The Flutter of the Wings will Haunt Me

In a city near me, there is a botanical garden center. I will not name it because I wish to avoid being prosecuted to the full extent of the law like the sign said I would be.

Anyway, every year there is a two-week period when an enclosed exhibit features the birthing of thousands of butterflies. Supposedly, if you don’t mind bugs swarming around your body, it’s a neat thing. I thought it sounded like a Hitchcock movie waiting to happen, but I figured that since I shave my head, I wouldn’t have to worry about them getting stuck in my hair. I would only have to watch out that they didn’t plant their larvae in my ears. Oh, yeah, they do that.

So, against my first reaction, I went. I paid $15 dollars for my ticket into the park and then another $5 for the butterfly exhibit. I took my time walking through every other part of the park. I told myself that since it is winter it was just nice to be in the gardens were it was warm.
The real reason was that I had to work up my courage to enter the butterfly exhibit. I mean, come on, thousands of bugs! You can’t tell me you wouldn’t have at least a moments hesitation.

Eventually I could prolong it no longer. I clasped my hands over my ears and entered though the double doors, air-lock style. No sooner did I enter than I saw that one elderly man was already being consumed by butterflies. I couldn’t understand the situation any other way. He sat perfectly still. I assumed he was dead, frozen in some absurd mummified state by millions and millions of butterfly bites/stings/whips/fangs. (I couldn’t for the life of me remember how butterflies kill their prey.)

I found out later that this man wasn’t dead, that he was sitting still intentionally. I assume this was either an attempt to fool the butterflies, believing that their vision is based on movement or the man had some kind of death-wish. I hope he made it out alive, though I wouldn’t put money on it.

In the chaos that accompanied my confusion I must have panicked. I don’t remember much of it. I am told that I ran screaming and waving my arms, not out of the exhibit, but further in. People tried to stop me, but I couldn’t hear them because I still had my hands covering my ears.

The next thing I remember is waking up hours later hungry and alone. Next to me, standing on the frond of a fern was a solitary butterfly. She must have gotten lost from her group (a group of butterflies is a butcherpack) and I thought, “I wonder why they are called butterflies?” I reached out a thumb and forefinger and slowly plucked her off the branch…

Let’s say that the bug-handlers at the botanical gardens should change the bugs name to “I-can’t-believe-its not-butterflies.” I know it’s a mouthful to say, but it might prevent others like me from getting a mouthful of what is some of the most un-buttery flavor ever.

Eventually, I was rescued by the chief butterfly herder. We were chased out of the park, his Jeep ripping apart the mud and rocks and almost bouncing me out of my seat. We were followed closely by seven or eight of the hungriest butterflies you’ve ever seen. If we hadn’t gotten out when we did, no doubt I would be in the gullet of the flying demon known in the latin as Satans sidekickerous.

The trip was not an entire loss. I did learn a valuable lesson from my time surrounded by the whirling death. It is this: people like to risk their lives. We’ve got bungee-jumpers and rollercoaster riders, and butterfly walkers. So I’ve decided to get together five or six wolves and put them in an old barn. I’m going to charge people $15 to walk among the wolves. It will be marketed for those people who might not have the courage to face down the butterflies.