The Letter X: An Amalgamation of Two Sloping Perpendiculars

[as Clint Venezuela]


I was contemplating the letter X when Dark Stink the silverfish arrived.
“Good afternoon,” said Dark Stink, “are you contemplating something by any chance?”
“How can you tell?”
“You appear as though you are deep in contemplation.”
“Appearances deceive,” I explained, “although in this case you are correct, I am indeed deeply contemplating something.”
“What is it?”
I shuffled my feet and glanced out of the window for a slight moment. I noticed that the sky was still out there.
“The letter X,” I confessed, “I am contemplating the letter X.”
“Deeply?”
“Deeply.”
“I believe there is no other way to contemplate the letter X.”
“I agree.”
“So what about it? Any conclusions as yet?”
I scratched my head and wriggled my eyeballs a little. “None as yet. I am concerned with the origin of this enigmatic letter. I can’t imagine how it could have evolved.”
“Wasn’t it the Greeks?”
“It was the Greeks. I blame them for everything. Along with the Romans.”
“And the Martians,” Dark Stink added.
“That’s an entirely different issue to contemplate on another occasion, don’t you think?”
The silverfish nodded and twisted his feelers in the air.
“Doesn’t the letter X indicate some kind of forbidden territory?” said Dark Stink.
“Yes it does. But why should it? Why not the letter Z, or Q?”
“It must be the interlocking of the two leaning verticals. It can give the individual a sense of foreboding.”
“And isn’t this sign used to ward off evil? In a religious aspect, that is. The sign of the cross, and all that.”
“Only if you believe in all that stuff. Silverfish are agnostics, you understand.”
“And I myself am an atheist,” I confessed.
My theory was drowning in a hole, but strangely I felt a lot better having a companion with whom I could contemplate the letter X.
“Negro slaves used to use an X to sign their names,” I said, “because they were unable to read or write in those times.”
“But the letter X can easily be forged. Surely this method had little authenticity.”
“True.”
There was a pause. I didn’t count the seconds as I felt it wasn’t important, but as the pause increased in length I realized that its importance was increasing also, so that in the end I was cursing myself for not counting the seconds.
“Fourteen,” said Dark Stink.
What a relief! I was so pleased that at least one of us was on the ball.
“The letter X signifies an adult rating,” I continued, “as in X certificate, in films and books and music, etc.”
“Isn’t that a reiteration of the forbidden territory theory, Clint?”
“It is. And I apologise.”
“No need to.”
“X also signifies something enigmatic and mysterious,” I said. “You know, like in the X-Files.”
“Yes, and continuing the mystery hypothesis, some people adopt the letter X in their names to indicate anonymity. Think of Malcolm X, and Professor X. Indeed, the X-Men!”
“I admire your way of thinking, but in the case of Professor X, the X is merely an abbreviation of his surname Xavier. Am I right?”
“You are a genius, Clint.”
I blushed. It was generous of my little friend to regard me as a genius, although I thought that perhaps this was an exaggeration.
“Something really bugs me,” said Dark Stink. “It’s a small point, but think of the pronunciation of the letter X. When actually speaking this letter we all say ‘ex’. Yet surely it should just be ‘x’, where does the ‘e’ come from?”
“Yes I know. Ex is another issue completely. The pronunciation of the letter X ought to be ‘uhx’ and not ‘ex’, with no ‘e’ involved at all.”
“Exactly.”
At this point Dark Stink and I gazed at each other for a second before simultaneously bursting into laughter. His muttering of ‘exactly’ was what we both required to ease our anxieties.
“I don’t think we are any closer to solving the mystery of the letter X,” I said.
“I agree. Its origin escapes us all. In my opinion it is merely an amalgamation of two sloping perpendiculars.”
“How quaint! I really like your definition.”
“Thank you.”
Dark Stink glanced at the grandfather clock against the far wall. Time was racing. I hadn’t realized that deeply contemplating the letter X could eat up the minutes like this.
“Time is dashing,” said Dark Stink. “Might I suggest we conclude our business?”
“Good idea.”
I delved under the counter and produced a spanking new and obsessively clean edition of Stranger on the Loose by D Harlan Wilson, and proceeded to hand the copy over to Dark Stink. He took it, thanked me greatly, and turned to wiggle away across the floorboards.
“Dark Stink!” I called.
He turned. His eyes were tiny and wet, like two minute glass marbles at the summit of his face.
“You forgot your receipt,” I said.
He dashed back, and I held it out to him.
“Just sign here,” I told him.
I gave him a pen and I watched as he scribbled an amalgamation of two sloping perpendiculars before scuttling off with the book.