Ennoia (en-no’-i-a): A kind of purposeful holding back of information that nevertheless hints at what is meant. A kind of circuitous speaking.
“Just wait until your father gets home.” My mother would say this when we had done something wrong and, without question, worthy of our father’s ire, like the time we dug a hole to China in the front yard, because guy who lived in our attic told us it was a good idea, and also, we needed to help him escape from the Veterans Administration for being crazy. Given that China was Communist, it would be a perfect place for him to “lay low.”
We dug in the front yard starting early in the morning. We got about six feet down when I heard people speaking what sounded to me like Chinese. I thought China was a lot farther down than six feet. All of a sudden, a Chinese guy stuck his head through the side of our hole. Once he squirmed through, he handed me a $100 bill and said “No Communist. Me Nationalist.” Then he widened the hole where he had come through, and I could see an elaborate tunnel behind him. There was a line of fellow refugees behind him for as far as I could see.
We lived almost on the Canadian border and we figured all these people were coming from Canada, not China. They streamed steadily out of the hole we had dug—people fleeing Canada for a better life across the border in the good old USA. The guy in the attic was pointing a broom stick out the window, yelling “Bang, bang, bang. See what you idiots did. We’re being invaded by Commies.” I yelled back at him “Wait a minute, you told us you wanted to make a getaway to China.” He yelled back, “Dirty, stinking traitor. I will be meeting with Give ‘em Hell Harry this afternoon. You and your little pinkos are going to prison!” I wanted to call the VA and have him taken away, but we needed his rent payments to stay afloat. I knew he would calm down after his midday dose. I ignored him and the last of the “invaders” climbed out of the hole and ran away.
I had the $100 bill in my wallet. All I could think of was what I could buy. I thought and I thought. I got it! Along with my life savings from mowing lawns, I could buy a TV! I went to the bank and withdrew everything I had—$65.00. The Teller asked me what I was up to. I said “None of your beeswax” and left the bank. I looked over my shoulder and saw her calling somebody on the phone as I went out the door.
Down the street from the bank there was an appliance store that sold TVs. It was named “The Don’s Appliances.” It was reputedly a Mafia outlet for stolen appliances—they were called “scratch and dent.” I went through the door and heard opera music coming from the ceiling. A little guy in a striped suit asked “What can I do you for?” I told him I had 150 dollars to spend on a TV. He rubbed his hands together and said, “That’s exactly what they cost and I’ll throw in an antenna for free. Follow me kid.”
We went down into the basement. The salesman said, “This it, a genuine Philco 10-incher.“ It was a big wooden box with a window and knobs. I said, “I’ll take it.” I set the TV up in the living room with the “Rabbit Ears” on top. I turned it on and had to look around the channels before I found something. It was called “Queen for a Day” and they were making women wearing boxing gloves put pillows in pillowcases. Mom sat down and watched until the end and then went back to the kitchen.
Dad came home. I was standing in the living room with my bathrobe draped over the TV. My Dad yelled “What the hell is that Johnny?” I pulled off my robe and said “A TV!” “Jesus Christ, where the hell did yet the money for that. Did you steal it?“ I told him I saved my lawn mowing money and The Don had given me a great deal. Now we could watch TV together as a family. He sat down and said, “Well, go ahead and turn it on.” I Turned it on and twisted the channel knob around and landed on a show called “Leave it to Beaver.” There was a kid named Beaver who had a brother Wally. They were friends with a devious kid and a fat kid. It was very funny.
My mother called my father into the kitchen to squeal on us. Dad said, “It’ll have to wait, I’m watching Beaver on our new TV.” My mother let out a gasp and rushed into the living room. “I don’t see any beaver on the TV,” she said with her hands on her hips scowling at Dad. “It’s not that kind of beaver,” he said with a smile. He and my mother laughed. I had no idea what they were laughing about. Mom went back to the kitchen.
The TV was a hit! Everything was going great until our nosy neighbor, Mrs. Asp fell into the China hole. She wasn’t hurt, but we had a hard time pulling her out of the hole. She said she had heard voices in the hole speaking a foreign language. We hustled her out of the yard. Dad gave me dirty look and got two shovels from the garage and we filled in the hole. We covered it with a garbage can lid that we made into a bird feeder.
The next day a police officer came to our front door. He said the bank teller had contacted the police after I had “cleaned out” my bank account—a sign that something my be amiss—bribery, kidnapping, gambling, drugs. I told him I had used money I had withdrawn to buy a TV from my “very very close goombah” The Don. “Oh” he said in a weak tone of voice. I told him to go sit in the living room and I turned on the TV. We watched an episode of “Merry Mailman” and I was off the hook.
When I found out later in life what the “beaver” was that my parents were talking about, I laughed too.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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