The Butterfly Kid

25

FOR A WHILE we were too busy swallowing pills to talk. Adam’s apples twitched, solemn faces grimaced, pills went slowly down, time passed. I learned that pill swallowing loses its charm after the twenty-fifth pill. You get to feeling like a sack of BB’s — nothing like my favorite way to feel.

When all the pills were dealt with, I started talking. I told my loyal troops how to control the hallucinations they were going to have, time and lobsters willing.

“Concentrate on Fighting,” I told them. “Remember, whatever you imagine will be real, no matter how kooky it may be. Imagine weapons: death rays, bombs, bigger and better killing machines. Think death!”

I had to stop. I was embarrassing myself. What kind of talk was this for a pacifist? Forget it. I went on.

“I don’t know what they’re gonna throw at us, but in general here’s what to do:

“Kill anything that moves in your direction. Don’t stop to ask questions. It won’t be friendly.

“Kill lobsters. That’s probably the only way to persuade them to give up.

“Above all, don’t let anybody pour Anything into the water. The only reason we’re here is to keep that from happening. If they get that stuff into the water, we’ve had it, no matter how the fighting goes.

“If you can avoid it, don’t get killed.

“Also, if you can avoid it, please do not kill Laszlo. I have plans for that boy.”

I couldn’t think of anything more to say, so I sat down. Everyone looked solemn. Time passed.

Just plain waiting is a drag. Waiting for a pill to take effect is worse, and waiting for a battle to begin has nothing at all to recommend it. Put them all together, it’s depressing. We sat quietly. Time passed.

Michael said, “Ten minutes.” Everybody twitched.

“Ten minutes since or ten minutes till?” I wondered.

“Till.”

“Groovy. Is anybody getting high yet? Even a little bit?”

Little Micky raised his hand. “I don’ know, man,” shrug, “but, like…”

“Groovy.”

We sat quietly. Time passed.

I was trying to think up something to say before the fireworks, something terse and memorable that would look good in a history book, but I couldn’t seem to find the words. The best I could come up with was, “54-40 or fight!” and, “Don’t give up the glub!” neither of which fit somehow, so I gave it up.

Time passed.

Little Micky was smiling ecstatically. That was encouraging. I too, was beginning to feel the first faint stirrings of euphoria. Groovy. And how about the rest of the gang?

Michael was expressing solemn dignity, which looked in his case like a banker breaking wind. Gary the ultimate Frog looked Garyish — or Froggy, if you like. Sean’s left eyebrow was raised a full inch higher than his right one — a possibly hopeful sign, if you weren’t too hard to please. The others just looked serious.

“Five minutes,” Michael chimed.

Little Micky giggled. Sometimes being short and scrawny helps.

“Micky?” said I.

He giggled again.

“You may have to do a solo set at first. No one else is off yet.”

“That’s coo, baby.” Further giggles.

“Can you do it? Seriously.”

“I said it’s cool, baby.” Additional and prolonged giggling. I crossed my fingers.

Actually, I was starting to feel decidedly better. The hopelessness of our situation was beginning to amuse me. The fact that we fourteen ill-sorted nuts were sitting here waiting to get high enough to save the world was so outrageously absurd I couldn’t help giggling a bit myself.

Little Micky politely giggled back at me.

“Two minutes,” said Michael. “Let’s go upstairs.”

The Tripsmobile had a sun deck on the roof, planted with grass and dandelions. We’d intended to put a few lawn chairs up there, too, and a table with a parasol, but we never got around to it. And now we were going to use it for a battlefield. I giggled again. Little Micky joined me.

We took our places along the fence, ten of us facing the beach, four guarding the rear and flanks. Sean was now among the gigglers, and most of the others were smiling.

“One minute,” Mike announced. “And before we begin, I have a request to make. Please try to avoid killing each other. Especially me.”

“I agree,” I said. “Don’t blow your cool.” Several people giggled.

There was nothing happening on the beach yet. It still had that deserted look. There was no trace of the lobster gang, no sign of the war approaching. Only Laszlo’s footprints on the sand suggested anything had ever happened there.

“Thirty seconds.”

I tried to project a test hallucination, but I wasn’t ready yet. I wished Little Micky’d run a test. I decided against suggesting it — he’d doubtless want an explanation, and I didn’t feel up to it.

“Twenty.”

Nothing happening yet. No more gigglers, either, but that might not signify: some heads never giggle. I, for instance, never giggle. But…

“Fifteen.”

Nothing, not even a breeze in the willows.

“Ten. Get ready.”

I hate countdowns. Always have. Michael, on the other hand, is passionately fond of countdowns. You never can tell.

“Five. Four. Three.” Nothing on the beach. “Two. One. Zero!”

Nothing continued happening. Mike’s face expressed innocence betrayed in exhaustive detail.

“Is it kosher to use negative numbers?” I inquired.

“Sloppy, that’s what they are,” said Michael. “Sloppy.” He was really burned. “How do they expect to…”

Something was happening! The willows were shaking. Something was pushing its way through the willows. Something was…

It was a lobster in a silver blanket. Maybe even Ktch. He pushed the last layer of willow wands aside with his huge claws and stared out at us for maybe half a minute, making good and sure we were still there. Then he backed away into the thicket and we started breathing again.

“I hate an unpunctual lobster,” Michael said, still peeved.

And the willows were rustling again, more vigorously, as though something larger than a lobster were forcing a way through them. They went on rustling for a painfully long time. Whatever was coming wasn’t in a hurry. The willows’ agitation mounted to frenzy. The last curtain of leaves was hurled aside as though by a gale.

Somebody moaned.

The black shadow moved slowly toward us down the beach.