Butterfly Story-Time for Rachel?

[Rachel Peters]

Robert, Will you tell us another story?
I'm at work, at the computer, and I'm bored, with not much to do.
Story-time?
Please??
So that I can at least look busy?
Can it be about turnips and Band-Aids?
I eagerly await a reply.

[jayrodin]

I second this. Less Scot more throwing clubs at cripples!

[Butterfly Man]

Tonkah rides again!

Tonkah Truck
by the Butterfly Man


In 1981, my bastard son was born in Santa Cruz, California. His mother was married to a bad-ass Navajo. I, thankfully, never met the guy. She named our little boy “No Nukes.” It always made people laugh.

No Nuke's mom was my coke dealer; she always had the best flake, but never seemed to have much money. She spent all her profits on comic books. She showed me a #1 Donald Duck once, inside a cellophane wrapper, but she wouldn't let me touch it.

She had no car and lived in a dilapidated house. She was teaching our little boy to say “Mercedes, Daddy!” It always made people laugh.

I was no fool (yes, I was); I knew “Mercedes” was going to be too difficult for a baby to pronounce, so I bought her a Morris Minor instead.

Actually, I didn't know what it was. It was just a small shitty truck, in front of a small shitty house, in her small shitty neighborhood. The proverbial beaten, red-headed stepchild, except it was green and already dead.

Useless, yet pathetically cute, it lay dwarfed in the tall grass. Weeds were growing up through the inside floorboard. Rust splotches were bubbling up through what was left of the weathered paint. The fenders and body were riddled with volcanic dings and dents. “Perfect,” I thought, “its perfect!”

“Its a ’59 pickup,” the seller said. “Very rare, and I'm not sellin’ it for less than fifty bucks.”

I’m thinkin’: That’s only half a gram … “SOLD!”

All I had to do, I reasoned, was take the truck apart, clean it up, and put it back together before the coke ran out. I had an eightball and it looked like a small truck, so I borrowed some tools.

I never worked so hard on anything before in my life. Greasy, sweaty, and disgustingly dirty, I spent sometimes up to fourteen hours a day dismantling that thing. I was so high the whole time; I think I saw God on day 3. He looked like a crankshaft.

I was relentless. Every bolt, every nut and every piece that would or could come undone was undone. It all seemed especially frustrating that no wrenches or sockets I had seemed to fit any of the bolts. Many I had to pry off with pliers. What a bitch! Wentworth, my ass.

Eight days later, I ran out of coke. My hands were cut and bruised. I had banged my forehead so many times, it looked like a roadmap. A thin layer of filth had become permanently affixed to my dermis. I was thinking of tattooing WD-40 on my ass.

All my clothes were ruined, and I had never felt that level of frustration before in my life. It was worse than the time I had to learn to masturbate with my left hand.

In front of me, I now had a worthless piece-of-shit truck … literally in pieces.

I got some help and dragged the big pieces (like the engine, fenders, cab) into a dilapidated shed on the side of No Nuke's house. I then put all the little knobs, hinges, and assorted crap into cardboard boxes. Anything electronic-looking I put into plastic garbage bags. I felt no need to label anything; it was all so fresh in my mind.

I drove home to San Francisco.

The following day, I entered Jon Fox's SF Standup Comedy Competition, my first time working indoors, off the street. On my best night I came in sixth … didn't even make the top ten over-all. I wasn't an overnight success, but I did get a helluva lot of work for the next three years.

Fox booked me everywhere (even Canada) … so did NACA (college circuit) … I was touring almost nine months of the year. On those few days with no shows, I’d be on my way from someplace to somewhere. I hated almost every fuckin’ minute of it.

When I did get to return to the Bay Area, I would hurry down to visit No Nukes and, of course, score some more coke. Needless to say, I never did get around to working on that truck again.

In the spring of ’85, I got a call from No Nuke's mom, saying she had moved into a new place. Apparently, the people now living in her old place had thrown everything out of the shed into the weeds behind the house.

I freaked Big! All that hard work … eight days! All that coke, 9 grams! I made a vow, then and there: I’d put that truck back together, even if it was the last line I’d ever do.

I rented a U-Haul and asked my best friend, Patrick, to help pick up the pieces. Patrick was big, around 6’4, 280. How this big, dumb, black motherfucker got to be my best friend, I’ll never know. I met him years ago when he was a bouncer in one of the clubs where I had done some standup. I always picked on him mercilessly. That was almost thirty years ago. Today he is still my best friend, although much fatter and uglier.

We drove back down to Santa Cruz together. My heart was pounding as we pulled up to the shed … there was a strange car in it.

Unannounced, we blatantly walked into the new tenants’ backyard and, amongst the overgrown weeds, started picking up all the rusty pieces. I felt people staring out their windows at us. Patrick single-handily rolled the engine block onto a dolly and lifted it onto the back of the U-Haul. I had nothing to fear.

The cardboard boxes were wet and melted to the touch. Bolts, nuts, and screws fell from soggy paper bags. I picked up all kinds of plastic bags; most of them just had garbage in them. It took several hours, but we loaded up everything we could find that looked like part of a truck.

We drove back to San Francisco.

Over the next six years, I moved around the city three times. After the second move, Patrick told me to go fuck myself. I was forced to make new friends.

Not one of the places I rented had a garage. I kept rusty pieces of metal in all corners of every room. I slept with boxes of greasy, oily thingamabobs everywhere. I'm a Virgo, and the mess was driving me insane.

Thanks to a drug connection, Meridy, the Brownie Lady, I finally found a place of my own in Bernal Heights. Unbelievably, it had its own garage. I know it sounds impossible … my own place in San Francisco with my own garage. It was a dream come true. I paid $800 a month cash to the two Jewish stoners who declared it as a no income-producing property. Score.

I bought a grinder, a Bosch. Someone said it was the best … it was, I still use it today. Between gigs, I started to de-rust, clean, and polish every item I had carried around for the past seven years. Between gigs, it took me almost twenty months.

Being a Virgo, I took every little bit of rust and paint off of each fender … then both doors … then the cab ... the bed and even the frame. Every inch of everything, inside and out. I brought everything down to bare metal. Red dust became a part of my life. My stool looked like downtown Baltimore.

I then bondo’d and fiberglassed all the dents and put a coupla coats of red primer on everything. My lungs felt like I had inhaled Vesuvius. My skin looked like I lost at Wounded Knee.

But it was all clean.

Time to put it all back together.

(Thinking to myself: ) OK, I'm glad I got these new tires … they look great … they must attach to the frame … uh. Oh, I get it … they go on this axle thing first … right? Does that go on top or the bottom? The wheels should go on first, right? What about those circular things? What does that long thing do? This was all jacked up before … it looks different now … shit.

I didn't have a clue.

I called a bunch of British and import car places. Most said their rate was between $60 and $90 an hour. One guy offered to do it for a flat ten grand, if I paid for all the parts (what a guy). Most people, however, didn't bother to call me back.

It was all so depressing, I finally gave up.

I remember trying to sell all the parts to a mechanic for fifty bucks … he thought about it for a second. Then he turned me down.

About a month later, I got a call. Some guy said he heard I might need some help putting a car together. He had a British accent … it was a good sign.

His name was Nigel, but he introduced himself as Jim, which is much easier to type.

He drove over and opened the garage. He looked at all the car parts and pieces and said, “Oh, its a Morris Minor … my father had one of those. It's a pickup as well … quite rare, that is.”

He cautioned me that he charged fifteen bucks an hour.

I was so happy, I almost shit.

On and off, over the next six months, we would meet at 10am and work ‘til 2pm. Every day he'd tell me what to do. At the end of each day, he'd tell me what parts to go get.

I‘d go through junkyards, automotive shops, people’s back yards, anywhere that might have old Morris car parts.

We did it! In 167 days.

In January of 1992, with all my comedian friends around me, I drove it out of that garage.

I had spent exactly $17,253.47. Including the grinder.

This morning I saw some rust starting to bubble the paint on the back fender.

Anybody know where I can score some blow?

[jesus]

Not since staying at Master Lee’s place had I been so greasy, sweaty and disgustingly dirty.

And from there it only got better!

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

I want to see a photo.

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

Here's one.

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

9 grams later...

the man's handiwork.

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

process...

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

cheap labor...

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

And finally,

[Rachel Peters]

and finally, finally...

[martin ewen]

I was concieved in a morris minor

Thank you bobert, that was a good story. isn't america great!

I have a plan to come and visit soon and i thought it might be a good idea to perhaps revisit our appitites till our hearts exploded.
Oh and hey. I have a green card! The world is again my ulcer.

[Butterfly Man]

There's a story in there somewhere ...

In Wellington, NZ, a black dog bit me on the ass while I was juggling fire.

After that show, Martin Ewen said, “You’re lucky it wasn’t a brown dog … I hear they’re poisonous.”

[Butterfly Man]

Safety 1st

In the early ‘70’s, I moved to Nashville. I was supposed to be a doctor (or at least a dentist) … I ended up being a juggler.

My first shows were at a club called the “Exit Inn”. The place was unique in that the original front door was now in the rear of the stage, it made for easier loading and unloading of band equipment.

Every Wednesday on “Writer's Night”, the Exit showcased young up and coming singer-songwriters. Song publishers and music industry people always packed the house.

Owsley, the manager, thought it might be interesting to occasionally put me (and a young comic named Jim Varney) on between the music sets to break up the monotony.

I did this for over a year, always trying some new trick or prop each time. In those days there were no prop-makers so everything was home made. My pins were glued plastic around a wooden dowel. I also painted, glittered and even rhinestoned a whole slew of tennis balls. I carried every thing around with me in a trombone case.

One fateful day, I got a call from Owsley saying he needed an opening act for Tiny Tim (I shit you not).

He needed 30 minutes but I had never done more than 3.

I panicked but I said I’d do it.

I figured I needed a finale, so I made myself some fire torches.

I was pretty good with clubs already, so after just a couple of days practice with fire, I felt pretty confident. I did learn (quickly) to shake off the excess fuel before lighting; otherwise, I’d get sprayed with gas as they spun around.

The fire didn't last long, only 2 or 3 minutes, so I knew my torches needed to be dipped just before the end of the act. I put the fuel in a giant glass mayonnaise jar; its mouth wide enough to dip all 3 torches at once.

The night of my first show arrived. I remember walking through the crowd with my mayonnaise jar cradled in one hand, my trombone case in the other.

Nervously, I set the jar down on the side of the stage. I sure didn't want to spill any of that gas. “Safety First”, I thought to myself.

The show went going pretty well, considering I was sweating more than a Congressional page getting instant messages from Florida.

I dipped all 3 torches into the wide mouth jar. The fuel overflows, spills down the sides and onto the rug. I smile weakly at the people in the front row. The smell of leaded gas surrounds us.

Taking no chances now, I screw the top back on the mayonnaise jar real tightly. “Safety First,” I thought!

I didn't want to get gas on anybody in the audience, so I walked to the other side of the stage to shake off the excess fuel. Safety First!

The fuel droplets sweep across the stage behind me.

I light the torches. A burst of flame, the audience cheers.

I'm think, “Gee, this sure is a lot of smoke, way more than I'm used to!”

I’d never juggled fire indoors before.

The ceiling's too low for double spins, so I yell, “For my 1st trick … under the leg!"

Easy right? … but I drop.

The torch falls, hits the stage. I watch in slow motion as little blue dots of flame travel across the stage towards the mayonnaise jar.

WHOOSH! The jar turns into a huge fireball!

The rug catches fire underneath it ... the audience gasps.

I rush toward a Big Burning Glass Jar of Gas!

As I pick it up, the words “Molotov Cocktail” echo in my brain.

A soundman rushes onstage. For some unexplained reason he picks up my trombone case.

Simultaneously, we both turn towards the door in the back of the stage.

He gets there 1st and opens the door but can't go though … he is carrying the trombone case sideways.

I have no time to think he's an idiot because my hands are burning.

I throw the jar at the door trying to make it over the back of his head but it's just a little too heavy.

The soundman turns around to see a huge burning glass jar of gas flying towards his face. His eyes bulge in fear.

Luckily, he ducks in time, dropping the trombone case.

A flaming mayonnaise jar flies over his head, out through the door.

It hits the pavement, the glass breaks and a lake of fire and glass spill across the sidewalk.

People are screaming all around me.

Total panic ensues when 33 multicolored tennis balls catch fire and start rolling underneath parked cars.

Someone shrieks, "The car's on fire!"

People are diving for cover all around me.

I run away, thinking, next time for sure,

"SAFETY FIRST!"

[Jim]

Safety First!

Oh God. That one never gets old. It's funny when you tell it, but this is the first time I've read it. Best fire story, ever. It would make a wicked short film. Or maybe a Miracle Whip commercial.