Epitrope (e-pi’-tro-pe): A figure in which one turns things over to one’s hearers, either pathetically, ironically, or in such a way as to suggest a proof of something without having to state it. Epitrope often takes the form of granting permission (hence its Latin name, permissio), submitting something for consideration, or simply referring to the abilities of the audience to supply the meaning that the speaker passes over (hence Puttenham’s term, figure of reference). Epitrope can be either biting in its irony, or flattering in its deference.
“I know you know what I’m talking about. You don’t need to hear it from me. It is in the air—it’s everywhere. It’s in the garage. It’s under the bed. It’s everywhere. It’s palpable. You can cut it with a knife.”
When I said “You can cut it with a knife,” she pulled the butcher knife out of its wooden holder on the kitchen counter and came at me with it slashing the air. She tripped on Woofer’s pinkie ball and fell on the knife. She had stabbed herself in the stomach and she was bleeding pretty badly and making moaning sounds. I thought she was dying.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I knew it was my girlfriend Stephanie. We had planned to stand side-by-side and tell my wife we were in love and I was leaving her. I had gotten started early with the revelation when my wife had pulled out the knife on me. Stephanie was late like she always was, otherwise she would’ve been there when my wife came at me and fell on the knife.
The pool of blood had grown on the floor. My wife had stopped moaning, so I figured she really needed help. Stephanie’s a dental assistant so I asked what she thought. She told my wife to “open wide,” and my wife didn’t respond. We determined she was dead.
We called an ambulance. While we waited for the ambulance, we bought plane tickets to Costa Rica on Orbtz and booked a hotel too. I had enough frequent flier miles to book us first class tickets. We were good to go.
Clearly, my wife’s death was an accident, except for letting her bleed to death on the kitchen floor. But what am I, a doctor? We headed for the airport—no reason to hang around. Costa Rica has no extradition treaty with the U.S., so, if worse came to worse, we could stay in Costa Rica as fugitives.
Worse cam to worse. The coroner determined that I was criminally negligent, waiting as long as I did to call an ambulance.
Then, my wife’s brother Bobby showed up at our hotel in Costa Rica. He told me he wanted me to come back to New York and face Justice. Stephanie developed an instant crush on him. That didn’t bode well. She had committed no crime. She hated Costa Rica. She wanted to leave and, by the way she was acting, she was trying to make my wife’s brother into her ticket home. He didn’t fall for it.
He was staying in the same hotel as us and would stop by every morning to ask if I was ready to face Justice in New York. Then, one morning he showed up with a gun and told me “Pack your shit, you’re going to New York.” I complied. He put me in zip ties. Stephanie was still asleep when we left.
Every chance I got on the way to the airport and at the airport, I yelled “I’m being kidnapped!” People just looked at me like I was some of zoo exhibit. When we got on the airplane, I yelled that I was being kidnapped and held up my zip-tied wrists. The stewardess slapped me in the face and told me to shut up or I would be ejected in the sky over Mexico.
The police were waiting at JFK. I was arrested and tried and found not guilty. Now, I have an Etsy shop on the internet selling German cutlery. I named the shop “Slice of Life.” Stephanie has become a successful pole dancer in Quito. She has sent me a couple of video clips. They’re pretty good, but I can see Bobby in the background.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.
Daily Trope is available in an early edition 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.
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