Metaphoric Fixation

Every day since he turned 16 Dalton tried to create a metaphor that was particularly lucid and fraught with meaning. On such occurrences, he became ecstatic and couldn’t concentrate on anything else. He had read that Aristotle wrote, “To be a master of metaphor . . . is a sign of genius.” But he could never tell if he was on the path to becoming a genius or if that path, metaphorically speaking, was beyond his reach. 

Dalton included similes in his classification of metaphors, not distinguishing between the two. Some of his favorites included examples by known personalities. Mother Teresa wrote, “Love is a fruit in season at all times and in reach of every hand.” He liked this one from Vladimir Nabokov: “Elderly American ladies leaning on their canes listed toward me like towers of Pisa.” He appreciated this one from Khalil Gibran: “Our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind.” And his favorite was from Elvis Presley: “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog." 

Tempted to plagiarize on occasion, he found a list of metaphors online but lost a girlfriend when he told her, "You are growing on me like you're a colony of E. coli, and I am room-temperature Canadian beef." She couldn’t seem to see the brilliance of the comparison.

He practiced out loud in front of his mirror but didn't have a chance to compliment the next girlfriend by saying: "You have a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up." Or "I am deeply in love with you. When you speak, I hear bells, as if you are a garbage truck backing up." He had stolen these from the internet, but his new girlfriend had taken off before he could use them. And then he was chagrined to discover that some of the metaphors he had found and had admired were actually considered bad ones. 

Dalton once received an F on an English paper when he wrote "Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you're going to get," not realizing his teacher had also watched Forest Gump and would know the reference.

And after the suicide of a local politician, Dalton was known to explain how it happened by saying, "Mr. Smith fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup"—brilliant, but not his own creation. 

He tried to write common metaphors, implied metaphors, extended—aka sustained—metaphors, dead metaphors, mixed metaphors, sensory metaphors, conceptual metaphors, cognitive metaphors, generative metaphors—essentially every kind he could. But he still doubted he was a genius when others didn’t seem to appreciate what he created. And instead of rising, his grades seemed to drop the more he worked at his pursuit. This led him to try mixing irony with metaphor. When his math teacher informed him that his average had dropped and he simply responded with, “But I’m a real number-cruncher” (implying the opposite), she had just shaken her head and waved him away. 

Two years passed during which he kept repeating the same grade level but never forgot his quest. And then, he discovered the world of AI. When prompted, ChatGPT came up with endless metaphors, some of which he judged worthy, others not. His friend who was into creative writing scowled when he told her, “The car raced down the road, like a snail on roller skates.” But then she liked this one: “The sunset painted the sky with colors, like a toddler’s messy finger painting.” 

Still, he was ashamed that he would stoop so low as to collaborate with a computer. How could he acknowledge his words were ghost-written, and by a mere machine? And while he considered going to a 12-step program to confess his plagiaristic behavior or to a camp for reforming unoriginal metaphor addicts, he refrained.  Yet despite being kicked out of school, instead he turned over a new leaf, so to speak (unfortunately, a cliché).  

Thus, he was consumed with originality to the point that he lost his job at Dunkin’ Donuts for ignoring customers' requests for donuts and instead offering them some of the metaphors he was working on to see what they thought. As a result, he usually got blank stares. Then he would ask customers to share their favorite metaphors, thinking that would engage them in friendly conversation. But generally, they just became frustrated and agitated and kept pointing to the trays of crullers, cake donuts, donut holes, beignets, jelly donuts, Long Johns, twists, zeppole, Boston cream doughnuts, or fritters. He couldn’t see the attraction to what was so mundane, and at that point, he would offer something he had read, such as, “You seem as angry as a horse with an itchy nose.” Or, “You look like a guy who wants to change the TV channel but who can’t find the remote.” Or, “Did you know that anger is like a rough sea that wipes out everything?”

Surprisingly, none of these conversation tactics proved effective. So, he generally found himself frowning as he served donuts and reluctantly accepted money for them. His boss didn’t understand his need for elevated discourse, and he lost his job after only one week. 

A month later, Dalton became homeless. Bleary-eyed, hungry, sleep-deprived, and forlorn, he resorted to holding up a cardboard sign that read, “Like a tireless Titan, will produce original

metaphors for food.” But nobody seemed interested in the trade.

Finally, he grasped a small piece of chalk a child had left on the sidewalk and scratched out the lines he had previously written on the sign and wrote:   

“Without a home, I am a solitary seed blown far from its tree by a hostile wind, forever searching for a place to land and root, bud and flower.” 

Satisfied with his own originality and detached from the idea that he would ever be considered a genius, he left his body with a smile as bright as a diamond in the sun, to find a new soil where his roots would grow strong and certain.