The Butterfly Kid
by Chester Anderson
for Lee and Toni Lamb,
sine quibus non.
FOREWORD
I always feel vaguely cheated by first-person novels wherein the name of the narrator is not the name of the author. This is irrational, but there it is. I never claimed to be particularly rational.
Therefore, I made myself a character in this book, using my own real name (with, of course, my permission). Having gone thus far, I modeled the character of my friend, roommate and manager on my real-life friend, roommate, and (quondam) manager Michael Kurland (with whom I collaborated on Ten Years to Doomsday — advt.), using, with his permission, his real name.
Both of these characters, however, are purely fictitious. They are only based on us; they are not in reality us.
All other persons, all places, situations and events, are 100 percent fictitious (would you believe 95 percent?), and any resemblance to real persons, places et cetera is both coincidental and ridiculous.
This is especially true of Greenwich Village, where most of this story happens. Do not be deceived: there is no Greenwich Village. Never was. Pure fiction, all of it. Ask anyone who’s lived there.
Chester Anderson
1
THE TROUBLE with most warlocks is that they talk too much. That’s how I happened to notice the kid in Washington Square: he wasn’t saying anything. He just sat there, quietly making tropical butterflies, while the teenyboppers rippled past, unnoticing.
Okay, I thought, I’ll play your silly game. I parked myself on the bench across the walk from his and elaborately ignored him, which wasn’t all that easy.
He was a pretty ordinary-type kid, by Greenwich Village standards: yellow hair, darker eyebrows, longish face not quite finished yet, blue unbelieving eyes — a sufficiently good-looking kid, but most Village kids are good-looking. The eyebrows gave him a touch of distinction, but there were already three or five other kids making the two-tone scene that summer, so he was going to have to find himself some other trademark. Those butterflies, I thought, would probably do it for him. They were vulgar butterflies, too big and too flashy, but good taste doesn’t matter much in miracles, and anyhow, he’d learn.
I still couldn’t see how he was doing it. He’d clench his fist, then open it, and off’d go another butterfly. Whatever he was doing, he was doing it very smoothly.
The kid looked to be about two weeks late for a haircut, and his clothes were nearly clean. Check. But he was so fair I couldn’t tell whether or not he was growing a… Yep, he was growing a beard. When he turned to watch a particularly garish butterfly veer off toward Fifth Avenue, the new sun hit his face at just the right angle to show he’d recently quit shaving.
He was obviously new to the Village then, but he didn’t look around to catch reactions to his butterfly routine, which was unusual. I was mildly fascinated.
Finally he reached into his shirt pocket, found nothing, and didn’t bother to explore his other pockets. His face looked immaturely rueful. Right. I lit a cigarette as ostentatiously as possible and did not smile.
“Do you have another one of those?” in a light tenor drawl. He was being casual so hard it almost glittered.
“Huh?” The object was to keep him on the offensive, let him write the script. I was very curious about those butterflies.
He said it again, more expressively, and conjured up a small, gray moth.
I said yes and held out my pack, he crossed the path and parked himself beside me, and the crowd remained the crowd. He tore the filter off the cigarette I gave him, but I forgave him for the sake of those lepidoptera.
The kid had a problem. Every time he tried to strike a match, a red and yellow butterfly got in the way. After three butterflies I shrugged my shoulders and gave him a light.
“Thanks, man.”
We sat there for a while. The butterflies got better, more imaginatively colored, and I nodded quiet approval at some of them. Just before he was ready to throw the cigarette butt away, I said, “Pretty good butterflies.”
“Yeah.” He smiled a few watts and generated a large butterfly that had “Pretty Good Butterflies”, gold on brown, printed across its wings. If the trick was still so new to him that he could openly admire it, I figured, he must’ve learned it in the Village, which would be interesting. Of course, he might’ve picked it up at the Bicentennial Exposition, but that could be interesting, too.
“How do You do it?” I stressed the you a bit, ever so gently, so he wouldn’t think I was trying to steal his secret. Forestalling someone else’s paranoia is a basic Village survival technique.
“I dunno,” he said, smiling mysteriously. “I just… Well, I…” He closed his left hand and opened it to emit an iridescent green beauty with a pattern of crossed question marks in gold across its back. Pretty good, for an amateur.
“It just, like, kinda happened. You know?” he went on. “I mean,” he gestured colorfully, “I was at this Party.” He boosted his smile by a few more candlepower and leaned back. He wasn’t exactly smug about it, but he liked it.
“Pretty good butterflies,” I repeated. Then we were both silent for a while. A female teenybopper, blonde or so, in white pants just too tight enough, enjoyed our unanimous total attention for as long as it took her to strut down the path and out of sight, whereupon the kid produced a huge chromatic butterfly of pornographic implications.
“Would you believe,” I invited, “that the term teenybopper was invented sometime prior to 1962 by Lee Lamb?” which I thought might interest him.
I was being inordinately cool, not rushing the kid or frightening him, but generating just as hard as I could the feeling that it’d be lots of fun for him to tell Uncle Chester all about it. After a while, a short one, I could see that I was beginning to get to him. He filled the air with color for a few minutes and then said, “You know, it’s kinda funny…”
“Good morning!” quacked Michael the Theodore Bear in his favorite comic voice. The kid twitched.
“Oh, good Lord!” I tried to sound genial, but it wasn’t easy. “This is Mike Kurland,” I explained. “He’s my Roommate.” I didn’t know quite how, but I was sure Mike was going to scare the kid away. He’s sometimes hard to take if you’re not used to him. Of course, so am I, but…
Mike stuck out a hand for shaking, being a professionally genial sort. The kid’d had his hand closed, so naturally a butterfly popped out when he made to accept Mike’s paw.
“Howdy. My name’s… Shawn. S-e-a-n. You know, like…”
It didn’t work. The butterfly was blue on one side and green on the other, and Michael, face frozen at the start of whatever he’d been about to say, watched after it until it had blended into the new summer foliage and a little longer, all the while shaking hands reflexively. He looked more comical than he’d ever looked on purpose, but I was too bugged to enjoy the show.
“Quack?” he said plaintively. “Quack?”
Mike turned back to us and, completely deadpan, sat down. He used to be something of a spy — our side, of course, during the Second Cambodian Crisis — and took just pride in his utter unflappability. “That was a butterfly.” He said it like a line of print, which showed that he was pretty shaken by it all.
“Yeah,” the kid explained. “I’ve got these Butterflies.” He demonstrated.
“Hmm. So I see. Yass.” He sounded like W. C. Fields, a very bad omen.
“What’s happenin’, Mike?” I burbled in alarm. That’s an ancient Village greeting, full of implicit hipness and signifying nothing. Mike was in the habit of satirizing this with a blatantly absurd program of events, and I was willing to endure anything to prevent a battle of cools between him and the kid. Cooler-than-thou contests are never informative, and I was starving for information. But it didn’t work. I began to think nothing was going to work.