Metaphorically Speaking

So, last Monday was Valentine’s Day. The preceding Friday? That was “final pack your crap and go Day.” Yup, it was the time my mortgage company chose to slam the door on my metaphoric clutching fingers. Ok, maybe not metaphoric. They were quite real, and they really, really hurt.

For those of you who know—metaphorically speaking or not--my mortgage woe story is an epic tale. My mortgage company, Cenlar, and I have had a Beowulf/Grendel relationship. Well, except I’m not really Beowulf, and…well… they’re not really Grendel. I’d say that I’m more of a five-year-old with a Millennium Falcon and Cenlar is my father. Dad and I agree that as long as I do certain chores, I get to keep my toy.

My chores are established by Mom. This works great until mom decides to have more kids. Then there are more kids than chores—cuz apparently mom is prolific in the kid department. Mom is also a little arbitrary and drinks a lot, and that influences her ability to fairly deal out workloads. She decides the best way to handle this is to line us all up against the wall and let the Beebee gun of fair employment decide our fates.

Pump. Blam!

“Ow!”

That’s my little brother Charlie. He gets to water the horses. It’s a pretty easy job since we don’t have any horses.

Pump. Blam!

“Ow! Waaah!”

That’s my baby sister Gertrude. Mom asked her to go to the store and pick up some smokes. Gertrude pulls the power motor on her stroller and putters out. Gertrude may be young, but she’s got engine-uity. Yeah, all I’ve got are stupid puns and my Millennium Falco--

Thunk!

“Missed! No jobs for you, Rob!”

Scratch that. All I’ve got are puns.

Chewbacca wails from inside the ship.

Dad, being the benevolent father that he is, gives me time to find other chores before he takes away my toy. “You’ve had that toy too long. I can’t return it to the store, but you better get a job, or I’m gonna sell it to the gophers.

Damn gophers!

“Watch your mouth!”

“But I didn’t say it aloud!”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m Dad, now get a job.”

So I set out with my Millennium Falcon to search of a circus. Why a circus? Because, when I was three, I trained as a clown. The problem with three-year-old clowns though, is that they’re all terrified of other clowns. Why would a clown fearing three-year-old clown look for circus work? I don’t know! It’s a metaphor! Work with me! Let’s just say that that’s why I returned to work at home. Now I’m five. I’m a big boy, and I’m no longer afraid of clowns.

The problem is, there are a bunch of clowns looking for jobs out there. I’ve got the red nose and big shoes, but so do they—they have that and big-top experience: something I don’t have. Oh, I have entertained myself, but that hasn’t gotten me anything more than fuzzy hands. Even worse, I’m five and the prime funhouse hiring clown age is four-years-old. To them, I’m an over the hill ex-mama’s boy wannabe-fool.

Carnival after carnival I get tent flapped in my face. “Out of my way clown,” cry boorish barkers chasing after rube rabble cash. They don’t see my talent. They don’t see that I need work to save my Millennium Falcon. Nobody takes this crying on the inside clown seriously. I hang my whiteface in shame and return to my father.

“I can’t find work.”

“I know. “ he says, rubbing his chin. He’s eying my Falcon. It’s a little banged, and there’re makeup smudges on it. The landing gear doesn’t even pop out all the way anymore. I know he’s thinking about how disappointed I’d be if he took it.

Shaking his head, he says, “I’ll never get anything back for that piece of crap. You need to clean it up a bit.”

“I would, but I can’t afford the soap and sponge to clean it.” I spit on the plastic gun-bay windows, wiping it with my shirt. You can almost make out Han using Chewbacca as a dust mop inside. “See?”

Dad sighs and shakes his head in his usual, “I love you” fashion. “Ok, look. You write this twenty-page report on why I should let you keep the Millennium Falcon, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Ugh! I’m a joker not a writer! What choice do I have? I write the report, then I spend an extra three days correcting errors. Clowns can’t spell. I know that, so I give it to a girl at school. She looks it over, makes some suggestions. After she returns my paper, I make the final corrections, place the report in a nice folder, and bring it to my dad.

I find him working his front yard Star Wars spaceship sales emporium. He’s taking a tie-fighter from a brother and sister couple. “I’m sorry,” he says, handing their ship to my uncle Ted. Ted rents out spaceships. He hands my dad some change, and tosses the fighter in a pile marked, “fix and flip.”

I rush to Dad’s table. “Dad! Dad! Here’s my report!” I proudly extend the folder towards him.

He shakes his head. “I need you to mail it to me.”

“What?”

“It’s the rules. Mail it and then wait for my reply.”

So I mail it. Within two weeks I get a reply in the post box: “I did not receive pages 10-20. You’ll need to rewrite them.”

My floppy shoes hung low that night. Still, I’d done it once, I’d do it again--and I did! I mailed my new pages, and two weeks later I received my reply: “I need you to rewrite pages 10-20, we never received them.”

Wha?

This time I went out to talk to Dad again. I found him at the paper shredder. I thought I recognized my pages going in. Maybe I did. I knew that if that was the case, he was doing it to teach me something. I just needed to find out what it was. “Dad, I sent you those pages, why do you need them again.”

He continued shredding without saying a word.

“Dad?”

Silence.

“I see my pages right there, what’s going on?”

Another page enters the shredder.

Now, I’m clenching my fuzzy palmed fists. How frustrating! I’m doing all this work, and I’m not even guaranteed that I’ll keep my ship. I storm back to my room for another try at pages 10-20. Once again, I work them to perfection, and I send them in. My reply comes the next day.

We of Dad-lar are sorry. You have refused to complete our requested material in the allotted time. We have no choice but to move forward in our claim of your toy.

Love you bunches!

Dear ol’ Dad.

While dad slept, I tiptoed into his room. I wanted to show my love and appreciation for all he’d tried to do. Slowly, I undress. When I’m completely naked, I hop on his bed, both legs straddling him. Shocked, he sits up.

Smack! That’s the sound of a Millennium Falcon against his forehead it’s broken the door, but I feel better. Why am I naked? I wanted to make sure he remembered. And with that, my Falcon and I are out the door.

I’d run to join the circus, but I can’t. So, I take my Falcon, and flop down in an empty field. Dad is going to be mad. He’ll even come down hard on me when he does. It’s fine. I’ll enjoy my remaining time until he does. I begin motoring my ship around the field, dandelion fluff billowing in my wake.

Six months’ play time passes before Dad finally finds me. In the meantime, I’ve showed a little pirate girl my little spaceship.

“I always thought they were bigger.”

It may be small, but she likes it. She decides that she’d like to help me keep my Falcon. As a full-time pirate, she makes better than clown change. When swollen head dad stomps through my dandelion field, he’s got a little mini-note he tacks to the fuselage. It’s not the 95 theses. It’s a notice of auction. He’s gonna sell my toy to the highest bidder.

I knew this was going to happen. At least I have a little time to get Han, Luke and the rest of the rebels out before the ship goes on the block. My pirate girl offers to let me keep my toys on her Weeble ship to, and I call some friends from school to help me move them there.

That brings us to last Friday. Last Friday Dad called me and said “Send me twenty pages about why I should let you keep your falcon, and I’ll see what I can do. I wanted to hit him with the Falcon one more time, but the pirate girl said, “No, don’t. Send him the twenty pages.”

So I did. I’ve completed the packing, and Dad’s pushed the auction date back to March 15^th.We’ll see what happens.

That’s my situation in a chocolaty metaphor shell. Everything I own is packed up and waiting, just in case I need to move. Everything except this book I found, “Expressing life through allegory.” Maybe I can find a use for that…