Writing Challenge : Day 2

The instructions presented for Day 2 of the 30-Day Writing challenge:

[Brief:  Write a story that includes: a tombstone, a first kiss, and a butterfly collection…]

It is unclear whether the three items need to be directly and inextricably linked or whether the story simply needs to include the terms. I will presume the former to be the requisite.

I have chosen the title: A Kiss from the Little Butterfly

I am the owner of a guest house which I classify as a residential hotel and a bed-and-breakfast in the dusty African town of Gaborone. It is an old building, which I bought from a deceased estate registered in South Africa eight years ago. When I previewed the property on the Internet site, I made up my mind that this would become mine, and it would become my “Hotel California.” 

And it came to pass that I moved to Gaborone to take proud ownership of the run-down and battered Hotel California. 

Being what I thought was a fair handyman, I paid next to nothing for the unwanted eight-bedroomed Colonial-style town house and spent most of my retirement investment capital on building renovations and upgrades, modernising the facilities and attending to the finer details of the furnishings, drapery and flooring with the idea of offering old-style fine living to the weary traveller. I commissioned a marketing expert friend from Johannesburg to design and fit the appropriate outside signage and web design, and so was born my real Hotel California.

It has worked out just fine, attracting many tourists throughout the year, and has resulted in a colourful and mentally rewarding retirement.

I employ a staff of two sober locals (and their wives on a part-time basis from time to time) to act as waiters, barmen, cooks and bottle-washers, gardeners, launderers and ironers and general cleaner-uppers. I act as manager, general repair-man, host and part-time entertainer to the guests on an as-and-when basis. My finger skills on my old guitar are not what you might call legendary, but my background tune-keeping is frequently applauded by guests.

I have a “permanent” full-time boarder who has been living here for over five years now. In fact, I have known Bryce for close on 55 years, on and off. We met at University in Johannesburg in the late sixties, both in the zoological disciplines. I dropped out after a couple of years and we lost contact. Some years later, we met on Facebook by pure chance, and most probably, because of our mutual interest in music and things zoological.

Being a baby-boomer and an old school dodderer, I was always sceptical about these new social media arenas, writing them off as a fad for school-kids. Then, after I had posted some pictures and stories about my purchase and renovation job, I had a call from Bryce.

“If you think you will be able to tolerate my incessant talking, I’ll like to apply for residency in one of your posh suites, mate. I’ve had too much of the rat race in the big city and I’m ready for your world, especially if there are insects and creepy-crawlies which I can stalk. How say you?”

It was a rhetorical question, and ten minutes later, I put down the phone and scribbled in the name ‘Bryce’ opposite suite 7, which in my opinion, is the spitting image of Bryce’s world and situated near the side entrance, conveniently close to the parking for his off-roader.

                                                        * * * * *

“Welcome back to Hotel California, Bryce. Come to the bar and you can tell me all about everything, like only you can.” He had just returned from two month-long trip to Australia and New Zealand.

Interspersed with travel snaps and videos, Bryce related with enthusiasm and in great detail, his many stopovers in Western and Central Australia, New South Wales and Tasmania, followed by both the North and South Islands of New Zealand. Much of his material covered mutual friends with whom we’d maintained contact since university days, as well as bugging field trips (BFT’s). BFT’s is an acronym for personal expeditions he undertakes to investigate and record the bugs, bees and butterflies. No actual specimens are collected (rules and regulations), but he takes most spectacular macro pictures, like the professor he is.

“And your encounter with the Butterfly? Bryce, tell me what happened which was so life-changing.”

By way of explanation, Butterfly was the nickname we gave to one of our Zoo classmates at university. She had the unique name of Brooke-Lynn Santana, a popular bubbly redhead, who was full of life and energy. Being South African, we found the family name a bit Spanish, but she always laughed it off by saying that her brother was Carlos, a good guitar player of the time.

It was during one of the classes, I forget the precise details, that Brooke started calling me Mantis, because my shaky mannerisms resembled those of a praying mantis when dissecting small insect creatures. I think it also had something to do with my lanky and awkward frame. I took the nickname in good spirit, and it has stuck ever since. In turn, I paid her a compliment by introducing her to others as “our Butterfly” and thereafter Brooke and her small group of close friends became known as The Butterfly Collection, to the point where they, as a sort of (non-professional) Marianne Faithfull – type country musical group in fact chose that as their stage name! Her signature tune was a guitar solo of “As Tears Go By.”

Needless to say, I lost contact with The Butterfly collection when I dropped out of classes and got caught up in the web of compulsory military conscription and border warfare in Namibia and Angola, which lasted too long and effectively ended my studies of bugs and butterflies. The military did not kill my passion for the guitar, though. I later heard that the Santana family had emigrated from South Africa to New Zealand, Brooke’s dad having been a successful farmer.

Here, Bryce starts becoming a bit more bashful in his tale. It was no secret that he had a soft spot for the redhead in the class, but he’s pursued the insects rather than the girls in those days. Now, fifty years later, he freely admits that he was actually totally infatuated by her, but had also felt inferior at the time, mostly because of her successes in the “entertainment” world, where he saw her as “everyone’s darling” rather than a one-guy gal.

“I met Butterfly on my last day in New Zealand, last Friday. In fact, the meeting was totally unplanned – I had forgotten that she went to New Zealand with her folks all those years ago. I lie, I hadn’t forgotten – the memory was simply tucked away somewhere near the appendices and footnotes, I guess.” Wry smile.

“This may take a while, because it was one of the highlights of my trip, even though the duration was most likely the shortest of all my visits and excursions. Probably less than half an hour. It happened in Christchurch on the South Island.” Again a wry Bryce smile.

“Last Thursday morning, my second-to-last day before flying home, I was checking through the local papers in my hotel room waiting for 10:30 when a round-the-town bus service would collect me for a city tour, when an article in the entertainment section under ‘music’ caught my eye.”

“There were three of four entries in the section, but the one name fell off the page ‘Santana-Steward.’ Hmm… I thought, one could possibly enjoy some local talent this evening? But something else fell off the folded page at the same time – the preceding word.” The style of story-telling was typical Bryce. He never gives the game away in paragraph one…

Without waiting for me to ask about the preceding word, Bryce continued, “The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and I felt slightly faint – crazy…” Another wry smile, “You would never guess the name – Brooke-Lynne!”

“Here, look. I’ve kept the advert. It says: Resident guitarist Brooke-Lynne Santana-Steward and her Butterflies will be performing country-style at The Tombstone 12:51 while you enjoy your meal. Bring your own wine. Phone 09 756 1234 for bookings to avoid disappointment.”

“Crazy man… I dialled the number, not knowing how to start the conversation. I slammed the phone down. I was back in 1966, all thumbs and blushes. Her Butterfly is a performer in front of crowds, and I’m a simple old retired fart catching butterflies in the wild… The Steward part of the name would indicate a marriage. She’s probably married to this huge brute, probably an ex-rugby player. They’re pretty rugby-mad in that part of the world.”

“And, Bryce? And?”  At times like this, I wished he wasn’t so dramatic, “So did you get to meet this rugby giant or what?”

“When I finally made my booking, I asked the girl on the line. No, she’ told me, Brooke’s husband was actually the founder-owner of The Tomb, but he’d been tragically killed in the February 2011 earthquake, the only one in the establishment to have succumbed. After that, Brooke changed the name of the place by adding the 12:51 being the time of his death, in memory of her husband Jack Steward. No children.”

There was no mistaking the emotion in Bryce’s voice. He refilled his beer-mug and went for a pee before settling down to the serious part of his tale.

“And, Bryce? And, did you get to meet her? What does she look like now?” Bryce was enjoying my obvious impatience at hearing his tale.

“None of us look quite eighteen or twenty anymore, but she was unmistakably still the same little Butterfly, with hair not quite so scarlet anymore. She’s looked after herself over the years. I suppose not having kids would have helped in the figure department as well? But you know what, her physical body was the last thing I bothered to look at – she was still the same young little Butterfly, with that sweet clear Marianne Faithfull voice – it was just like yesterday…”

Bryce took a few more gulps of his brew, almost as if building up courage to retell of the encounter. We have no secrets, he need not be embarrassed. Bryce knew that.

“When we were finally face to face, I didn’t know what would be appropriate. I’d been going over the options all day already, still with no resolution. The girl’s husband had been tragically killed in this very room. She was most probably still a deeply grieving widow. She might misinterpret any silly action on my part… Should I simply shake hands?”

“But isn’t fate strange?” Bryce paused, eyebrows a bit twisted.

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but thankfully he didn’t give me a chance to reply, as he continued after yet another swig of brew, “It was probably the most wonderful moment of my life. Something I will never forget. Before either of us had uttered a single word, she stepped forward towards me, embraced me fully and tightly, almost like a long-lost lover, and kissed me ever-so-firmly on the lips, as if she was truly overjoyed to be with me.”

“’Bry, it’s been such a long time. I’ve missed you, Bry. I was madly in love with you at school, and you never responded, you fool.’ Then she gently pushed me away, and catching her breath, said ‘Do you realise that is the first time you have ever kissed me? It took half a century, and then you left it up to me to make the first move!’ Miss Brooke-Lynne Santana-Stewart would sing later, much later. She smiled as we sat down to our dinner table, and we caught up on half a life-time of events.” 

“You know, that is the truth. That was my first kiss with our Butterfly at the Tombstone.” A last wry smile from Bryce indicated the need for a fresh refill of the brown stuff.

* * * * *

[ 2010 words ]

The instruction for Day 3 of the 30-Day challenge reads:

[ Brief: Imagine you're looking through a collection of short stories. One of the titles
catches your interest. That's the story you want to read first. What might the
title be? Invent a title that would make you want to read the story. Now, write a
story to go with that title...]