Metaphor (short story)

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Hogamus, higamus, men are polygamous; higamus, hogamus, women monogamous. - Ogden Nash


"Let me guess," she smiled cheerfully. "Problems with love."

"Uh...yeah," he said sheepishly.

"You and everyone else on this planet," she smirked.

In an instant, the beige walls melted away into starry space, and the two of them were left standing on a bronze globe, the continents traced on its surface.

"Whoah!" he yelped, nearly losing his balance.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, as the walls and carpet suddenly reappeared, this time with a couch and desk. "Maybe a psychologist's office?"

"I was thinking more 'fortune-teller'," he ventured.

"You didn't strike me as the couch type," she winked, as the room suddenly caved in on itself, shrinking to the wooden interior of a small covered wagon.

"Yeah, this is better," he approved, taking a seat.

"I don't care for it," she frowned, picking at the faux-gypsy clothing that had coagulated around her body. "But this is your session, not mine!"

"Thanks for humoring me," he grinned. "Now, first..."

"No, I go first, Mr...uh..." she warned melodramatically. "Oh, who am I kidding? I'm supposed to be a fortune teller, and I don't even know your name."

"Call me Samuel," he said.

"Is that your real name, or is that just what I should call you?" she teased.

"Who cares, so long as you call me?" he chanced. Above the cheap crystal ball, a floating cellphone oozed in and out of existence. "But yeah, it's my real name. And should I call you Lady Metaphor?"

"Just 'Metaphor' will do, thanks," she said. "No need to be formal just because we aren't friends. Not that we won't try to fix that by the end of the session!" she added, poking him.

"Or maybe 'Metty'?" he suggested.

"Metaphor, thanks," she squinted. "It's bad enough that I keep getting Metaphysics' mail."

"Are you kidding?" asked Samuel.

"If only," she said, tapping the crystal ball. "But look, you came here for a reason. Love, you said. I see the pain...the terrible pain...the terrible, wasting pain..."

"Oh, come on, be serious," he interrupted.

"I can't help it," she apologized. "It's this fortune teller bit! All right, I'm sorry, we'll start."

"Whenever," he shrugged.

"Here's how this will work," said Metaphor, getting down to business. "I'll tell you what you need to know, and quite a bit you probably shouldn't know. But it's up to you to understand it. So pick metaphors you can understand."

"Like this fortune teller's wagon," he said.

"Yeah, if you want to look on the surface, that's one element," she yawned. "Another is that I'm light-hearted and casual with you. That's how you would prefer to have me relate to you, hmm?"

Samuel stared at her, taken aback.

"Don't worry about it," she smiled. "I'm just glad you're not a military man. Now, your problem - let's solve it!"

"Yes, let's," said Samuel. "See, there's this girl..."

"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm," Metaphor interrupted, scribbling an ocean of notes on a pad of paper that appeared out of nowhere.

"I haven't even said her name," he said.

"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm," she said, the paper pad now transformed into a keyboard.

"Are you listening to me?" he demanded.

"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm," she echoed, burning the invisible data onto a CD which she filed into thin air.

"I can't believe this," said Samuel, bemused.

"I can't believe it, either," said Metaphor breathlessly. "It's so exciting!"

"You haven't even heard my story yet," he countered.

"You're right, I haven't," she granted. "But your life is still exciting, in an absolute sense, even if I haven't heard about it. Trees falling in forests and all that."

"Thanks...I think," said Samuel, perplexed but amused.

"Don't keep me waiting!" said Metaphor impatiently, jingling the tin bells on her outfit. "What's the girl's name?"

"Carrie," said Samuel, "and she's..."

"No, the other girl's name," Metaphor corrected.

"What other girl?"

"The one whose name you haven't told me yet," she said.

"Oh...well, there's Vicki..."

"No, not Vicki! The other one!"

"What, do you mean Molly?" he asked.

"Ee, ee, ee," Metaphor squeaked, as mice scampered underfoot. "All these girls' names end in that 'ee' sound."

"Coincidence," said Samuel, yanking his legs up from the infested floor.

"Go ahead and lay them on the table, like a lazy businessman," she advised him.

"Thanks," he said, propping his legs on the table. "Don't mind if I do."

In a flash, the fortune teller's wagon burst into an upper-level office suite, the back wall lined with windows looking out on a river of skyscrapers.

"Much better, thanks," said Metaphor, adjusting her snappy business suit. "Wow! What a view!"

"Can we get back to this, please?" asked Samuel.

"Now that you're in a business office, suddenly you're all business," she sniffed. "OK, let's. Three girls - Carrie, Vicki, Stacy..."

"I didn't say Stacy," he corrected.

"I know, and I'm appalled," sparked Metaphor, pounding her fist on the redwood desk and knocking his legs back onto the floor. "Stacy would be, too, if she knew you'd left her out."

"I didn't mean to..."

"And poor Krista," wept Metaphor, as a sudden rainstorm erupted outside the windows. "The one girl in your life whose name doesn't end in 'ee', and you hardly give her a third thought."

"Now you're confusing me," he objected.

"Only fair, as much as you've been confusing those poor girls," she accused him, as the boardroom melted away into a vacant courtroom, with a black-robed Metaphor in the judge's seat. "Jury? Your verdict?"

"Guilty," said twelve Metaphors in unison, sitting in the jury box.

"Now that's your best trick yet," smiled Samuel. "Thirteen of you."

"Oh, is that your attitude?" demanded Metaphor from the judge's seat, as the twelve jurors evaporated. "See one woman, think of twelve?"

"I only said five names," said Samuel defensively.

"I'm wondering about the other seven," mused Metaphor, counting seven fingers on her right hand.

"I'm wondering about the one," interjected Samuel. "I mean, I don't want five or seven or twelve. I want one."

"Oh, is that why you're here?" asked Metaphor, somersaulting from the judge's seat and nearly knocking him over. "You could've said that before."

"I just can't decide which one," explained Samuel, balancing himself. "I mean, I really want commitment..."

"So many men start by committing to marriage," she said wryly, "and end by committing adultery."

"I wouldn't do that," huffed Samuel. "Marriage is too important."

"You're preaching to the choir," sang Metaphor, as the courtroom gave way to an impossibly long church. "Look - now there's an aisle with true romantic depth! The best courtships start with a smile and end with the aisle."

"I like the stained glass," appraised Samuel, as rainbows scattered across the pews. "Nice touch."

"Don't touch," she admonished. "No, wait, that's Vicki's line."

"She did not say that!"

"Maybe she should've," she giggled, dodging behind a pew. "I'm kidding! Really!"

"Vicki is beautiful," he admitted wistfully. "But Carrie is so sweet...and Molly is very creative...and Stacy burns charisma..."

"Isn't it always the way?" sighed Metaphor, as the church imploded into a poorly air-conditioned basement with a massive supercomputer. "You say you want to talk about marriage, but you really just want to crunch numbers. This one is this, that one is that, blah blah blah."

"But they're all so different," persisted Samuel, as Metaphor fed data into the cavernous machine. "They're each beautiful in different ways."

"But coincidentally, you're handsome in such a way that you mysteriously match with them all, right?" laughed Metaphor.

"Uh...I guess so..."

"Just let that humility shine through, buddy," she snickered. "It's very becoming."

"Hey, I'm serious," protested Samuel. "I think I'd have a chance with any of these girls."

"Ooh, a 'chance'," sparkled Metaphor, calling up a thesaurus on the supercomputer screen. "So I take it that you haven't actually made any - what's the word? - 'progress' with these lovely ladies?"

"Not a bit," he confessed. "But I didn't...I mean, I didn't want to risk messing something up if..."

"Let me get this straight," she said, tapping data into the supercomputer. "All five of these girls are unwittingly blocking you from committing to any one specifically?"

"That's not exactly..."

"The computer says it is," she pointed out, as the output screen flooded with ones and zeroes.

"Far be it from me to contradict a computer," allowed Samuel carelessly.

"Why not contradict it now?" suggested Metaphor. "Pick one."

"No!" he retorted. "I don't know which one!"

"It's OK to contradict a computer, but don't contradict me," she sniffled, wounded. "Just pick any one. You said they were all 'beautiful in different ways'. Clearly there's a reason you're thinking of these five and not, say, the other five billion women on the planet."

The supercomputer vanished, replaced by the starscape and bronze globe from early in the session.

"Ugh, I don't like this image," frowned Samuel, getting queasy.

"I think it's beautiful, in its own way," winked Metaphor. "Fine, back to your precious fortune teller's wagon."

The globe disappeared, replaced by the cramped wooden wagon.

"Did I mention how much I hate this outfit?" muttered Metaphor, pulling at the tacky gypsy fabric that again covered her body. "These stupid bells!"

"I need you to tell me who to pick," said Samuel earnestly.

"You said you had a 'chance' with these girls, so we'll let chance decide," said Metaphor, pulling out a pink fuzzy dice. "We'll assign each girl a number. Six means you stay celibate."

"Whoah, wait a minute," he said, knocking the dice off the table. "I don't want chance to decide."

"And a good thing, too," said Metaphor, checking where the dice landed, "because I think you can do better than Girl #4."

"Which one was #4?" he asked curiously.

"Does it matter?" clicked Metaphor. "Aren't they all better than each other in their own individual respects? Don't they each have their own strengths and weaknesses?"

Samuel paused to consider this.

"Yes, but one is the best," he decided. "The best for me."

"How self-centered," she smiled. "All right, we'll do this scientifically. Pick a card."

"Tarot?" he asked, as she waved the deck at him.

"Just playing cards," she shrugged. "They work just as well."

"I got the eight of spades," he said.

Metaphor pondered this.

"All right, they don't work as well," she admitted, ripping up the card. "But you get the point, yes?"

"No," said Samuel, bewildered.

"There is no point - I was bluffing, like you've been," she wrinkled. "Just trying to keep you honest."

"Now you've really lost me," said Samuel.

Instantly the wagon vanished, replaced by a retail lost-and-found counter.

"I must've left the claim ticket in my other clothing," she searched, as her outfit rapidly shifted from one style to another. "Never mind, here you are - hiding out in the open!"

"I'm not hiding anywhere," he insisted.

Instantly the retail store vanished, replaced by a barren wasteland.

"Maybe you're hiding nowhere, then," said Metaphor, now dressed in a camouflage uniform. "So much for no military imagery! It's your fault, for hiding your feelings."

"I'm not hiding anything," he countered. "I just don't know what I should do."

"But you have been doing something," she pointed out. "You've been waiting."

"When in doubt, it's wiser to wait," said Samuel lightly.

"See this sundial?" asked Metaphor, as it rose out of the dirt. The sun's shadows raced back and forth across its surface. "You're not just running out of time - you're recycling it."

"But these things must be done slowly..."

"What, like chess?" she asked, as six chessboards appeared, pieces sliding on and off from one board to another. "But look, no one is waiting for their turn. How impolite!"

"I don't think this picture is helping," frowned Samuel, trying to see past the chess clutter.

"I suppose not," she granted. "But before we move on, is there something you wanted to get off your chess? Get it - 'off your chess'?"

"OK, that was clever," admitted Samuel, laughing.

"Cleverness can only take you so far," she waxed, as the chessboards evaporated, "but it's usually just far enough. Think we've gone far enough yet?"

"Not yet - I still need you to give me advice on who I should pick," pleaded Samuel.

"I'm not here for advice - I'm here for answers," said Metaphor proudly. "See, that's part of your problem. Advice, not answers; considerations, not decisions."

"So I should just make a decision?" he asked.

"It takes a big, strong, humble man to take orders from a woman," she purred. "Since you're neither big nor strong, humility is your best bet."

The sundial crumpled into a roulette wheel, and their wasteland was enveloped by a luxury casino. Metaphor's camouflage outfit melted into a slinky evening dress.

"No humility, but at least you have good taste," she observed. "See this roulette wheel?"

"Yes," said Samuel, watching it whip around.

"Normal people throw in one ball and then wait for the wheel to stop," said Metaphor, dropping in a ball. "You, on the other hand, have dropped in five balls. And you won't let the wheel stop."

"That I understand," he said.

"Oops!" yelped Metaphor, as the speed of the wheel flung the five balls out of the ring. "Bet you understood that, too!"

"Yes," he said. "It means that..."

"It means I win the bet!" she crowed, as dollar bills fell from the ceiling.

"So I should make a decision for the sake of making a decision?" he pushed. "Before I run out of time?"

"If you do, I know one girl who's going to be very upset," said Metaphor, collecting the money even as it melted away. "The one you've courted so assiduously these long and lonely years. She has been so reassuring! So comforting! So lovely to behold!"

"For a lady so impenetrably silly," observed Samuel, "it's when you speak most directly that you make the least sense."

"'Silly' would imply madness without purpose," winked Metaphor, as the background dissolved into an inchoate purple swirl. "Your mad purposelessness is your true love. She exchanges tomorrows for your today. She opens doors you never walk through. She makes promises you never ask her to keep. How patient you are with her!"

"I'm sorry - you've lost me, again," apologized Samuel.

"No, I'm the one who should apologize - I won't, but I should," said Metaphor. "We're out of time. But let me introduce you to my sister - I know you'll recognize her."

"You have a sister?!?" asked Samuel, shocked.

"Hundreds," shrugged Metaphor, as a door appeared in the inky purple darkness. "But before you make your final decision, maybe you should meet with the fine lady you've wooed so fervently."

"Sure, I'm game," said Samuel, unperturbed, as Metaphor opened the door.

"Don't say I didn't warn you, even though I didn't," she said, pushing him through the doorway. "But I'm not the one flirting with Possibility."

 

Very good!

 

Interesting - in a "what-the-hell" kind of way. I like how Metaphor keeps changing the scenario to fit what she's talking about. I don't understand what her name has to do with the story though. Are all those places metaphors in their own right? Also, nothing really happens. He goes there, talks to this lady and jumps through a door. What happened to his problem? what was through the door?