Butterfly Story-Time for Rachel?

[Rachel Peters]

oh.... crap... I meant.... "CHOKE book". Like... if he ever intended to write a how-to book about choking , which, for some reason, I thought he might. ... . .. ...... ... . . . . . .

[martin ewen]

a gag book? (with photos)

[Rachel Peters]

A Glossy Coffee Table Book

How to choke your enemies.
as an aftermath of the .... okejay ookbay.

[martin ewen]

How to convince your best friend (at the time) that they are gagging even when you're not that big. By Robert Nelson. With Forward by Pee Wee. As certified by Em.

[Butterfly Man]

Road Rage continued

There comes a time in everyone’s life when you just can’t take it anymore.

It’s a different situation for everyone, I’m sure.
Maybe it was that bully in grade school who did it to you … possibly, an angry parent pushed too much … perhaps it was a noisy neighbor or simply a nagging wife … whatever … you go just a little over the edge … and then you...

SNAP!

The chaos all around me … looking at that small round table … that huge bowl of peanuts ... that was MY moment. I just lost it.

The loud blaring music continued all around me but I heard nothing anymore. Drunken frat boys and their sycophantic pledges became like crickets in the background. I felt my coping composure collapse. My sanity imploded upon itself. I became socially numb.

More to avoid eye contact than anything, I opened the refrigerator door and pretended to look inside.

The stacks and stacks of horizontally placed beer stared back at me. There were no bottles … just those big 12-ounce cans. Individually balanced on top of one another so as to maximize beer storage capacity per cubic tallboy.

My options gone … I started to drink.

Quickly, I discovered that with my head tilted back, I wouldn’t have to look at anyone or anything, especially that bowel of peanuts.

I skulked backwards to the side of the fridge and wedged myself in a broom closet sized niche between it and the back door.

This became my womb for the next hour or so. I came out only to suckle more beer.

I don’t remember the actual time when Billy Alsodrunk showed up after his miniature golf game, but I do remember his surprise to find “The Butterfly Man” at his frat house. I kind of also remember him being even more astonished that I was even drunker than he was.


Him:

Man, I thought you were coming in Tomorrow at 11am.

Me:

Rebashlatz mick allen shuh!

Him:

Dude, we got no room for you tonight.

Me:

Waah! Shich me con beshsheet coroge bunshh.

Things got kind of blurry around this point.

I kinda remember a fight broke out … I’m pretty sure I started it.

Some big guy said something to me about my head while I was talking to Billy WhatthehellamIgonnadowiththisdudenow.

Honestly, I have no recollection of who he was or even what he looked like. I even don’t remember what exactly it was that he said to me. What I do remember is how unfortunate it was that he was so much bigger than me.

It had to be the way he said whatever it was, that made me take a long swig of beer, smile (grit my teeth really) and spit a mouthful of beer into his face. As his hands rushed up to wipe it off, I hit him in the gut.

I tried to run but apparently, I didn’t get very far. The next thing I remember it was dawn and awoke laying face down near a pool of vomit on the back porch of the frat house.

No worries though, the vomit was probably mine. It looked very peanuty.

It was very quiet; the loudest sound I heard was the pulsating in my own temples. I had a headache, sure, but I didn’t feel that bad really, considering someone had just beaten the crap out of me a few hours ago. Maybe it was because, at that point, there wasn’t much crap left in me.

I made my way indoors to find a bathroom and, hopefully, some aspirin or Tylenol. Cautiously, I tip toed to avoid empty beer cans. I certainly didn’t want to wakeup anyone up who might want to finish me off.

A door opened behind me causing me both mild heart failure and a slight loss of urine.

I whirled to find Billy Lookedworsethanme standing there in his underwear. I fear the worst and imagine a Lambda Theta Epsilon (whatever) gang rape. After all, it was pledge season.

He grabs some clothes and keys from his room and hustles me out of the frat house licitly split. We throw my abandoned 3-wheeled case into the back of his beater station wagon and head for the motel.

On the way, I beg him to stop for food … I’m ready to blow this motherfucker for a cheeseburger.

The golden arches of McShits appeared like Shangri-La in the distance. He graciously buys me several burgers & mcbreakfasts at the drive- through.

On the way to the hotel, I started to force feed myself and unluckily catch a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror. Food was splayed all over my face, hands and lap. My loss of dignity was all too apparent. Ashamedly, I stuffed what was left of the half-eaten food back into the bag as we pull up to the motel.

It’s early am but Billy Ibegyouplease gets the clerk to allow me an early check–in. I look forward to gorging, being alone and getting some rest … in that order.

Billy You’vegottomekiddingme bids me adieu with a

I’ll be back in 4 hours to pick you up for your sound-check.

Wow, a whole four fuckin’ hours... in a one star hotel ... with all this fine cuisine … all this … just for ME? What a privilege it was to have chosen such a rewarding profession.

But sometimes, it’s all about the show, isn’t it?

The show can make it all worthwhile. All the crap you have to go through, all the bullshit of traveling and lugging heavy shit everywhere … all of it can disappear when it’s “Showtime”.

I get only a few hours of gaseous bloated stomach slumber when Billy Ican’twaittogetridofthisguy picks me up from my fast-food franchise decored motel room. As he drives me away from the slowly decomposing stench of my own reality, he tells me the show’s in the cafeteria … big fuckin’ surprise.

College gigs seemed always to put my kind of act in the student cafeteria. I hated performing there but, in a way, I was also kind of grateful. Good jugglers had to be in the gym. Personally, during a show, I’d rather smell leftover meatloaf than the sweat of a jockstrap.

Towards the end of my college career something miraculous happened right around the $1750/show mark. It seems that, at that price, you get some sort of platform with curtains or, at least, plastic flags. Apparently, jugglers share the same career benchmark as used car lots.
As we carry my three-wheeled case inside, Billy I’mnotreadyforthis says he hopes it’s OK that a student film class uses my show as their mid-term video project.

Grimacing internally, I don’t complain, still needing Billy Gotthewallet to stay happy and food friendly.

For the next several hours adolescent would-be Altman’s and wanna-be Coppola’s cage me inside a full 3-camera, head-phoned electronic wire maze all connected to Herr teacher/director’s 18-wheeler size communications truck outside.

I tried everything to be left alone. I tried to look busy preparing for the show, stretching, even something I never did before … practicing.

Nothing worked, that is, until Dale Jones showed up. Dale was a young, very professional local juggler. He was also a good friend and while we spoke, they mercifully left us alone.

Dale was unique in the juggling world at the time because he had only one good arm. His other arm looked more like a fleshy, elongated lobster claw. He could juggle by grasping a small tennis racket in it and bounce the balls to his good hand … it was his hook, so to speak.

Like I said, Dale was a pro, so I asked for any local humor stuff … blah blah blah … at the end of which he quite unexpectedly says to me,

Hey Robert, if you think you can work me into the show, I’ve got this new Christmas bit I just wrote for a big gig and I’d like to try it out before I do it for real … Whatdoyasay, it’s only about 4 minutes long?

I nod OK, just as my apathetic, white, urban middle-class, 18 to 22 year old crowd starts to filter in. Of all the audiences in the world, I don’t think you could find, in one place, a greater concentration of indifferent dipshits.

The student film crew all take their places and freeze.

I thank everyone for coming...

Right off the bat, some guy yells out,

“Gallagher was sold out”

It gets a laugh.

Great! All the shit I’ve been through … all the 3-wheeled, lost wallet, peanut beating crap I had to take to get here ... and NOW THIS!

I respond … foolish me.



Me: Oh yeah, How much did he cost?

Him: $17.50

Me: How much to get in here?

Him: .75 cents … and worth every penny!



Audience laughs again … the bastards!

OK!! … So you wanna play?!!! You want a piece of the Butterfly Man, eh?!!!

OK, kiddies … Let’s dance!!!

A vein in my forehead starts to bulge. I tell them what I really think of them … their fraternities … their college … and then … for some reason …

I say something to a guy in the front row who has purple socks. Everyone laughs … but … one woman’s laugh is way louder than the rest … it sounds more like a very amused hiccup.

“Whoop” … “Whoop” … “Whoop”

Her laugh makes everyone laugh.

Like a comedy virus, “funny” spreads throughout the room.

Everything in my act starts working better than usual.

They love everything I say and do … and then, I try a callback ... I mention the purple socks guy again.

Again … that peculiar laugh!

“Whoop” … “Whoop” … “Whoop”


The place goes berserk with delight.

I have so much confidence, I decide to find out who is laughing like that … make it part of the show, you know.

I stop ... listen intently... wait ‘til it’s silent then say,

“Can you believe it … purple socks!”?

Again, a big,

“Whoop” … “Whoop” … “Whoop”


I look around trying to find the laughing culprit …

I scan the audience … nothing …

Another purple socks comment, and I see why. The laugh is coming from behind the camera on my far right. When I move … she moves.

She’s slightly bent over, looking into the lens but I can see her lurching shoulders when she makes the sound.

“Whoop” … “Whoop” … “Whoop”


Then just before it actually happened … I felt it.

The energy in the whole room changes when … bang; the sound of the steel exit doors open the door to the parking lot and in bursts Herr director!!!

The truck and monitors are visible for a second … then SLAM the doors close behind him.

With a brisk walk and a stern look, the teacher-director crosses the entire length of the cafeteria and heads straight to Camera #1.

He bends over and whispers something to the girl. She stands up and hands him her headphones. He takes over behind the camera as she skulks away.

The audience & I watch this whole scene go down … nobody had made sound the entire time.

The comedy bubble just burst … the pin prick of reality had left everyone in a laugh-less void. The cameras were still rolling.

I guess it was up to me to bring it all back again.

Or was it?

Was I responsible for what just happened?

I stop the show and got serious.
It shocks me more than the crowd.


Me (talking to camera 1):
“Now wait a minute here, that young lady was simply enjoying herself … and all of us were enjoying her laughter with her.

Now, just because she enjoyed herself, you’re going to ruin her day, possibly her career and maybe even her entire life.

Well, I’ll tell you this …


Then thinking to myself:

Uh, Where do I go with this? … I got nothing.


I panic …

Then, out of nowhere, I pull something out of my butt.

“You know ladies and gentleman … about 10 years ago when I was just starting in this business, a little boy came up to me after a show and said “ Mister, when I grow up I want to be a juggler just like you.”
I smiled at the little boy and told him, “Son, when you grow up, you can be anything you want to be … just believe in yourself.”
But, then, as I reached down to shake the little boys hand, I noticed he had only one good arm … (deliberate pause here)…

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you tonight … that little boy 10 years later, doing his first performance in front of a live audience … please welcome … Dale Jones!”

I knew Dale was a pro and would be ready to go on … I figured I’d apologize for my fabricated intro. later.

Dale gives me a brief incredulous look as he takes the stage. I disappear into the back and watch. You could feel the emotional charge in the air. The audience had been way up … then totally bummed … now, thanks to me, they were supposed to be pulling for a cripple.

Me, I just felt relieved to be offstage.

Along with everyone, I watched as Dale masterfully executed a new routine. His discomfort with the new material made him look a little nervous and that just added credibility to my bullshit introduction.

His routine finishes and he gets a standing O.

I smile as I take the stage. I’m thinking maybe Dale won’t be pissed … after all; it’s kinda hard to be pissed when your getting a standing ovation, isn’t it?

Dale hustles his crap off but not without shooting me a semi-dirty look when his back is to the crowd.

Oh well, I think, there will be other crippled friends in my life.

The hard work over, I went back to playing funny man again … but the audience wasn’t going up as fast or as high as before … that laugh was missing. We all missed it.

Then, I don’t know why … maybe just to get back at Herr director for ruining my moment in the sun, I turn and face Camera #1,

I think you should give that girl her camera back.

What are you doing, Robert?
This guy’s the TEACHER!

Audience tentatively cheers but there’s no movement from Camera 1.

I move to the side … he follows me with the camera but does not respond.

Come on … she’s learned her lesson …how about it?

Damn, he’s not saying anything … I should’ve just finished the show.!

The audience gives a rather under enthusiastic applause, fearing another meltdown.

So you’re not gonna move, huh?

Man, I almost had THEM … Wha’ am I gonna do?
Wha’ am I gonna do?

The hunched shoulders show no emotion they just follow my every move behind the camera.

Trying to make a point are we?

Jesus! …Do SOMETHING … somebody, DO SOMETHING!

Motionless shoulders stare back at me.

OK, We’ll see about THAT!

Without really thinking, I grab an 8-foot bullwhip from my prop stand.

I walk around the back of hunched shoulders prancing, threatening, menacing.

Where is THIS going? …You have no fucking idea, do you?

I crack the whip in the air… KKKKERACK!

Herr teacher’s shoulders un-hunch and he shoots straight up to a standing position.

The crowd roars with pre-cripple enthusiasm.

Now what …?

With a look I usually get only from women, Herr director glares back at me.

I spy a cigarette pack in his shirt pocket. Thank God and cancer!

Ladies & Gentlemen … I’d like to show you how to quit smoking in just one move.

I take a cigarette out of his pack and stick it up my nose. It gets a decent laugh.

I take another and place it between his lips.

Whatever You Do … Don’t MOVE!

Herr director is petrified. So is the audience. So am I.

Just don’t hit him … remember that kid in Florida.

While pretending to be judging the distance, I step back and crack the whip twice.

My hands are shaking … I have no confidence. The audience senses my fear. A line of sweat appears above Herr director’s lip. The cigarette is shaking between his lips. We are all anxious to see how this is gonna end.

I go for it. I let fly. I pray for blind luck.

KKKKRRRRAAACCCKKK!

The cigarette flies out of his mouth.

I can’t believe it! The audience applauds wildly.

Then … from way in the back … like a laughing nightingale singing away all my fears … I hear,

“Whoop” … “Whoop” … “Whoop”




What a beautiful sound even an ugly laugh can make.

-The Butterfly Man -2006

[Rachel Peters]

Re: Road Rage continued ...

Originally posted by Butterfly Man

Yeah, the show ... let me tell you about the show ...

.......and then?? AND THEN??!!
tell me about the show!
tellmeabouttheshow!!!

[Butterfly Man]

Road Rage

ROAD RAGE

I hate airports, even nice ones. The same goes for hotels ... they all suck.

I never liked being on the road. Always traveling to some goddamn place to do some goddamn show. Just give me the goddam check and let me go home.

It’s particularly difficult for me to travel because I have a peculiar abrasive quality about me. I don’t get along well with people I first meet. They immediately don’t like me. My wife says I act as if I’m better than everyone else. I don’t think that's true, though in most cases I am.

I remember I once landed in Pittsburg (appropriately named) ... the airline, of course, lost my luggage. I do the wait wait wait, blah blah blah and the “It’s a big propcase with stickers all over it, you can’t miss it shit”. I got the same ol’, same ol’, “We’ll get it to you as soon as” and the “Here’s a number you can call that will always be busy or we’ll never answer”.

Problem was, the gig was several hours away at Grossingers up in the Catskills. I was showcasing for the east coast college circuit … which meant I was the one paying all the bills. Leaving the delivery of my prop case up to an airline delivery guy was like trusting Gazzo with your jokebook.

Reluctingly, I leave, propless, in a rental car.

Several hours later, I’m completely fucking lost going up and down dark unmarked roads in the Catskill mountains trying to find the goddamn hotel. I swear to God, in the middle of all that madness, I drove right onto a golf course. I turned around when I saw the flag for the 15th hole. Shit!

It’s way past 2 am when I finally find the hotel ...
they politely tell me there are no rooms available.
I show them my reservation and they say “check-in time is noon”. Fuck!

I sleep in the backseat of the rental car. I wake up freezing, aching. Nothing sums up the glamour of show business like watching the steam of your own urine as you pee in a parking lot at dawn.

My breakfast is a bag of peanuts from the vending machine.

I have no room, so I have to call the airlines from a payphone. Seventeen quarters, two hours and forty three minutes later, I find out they have my case! I beg them to leave now, my sound check is at 10. I’m first up.

I go back to the front desk and tell them where to send the delivery guy if he shows up and I’m not there. I threaten to sleep in the lobby and look like ten pounds of Young Raoul’s shit in a five pound bag. They offer me a storage room to just get rid of me … I accept.

I fall asleep hungry on a bare mattress and wake up in a panic just after 10.

I rush to the hall … on my way I see another juggling act warming up. They are the “All American Mini-Circus” from Baltimore … never heard of them, the girl juggler had a great ass though.

The sound guy pushes my sound check back … they always do that to jugglers, they think juggler’s don’t talk. They are serving box lunches back in the exhibit hall but I can’t go because I’m first up and I still don’t have MY GODDAMN CASE!

I pace back and forth backstage … once in awhile I go outside to stare at the parking lot. “I’ll bet it’s a white van … it’s always a white van. Is that a white van? Shit, no it’s just the greens keeper.” Apparently, some tire tracks over on the 15th hole were keeping him quite busy that morning.

No word … and it’s pushing noon.

I approach the Mini-circus jugglers and introduce myself. A very polite young man introduces himself as ‘something or other’ and then introduces his hot young girlfriend as Mardene.

I ask whatshisname if I could borrow some juggling stuff for the showcase while trying to figure out a way to look at Mardene’s butt again. They give me some balls, clubs and even a six foot unicycle … they save the day and I pull off a weak one, but better than nothing.

Coming out from backstage soaked with flop sweat, I see my prop case being delivered ... it has only 3 wheels. A guy is dragging it toward the stage.

I lug it shaking and rattling to the front desk to get a room. I’m so hungry I feel the amalgum ringing in my teeth. I just want to get rid of this fuckin’ box, eat and sleep.

As soon as I get in the room, my agent calls.

He’s booked a last minute show in St. Louis ... I have to leave immediately to make the plane back in Pittsburg.

Waaa? 2 hours back to the airport! … IF I don’t get lost! … IF!

I checkout and drag the crippled case back to the rental car.

No time to eat. I see a discarded box lunch in the lobby on my way out … it only has a bag of peanuts left. They tasted like bile … good though.

My brain is spinning … Gotta make the plane! ... Gotta make the plane!

Stomach growling, looking back and forth between the speedometer and my watch. I make some rough calculations.

I need to average 72mph …
It was gonna be close.
An hour passes … I know where I am. No cops yet.

I reached the city limits with 20 minutes left before my scheduled departure.
Traffic starts to slow … Oh No!

Jesus Cheerist ... they’re starting to board!
Sign says “Airport 3 miles” … All right, I’m close!

I screech up to curbside check-in and unload my (now considered overweight and oversize) 3 wheeled prop case. I hand the skycap a stack of tickets, “It’s in there somewhere”, I tell him, “I gotta go return the rental car, I’ll be back” ... 17 minutes left.

I drive to return the car to Avis … there is no one behind the counter … no airport return bus either!

I spy a guy washing cars at the end of the lot ...
I drive straight up to him and speak my over anxious unintelligababble. He jumps in the drivers seat. We speed back to the airport as I fill out a "Rapid Return" form for the first time.

We pull up to curbside with 7 minutes until takeoff.

I pull out my wallet, take out $10 and offer it as a tip.

He refuses saying “No problem man, it’s part of the service”. I guess they do try harder.

The skycaps sees me and is waving the tickets. I jump out.

Monitor says my flight leaves from Gate 25.
OK, Run!

Pre 9-11 security run ... whoosh!

Get to Gate 25 … nothing … no one! Whaaa?
Check monitors again ... Gate change to 26!
Agggh, Run!

One gate more ... door closing … Wait!!!!

Agent stops closing and opens the door. With a smirky smile he says, “No problem, plenty of time, sir!”

Breathing hard .... eyes wild … I get on.

I run the gauntlet of accusatory stares for my lack of punctuality as I find my seat.

I sit, start to relax … only an hour to Atlanta with plenty of time to eat before my connection.

Yeah, eat … (quick check for wallet) …

FUCK! it’s not there … PANIC… (look through everything at frantic pace).

Try to retrace my steps.

I remember the refused tip in the rental car. FUCK! FUCK-FUCK-FUCK …FUCK!

No money … no credit cards … no food!

Then, just when I’m down about as far as a juggler can go, a flight attendant offers me some peanuts! I gag reflexively but ask for 2.

I get to Atlanta but I have no way to buy food ... it’s all around me … a conglomerate of fast food franchises hearded together like the cattle they fed. I weigh the consequences of robbery vs. cannibalism.

Weakly, I pull out the contract info. on the gig my agent had given me ...the student activity office is closed, so I call the listed “home” number.

“Hello! My name is Robert Nelson, may I please talk to William Shitforbrains.”

“Oh, you must be looking for Billy ... he was here Thanksgiving and we expect to see him again @ Christmas but he goes to school in St.Louis.”

Whaaaa?
This kid gave his HOME# … his real Home! (as in where he grew up with his goddamn parents!) What a fuckin’ retard!

I scramble for my life:
“Ma'am, my name is Robert Nelson, your son hired me to perform tomorrow at his college… he is my only contact ... I have lost my wallet, all identification … I have no credit cards … I have no money ... I will be arriving in St. Louis at 11 on flight so and so this evening .. I have no place to stay … I have to go now they are boarding my flight.”

Another bag of peanuts later, I land in St. Louis.

I get off I see a sleepy eyed guy with his girlfriend … her hair is everywhere.

“Are you William Dumbfuck?”, I ask.

“No, I’m his Sigma Alpha Male roommate …
his mom called and woke us up.”

Cold stare from the girl.

“Billy's playing miniature golf and should be back by midnight or 1.”

We drive silently to the frat house … I’m in the back of a convertible with my three wheeled prop case. I watched as restaurants of all sizes and shapes fly by … I wonder if I could ask this guy for some money … just a hamburger maybe … see, there's a place right there ….

The hostile couple drop me off in the front of the frat house ... a keg party is underway.

I dump the box on the lawn and go inside … semi-drunk obnoxious males litter the place … I make my way surreptitiously toward the kitchen ... I’m thinking, FOOD!, FOOD!

I run inside … the refridgerator is full of beer … fucking beer!

What’s the only edible food they’ve got … You guessed it … peanuts!

A huge bowl of PEANUTS!

… this is where my story starts.

[martin ewen]

Jesus Robert, from one crippled friend to another, that was good.

[Lynneski]

Re: Road Rage continued ... continued.

Originally posted by Butterfly Man Apparently, jugglers share the same career benchmark as used car lots.

There's too much fucking genius in that one brain, Robert. Thanks for letting a little of it leak out.

[Rachel Peters]

You got any more stories?
I'm just SO bored and I'm falling asleep at my desk.
It doesn't have to be a long one.
3 words long would do.
Anything.
I miss the stories.

[jesus]

Well...

I have a naked midget story.
To long to type now, as I am busy watching the Sens lose.
Maybe in the morning.

[Rachel Peters]

I'll only listen if it, in some way, involves the Butterfly Man.
Otherwise, you can still type it, but I'll just plug my ears.

[Butterfly Man]

three words= I love you

We checkout late and saunter up the coast to St. Lucia, Africa’s largest estuary, best known for its crocodile and hippo reserve. Missing the “Santa Lucia” boat tour by mere minutes, we decide to forage our own wetland search for the massive yet evasive hippopotamus. By mid afternoon, wet and humiliated, we relinquish all hope and abandon our futile quest. We laugh as we are leaving at a silhouetted hippo roadside warning sign.

We stop and spend the night at the foot of the renowned “Ghost Mountain.” It was here that rival Zulu factions reputedly slaughtered thousands of each other in 1884. Human bones are often found in the area making it an excellent spot for serial killers to settle down and raise a family.

On our way back to Johannesburg the next day, we pass by several “townships” which circle the city. Some, like “Soweto”, encompass hundreds of square miles. Here, thousands upon thousands of blacks live in appalling squalor, forced to live there by the previous white racist administration. The image of hordes of rusty, corrugated, one roomed shacks all with tin roofs held on by numerous assorted rocks is not easily forgotten.

Unclean but undamaged we return our unmanly rental car at the airport and take the “Magic Bus” to our hotel.
Nothing “magic” about this bus really, although it did indeed make some of our money disappear. With no logical reason the driver chose a route of side streets rather than the more direct course via the highway. Each house, home, place of business, school, church, literally every single building we saw was surrounded by either prohibitively high, spear pointed gates or cut glass capped concrete walls. Additionally, everything had at least two or three circular strands of vicious looking barbed wire secured at the top. It made me fantasize of opening a chain of hardware stores in the area.

We check into a rather upscale looking Holiday Inn for the night. Everyone is extremely courteous and helpful. It is surprisingly inexpensive and they give us an exceptionally beautiful suite. We are thinking how lucky we are when we read this message on top of the TV:
DEAR GUEST
______________________
“May we suggest you look out for our special tourist ambassadors, who will assist should you wish to walk to any shopping centres, restaurants and other attractions in the area.
These ambassadors patrol the area and have been appointed to provide you with any information you may require on finding various shopping complexes and the safest routes to take.
They are on duty from 14h00 to 02h00 daily and are easily identified by their high visibility waistcoats. They are equipped with maps and radios and will help you discover South Africa’s premier shopping complexes safely.
We wish you the most enjoyable stay and hope you don’t get killed if you’re ‘whitey’!”
_________________________________

Ok, so I added part of that last line for effect but you gotta admit it’s a pretty spooky message!
No time to sleep late the next morning as we hastily pack and boogie on downtown to the train station. This is the time I’ve been most looking forward to, a 25 hour journey to Cape Town. Reality kicks in when we discover not only are there no private “coupes” available, we don’t even get to sit in the same compartment with each other. We try to find solace in the fact that we were able to buy the last two “first class” tickets available.

On board we locate our respective seats. In Kumi’s compartment there are only two women. One is a very pregnant black woman in her thirties, the other, a snobbish looking white bitch in her fifties. No one speaks as we stow Kumi’s bags. I go find my compartment and open the door. The stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke knocks me to my knees. I swear I caught the scent of fresh urine as well, but that just might have been my own. First class...........my ass!

I greet my two very-drunk-and-its-only-noon traveling companions with a unceremonious nod, avoiding any direct eye contact. I imagine them to be having a heated debate over the moral consequences of thievery, rape and murder. They are speaking Afrikaan, so I can’t say for sure. I pretend to have found the wrong compartment and leave.

I meekly rejoin Kumi in her compartment, we sit as close together as possible, communicate via hand gestures and try not to breath too much air. No one says anything for the next five hours. Abruptly, the door flies open and the train manager looks at the two of us huddled pathetically together. He motions to me to follow him. I think he is going to reprimand me for not sitting in my assigned seat, however, he continues to walk past my compartment, then car after car, toward the front of the train. He pulls a strange looking key from his chain and unlocks a one half sized mini compartment, the perfect size for two people who are desperately in love.

I try to give him all my worldly possessions. He refuses saying it is out of “friendship.” I think that means he wants Kumi and eye him suspiciously. I am dumbfounded as he bids me adieu. I remain in the mini coupe totally flabbergasted.

Not really believing what has happened I rush back to Kumi’s compartment grab her and all the bags and make a mad dash 5 cars back to the coupe, no easy task on a swaying, lurching train.

I really can’t describe our next twenty hours together except to say that Saint Peter probably felt a similar feeling when given the keys to the gates of heaven. We talked, ordered food, wrote, and slept. Mostly, however, we watched the golden African scenery pass by our own little window.

This is the end of my story. Sure, we got to Cape Town, saw a bunch of stuff, ate a batch of things and visited a bundle of places. And yeah, sure, it’s probably the most beautiful city I have ever seen. But, for me, it ended here... somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, huddled so close to my darling wife, feeling the gentle rock of the train as it traveled to the heart beat rhythm of my new friend, Africa.

Love,
Bobby

[Butterfly Man]

pt 4

We exit Kruger by the southern gate feeling a pins and needles type sensation on our skin. Our amazement quickly turns to jubilation as we make our way toward Swaziland. We relive the precious, preceding moments at least a hundred times in the hour long drive to the border.

Swaziland is the smallest country in the southern hemisphere. It is the only country in Africa that has never been governed by the white man. It’s border, however, looks remarkably like the mixture of a chicken farm with the back lot of an auto wrecking business.

Thinking myself as probably in the first 100 or so Americans to visit the country, I receive my passport stamp quickly from what looks like the combination immigration officer/laundry service attendant. Kumi’s Japanese passport, however, throws her into a dither. She scans frantically up and down the half typed, half hand printed, penciled in and scratched out list of countries required to obtain a visa. Obviously, she is well educated as she makes a match before her fourth try.

Apparently, Kumi is the first Japanese woman married to an American she has ever encountered. She calls over to the combination chief of police/border guard/gas station attendant. He regretfully informs us that she can not be allowed to cross the border. I try to bluff him with my best “Fuck with me and I’ll buy your country and fire your ass!” look. Surprisingly, it works. He allows us to pass, with the stipulation that we drive straight to Mbabane, the capital, to obtain a legitimate visa. We thank him profusely and promise to make him king.

For the next several hours we wind our way snake like through the only paved road in the whole country. Squalid, corrugated roofed shacks dot some of the most beautiful countryside imaginable. Kumi’s angst over her illegal alien status increases geometrically as we dodge the free roaming cattle and occasional overzealous, entrepreneurial roadside native. It doesn’t seem to help when I reassure her that should anything happen, I will do my best to contact the proper authorities while she is rotting away in prison.

We reach the capital and locate the Immigration Office, easily identifiable because it has walls made of concrete. We spend the next hour or so talking to several slow moving semi-official looking people who seem genuinely surprised that someone is actually looking to legally enter their country. For her 40R Kumi is given a simply gorgeous three color, full page visa stamp along with 11 cows and 14 acres of land.

Off we go. We easily locate the route to the plush Ezulwini Valley. The Guinness Book of Records lists this as “the most dangerous stretch of road in the world.” Apparently, one too many tourists has plummeted to their death off the treacherous cliffs with their unsigned travelers checks, so King Mswati III has ordered highway reconstruction, complete with intermittent center dividers and the occasional guard rail.

The major redevelopment has closed access to our intended accommodations. We decide to continue on our journey back out through Swaziland’s southern border and on into Kwazulu/Natal. This region is home to the renowned Zulu tribe, once led by the infamous “Shaka”, the bloodthirsty Anglo massacring chief in the early 1800’s.

Because of our late arrival all hotels in the area are booked, so we are forced to stay in a local “guest house” for the night. We drive to the “Hinterland”, a 16,000 hectare cattle ranch owned by the rich, white South African racists, Geppi & Ria. Over dinner, Kumi and I learn what an evil bastard Nelson Mandela is and a lot of new “nigger” jokes. I pretty much dominate the rest of the evening with my intoxicated self deprecating humor. We leave quickly, before dawn.

A swift, early morning drive to the Hluhluwe Inn (pronounced shulu shulu wee) assures us of more private, less bigoted sleeping arrangements for the following night. Reservations guaranteed, we check out the local tourist information bureau and head off to Dumazulu, an quasi- authentic Zulu village where they permit the white man to visit three times daily to be fleeced of his booty. A middle aged matron gives an informative Zulu arts and crafts discourse on automatic pilot. We are then ushered to, we are assured, a bona fide Zulu luncheon. Convincingly, it looks, smells and tastes remarkably like the slower members of the previous tour group.

Afterwards, we return to Hluhluhwe, check in, unpack and off we go on safari #2. This time, in search of the endangered and elusive rhino, our less informed driver takes us on a much cheaper expedition in a muddy & bloody, broken down, piece-of-shit jeep. Initially, Kumi and I feign interest in the far off mammalian sightings. We quickly become smug and then downright haughty. We’ve already “been there, done that, seen it and bought the T-shirt.”

Our boredom vanishes abruptly when, quite suddenly, in front of our vehicle, two white rhinos appear side by side. Owing to their poor eyesight they remain unaware of our presence and slowly advance to about 10 feet away. We hold our breath, snap a brazen photo and pray to remain downwind.
The larger of the two breaks both tension and wind by turning slightly away from us and unashamedly defecating. I must be getting older as my only thought at the time was how good that must make him feel.

The rest of the excursion proves incredibly more exhilarating. Highlights being, close encounters with a pack of galloping giraffes, receiving belligerent stares from a mob of gruesome water buffalo and an even closer and longer exposure to another rhino, this one however, exhibiting far superior bowel control.

We return to our hotel and retire to the sound of distant native drum beating....our bubble pops when we discover it’s really only the house band playing at the hotel pool side.

[Butterfly Man]

pt 3

It’s just before 4 a.m. when we wake up. We’re so eager and exhilarated about our upcoming safari we fluster the drowsy and dazed receptionist with our request to check out before sunrise. We jump in our canvas canopied Land Rover with our own 550R personalized guide and we’re off to discover the “Wild Kingdom”, Marlin Perkins would have been proud!

At the crack of dawn we drive through Kruger’s gates. Almost immediately we spy 3 or 4 giraffes barely visible through the early morning mist. We wake a female hyena guarding her newborn cub but she nonchalantly falls back to sleep after eying us warily.

For the next seven bladder bursting hours we are not allowed out of the jeep. We spy wildebeest, wart hog, zebra, kudu, antelope and a shitload of impala. Even a couple of hippos and a few elephant butts off in the distance. A family of forty baboons led by a horny old male journey with us for awhile. We gasp as we watch a lion lazily lick his balls not 10 feet from our bumper. We are satisfied that we have seen 3 of the “Big Five” and head on back to the lodge for a well deserved pee.

We thank our guide, load our bags and reenter Kruger on our own. Our powder blue Corolla doesn’t elicit the same respect from the border guards as our muddy sports utility vehicle did just moments before. They condescendingly accept our gate fee and undaunted we carry on.

On our own now, we negotiate our way through the maze of dirt roads to Pretoriuskop, a national park rest camp and our home for the night. We are exhausted from an arduous day of beast watching so we decide on an early dinner. A delightful South African beef stew called “bredie” and 9 hours of rest surrounded by two dozen “rondavels” (circular thatched roofed huts) replenished our souls. We fall asleep peacefully gazing at the magnificently clear, star sparkling African sky.

We are awakened at dawn by some sort of trash scavenging, blue headed turkey looking thing. With a limited supply of hot water we laughingly bathe together in our oversized tub and hit the road early as the morning sun evaporates the collective dew on the windshield. We were not at all prepared for what was about to happen.

Less than ten minutes from the Kruger gate I notice a maroon Volkswagen bus parked, facing us, on the opposite side of the road. By this time, I was quite familiar with park protocol and slowed down, halfway out of courtesy and halfway out of curiosity. Kumi and I saw it at the same time. We held our breath as I slowed to a stop and cut the engine. I swear I could not believe my own eyes. Before us, less than 20 feet from our car, was an enormous bull elephant. The air became electric as we sat frozen staring in awe at this gargantuan beast. For what seemed like forever we watched this colossal creature gnaw a tree limb to bits.

Then, without warning and seemingly without purpose the VW van started its engine and drove forward stopping roughly parallel to our car. Initially I thought the driver to be crazy until I realized that hidden from our sight behind the trees was an entire herd of elephants! No sooner had the van vacated the spot when the whole herd moved into the road crossing directly in front of our car. The sensation of watching these majestic animals so up close without restraint was phenomenal.

Then, just as several newborn baby elephant calves were directly in front of our car, a female spied our vehicle. Her ears flared outward, her trunk flung forward as she stomped her huge feet and blared an awesome roar. I swear I heard my own asshole slam shut. Luckily, she chose to spare our lives and followed the herd after issuing her warning blast. Then, only after the entire herd had crossed the road, did the bull then slowly follow, munching on a tree limb as thick as my leg as if it were a toothpick. The feeling of that moment will stay with me for the rest of my life.