Fear of Metaphor
by Vincent Barry
.
. . I know, I know, déclassé but that’s
what she said. A neighbor, I guess. I don’t
know. I just moved in. Well not just, some
months ago, actually. For the tax benefit. My
accountant said my old place wasn’t “producing
enough milk.” Can you imagine? Exactly! Like
I’m a dairy farmer. Who wouldn’t
be flummoxed to learn their house wasn’t
“producing enough milk”? Well,
naturally I asked her—or, naturally, I asked
her—what she meant. “Your house,”—get
this—“Your house,” my accountant
goes, and I quote, “is a milk dud.”
Well, I was naturally alarmed— or,
naturally, I was alarmed . . . Did I mention I
wasn’t having fun anymore? that my life had
become—what? a bore? that I was like-like,
well, George Sanders? Exactly! the famous
movie star whose suicide note read: “I’m
bored.” That’s how I was when my
accountant said, “You own a milk dud.”
Not that I was thinking suicide, minja, but when
she said that, my accountant, I was George
Sanders bored. But, and here’s the thing, my
boredom lifted when she said I needed a “Holstein.”
No, no, I’m not kidding you. Now, me, I have
no lit. background or anything fancy-schmancy
like that, but let’s just say I know,
indeed pride myself on knowing that— exactly!
Moby Dick is more than a big fish! Exactly! So, I
thought naturally—or, naturally, I thought,—“Holstein”
is my bottomline. “Holstein”
will reduce my taxes. So, I bought one, a
“Holstein,” an expensive new house in
an expensive new development, on Hope Lane, which,
as we speak, I am returning to, from a walk, a
very long walk, because I missed Hope Court,
which cuts over to Hope Road from Hope Lane. Why
I missed Hope-Hope whatever, I don’t know.
Probably something I should mention at my next
Wellness Visit, though. Anyway, next thing I know,
I’m on—well, frankly, I’m not sure,
but certainly well below Hope, my Hope, I mean.
So up I truck, which I don’t really mind,
minja, because I figure it will help my Afib,
which my last VW picked up. WV I mean. And not a
moment too soon at that. I mean if it weren’t
for Eliquis--y’know, that fancy-schmancy
blood thinner--who knows? TG—exactly!
Thank God for Bristol Myers Squibb. Anyway, yada
yada, I come to a—get this— Badmuddy.
Well, I naturally think—or naturally, I
think: Where am I? Australia’s outback? Not
that I’ve been there—to the outback of
Australia, I mean, but I’m thinking, I don’t
know why, Badmuddy has to cross Hope. So,
y’know, being Down Under, so to say, I
naturally head up, and up, till eventually I
glimpse my milk cow when presto! she appears like
the proverbial apparition from the beyond. “Hello,”
I sigh, expecting in return, y’know, a civil,
“Hi!” or a surprised, “Oh!"
But nothing. Just a grunt, “Constipated!”
I know, I know, as I say, déclassé “More
fiber? . . . Water?” Then for neighborly
good measure, I cast after her a breathless,
“Magnesium, perhaps?” With bobbing head
she tiptoes off like a wet hen down Badmuddy,
leaving me frozen in fear, a fulsome, irrational
fear, of metaphor. . . . Definitely something I
need to bring up at my next VW. . . .
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