing to them. I love The Cars “Drive.” Even though they’re unlocked, I never open their doors. I respect their privacy. There’s one car I revere the most: a 1957 Ford nine-passenger station wagon. It was our family car when i was a kid. Riding to Maine, my father made up a game: whenever we saw a woodie station wagon, we yelled “Beaver” and my mother would yell at my father to stop the “dirty” game. Then, there were our Beagle’s farts that took ten minutes to clear with all the windows down going sixty. Also, there was the time our luggage blew off the car’s roof. My father risked his life picking up our clothes from the Maine Turnpike. There are more memories, but that’s enough for now.
The sun is setting on my cars. Soon the security truck will start circling and I’ll head for my garage for dinner. Yes, I live in a garage-like structure. The front door is a small garage door. My garage home is 6,000 square feet and three stories high. It has cement floors and always smells faintly of gasoline.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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