Metaphor (met’-a-phor): A comparison made by referring to one thing as another.
“Time is a doorknob. Life is a laundromat. Truth is a pedicure. Candy is dandy. All aboard the ham-hock express. Smile out the window. We’re all being watched. By God. By the Conductor. By CCTV. The seat is hard, so I stand: baby buggy bumpers bobbing beneath by my blouse.”
She sat down. She had read her metaphor assignment with such power and conviction that I was still on my knees holding my hands in a prayerful position—like clapping, but not moving—pressed together, worshiping her reading. How did she discover these words in her brain’s synapses—all gemlike in their resplendence?
Now I knew why I was taking Creative Writing. It was Francine—the Francine of my dreams. The tower of words. The stronghold of poetic rigor. The bejeweled tongue. The golden lips. The smooth fingerless hand injured in a farming accident. I did not look at it. Instead, I listened to her words. They covered over her scars.
Prof. Roman told me to get “the hell” off the floor and stop acting like a fool. I thought of talking back, but I was a grown up now. I was in college. The rest of the class was looking at me with their mouths open—like they were stunned by my behavior. I’d show them! I was next in line to read. Prof. Roman looked at me like I smelled and said “Ok Milton, it’s your turn.” I was related to John Milton, so Mrs. Roman expected too much from me. I turned out the classroom lights and began;
“I like Piña coladas—they are the dreams of my days, my lost shakers of salt, my stolen hound dogs. My bank account is a bundle of worms, the crow of the roost, a bicycle pump with a hose that is loose.” I finished and sat down. My fellow students were laughing and booing. Prof. Roman said calmly, “Get out.” Francine said from the back of the room, “If he goes, I go.” All the students said “Ooooh!” Prof. Roman relented. Me and Francine were the alpha and omega of the Creative Writing class. When I read my assignments everybody but Francine would leave the classroom. Prof. Roman encouraged them to leave.
Our last assignment was to write about our favorite pet. I never had a pet, so I made one up. It was a rabbit with 7 legs that ran the 50-yard dash in competitions around New Jersey. He never lost a single race and he died of a heart attack comfortably in his hutch when he was 9. My father had him stuffed and he rides on the dashboard everywhere my father goes. His name is “Hoppy” after Hopalong Cassidy the famous 1950s TV cowboy. Prof. Roman said my story “paralleled” “My Friend Flicka” too closely and gave me an “F”. I didn’t even know what My Friend Flicka was. I was angry. REALLY angry.
I swore I would get her—I was innocent. She just didn’t like me. I Googled her for three days straight! Nothing! I decided to stalk her—it was risky, but I had to do it. I discovered she was the flasher lady who stood outside the school, on a hill, giving everybody a peek. Faculty, staff and students enjoyed it, and nobody complained. She had perfected her “reveal” so it looked like an accident—usually the wind blowing up her skirt. Every once in awhile, her blouse would blow open. Now that I knew her “accidental” reveal was a carefully orchestrated ruse, I could threaten to reveal the truth. I told her I would squeal on her if she didn’t change my grade to an “A” and write me letters of recommendation for MFA programs. She agreed and I was set.
POSTSCRIPT
The story of my fake racing rabbit was made into a movie entitled “My Friend Flick: Vampire Racing Rabbit.” A sequel is under production right now entitled “Flick 2.” Francine has written a book entitled “My Special Jerk.” It is about our college days together. It is selling well. Prof. Roman has been promoted to Dean of College and bought an expensive fast car that she takes drag racing in Pennsylvania on the weekends wearing fireproof red shorts and a Pink Floyd t-shirt.
Francine and I are still together. I was hired into Prof. Roman’s position. Francine is teaching at the community college and comes up for tenure next year.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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