Scraping Off Butterflies
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
“So you see, Mr. Spencer, an ad
on a place mat at Orthantine’s Restaurant and Oyster Bar would reach ten
thousand potential customers. And it’ll reach then when they’re relaxed at a
place they chose to visit.” The telephone place mat salesman dropped his ink
pen on top of his desk and leaned back in his chair. “In other words, Mr.
Spencer, you’ll catch them with their advertising defense mechanism down. Don’t
you think that would be a great time to get your message across with some warm,
friendly advertising?”
He picked up his pen and held it
over the legal pad as he awaited Mr. Spencer’s response.
“Well,” came from the telephone.
“Yeah, it makes sense, but, well, I don’t know.”
“Tell you what I’d like to do,
Mr. Spencer.” His chair squeaked as he pulled up to the desk again. “You going
to be around for a while?”
“Yeah, far as I know.”
“Well, what I’d like to do, would be to bring by a copy of the place mats that we
have at Orthantine’s. See, that way, you can get a better idea of what I’m
talking about. Is that o.k. with you?” The way he held his pen still at an
angle made him look similar to a conductor poised just before he signals for
the opening symphonic note.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Great!” His black plastic baton
began the selection with an upbeat circular motion. “I’ll be there in a little
bit.”
A few drops of rain fell as he
started his car.
“What a guy’ll
do to make a buck,” he scoffed, accelerating out into the traffic.
The rain grew heavier. A
bicyclist was pedaling fast to get out of the shower.
“It’s a crock, isn’t it?” he
chuckled. Thoughts of squinting and blinking his eyes in a similar rain raced
through his mind. He remembered seeing another cyclist ahead in a yellow rubber
rain jacket and patched blue jeans. Because of the storm, the windmills they
passed were barely visible. He remembered the feeling under his yellow jacket
when the cold rain trickled down his chest.
“Ain’t
it a bitch?” he softly said toward the cyclist.
“O.k. Do you have any idea how
much civilization has advanced as has man’s understanding of life forms and the
violent composure of the galaxies because of mathematics?”
Trish shrugged, “I guess I
haven’t thought about it to any great degree. Here’s your drink.”
“Thanks.” He took a sip and set
it down. “Mathematicians, with their theories and rules, have helped mankind to
travel in space and better understand the make-up of the human body. Yet even
math is limited.”
“What do you mean ‘limited’?”
Burt drank, letting it mellow a
moment before swallowing. “Mm. Good drink.” He re-crossed his legs. “Even with
all the understanding mathematicians have given us to build upon, they have yet
to come up with the infinite number.”
“The infinite number,” said
Trish.
“And that’s because there have
already proven to be numbers outside or beyond the infinite number. That can be
applied to our concept of the infinity of the universe.”
“Wait a minute, Burt, you’re
losing me.”
“Don’t you see? If we think the
universe is infinite, how do we know that there are not other such systems
beyond our infinity that have an infinity of their
own?”
“I think I’m beginning to see
what you mean,” she claimed with a slight twinkle in her eye. “But, let me ask
you this, Burt.”
“Yeah?”
“In the long run, does all this
knowledge and theory really make a shit? Uh, I mean make any difference?”
“It’s hard to see how it does, at
least speaking in terms of reality. Or is that relativity? It’s sort of like
whatever seems to be the best means applied in a certain situation. But I guess
that’s relative, too. Don’t you?”
“Do you think that ‘theory’ of
yours applies to people who are caught ‘in the trap’, as they say?”
“Sure!” Burt smiled. “No matter
what your role in society might be, no matter if you’re Christian or Jewish,
agnostic or atheist, rich or poor, everybody does what best fits their role at
a certain time, irrelevant to how it affects the overall intergalactic run of
events. They have to fit in their society and business. In the overall scope of
things, we don’t really make any difference. But we do make a shit, at least in
the long run. Do you understand what I mean?”
“You’re weird, Burt. But we may
be hitting on an even plane.” Her foot gently rested inside Burt’s. His shoe
massaged hers.
“If you think I’m weird, wait
until you meet DogBoy.”
“DogBoy,”
stated Trish without feeling.
“My miniature Dachshund.” Burt
sipped. “We carry on all these deep theoretical discussions.”
“Yeah? What does he say?”
“You’ll have to discuss it with
him yourself.” Burt held her hand. “He seems to have a more realistic outlook
on these theories than anyone with whom I have discussed them.”
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Book Details
About the Book
In SCRAPING OFF BUTTERFLIES, (S.O.B.), Burt Glitchen, member of an exclusive club, who sells state-of-the-art audio visual production to major accounts, is beginning to see the correlation between the self contained world of a cocoon, the earth in its protective atmospheric shield, the seemingly unlimited expanse of the universe and the natural dissolving of a molecule. Oh yeah, he also sells ad space on local restaurants' placemats. Burt has returned, after an out of state high-speed head-on car collision left him in an extended coma. With his long-term pal, DogBoy, he tries to reconstruct his post divorce life in Lexington. Friends and acquaintances are experiencing life changing events of their own. One is Diane, a bank teller whom Burt meets at a local hotel bar. She is from the city where Burt had nearly died. Her hometown lover, Herman, garage manager, dirt track stock car racer, classic automobiles refurbisher, drives a customized '39 roadster with its deep blue body and upholstery of red and white stripes. The adventures of Burt, Diane and Herman, to name but a few, are covered on separate and simultaneous channels, with episodes in Morocco and Europe. SCRAPING OFF BUTTERFLIES, by B. Andrew Angel, illustrates that crossing paths can create all kinds of dramatic, unexpected results.
About the Author
Born in Stearns, a small coal-mining town in southeastern Kentucky, B. Andrew Angel, author of SCRAPING OFF BUTTERFLIES, (S.O.B.), earned his B.A. degree in English, with emphasis on literature from the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, NC, after growing up in several southeastern cities. Having completed a professional course in broadcasting at the Carolina School of Broadcasting, Charlotte, NC, he worked at a near-by AM-FM radio station in Albemarle. A member of the Charlotte Writers's Club, Mr. Angel took several courses in article and short story writing. He won Second Prize in the Club's statewide short story contest for Six String Warehouse. One of his humorous articles appeared in a regional sports magazine. After his first trip to Europe and Morocco; an extended hiatus on bicycle with his ex-wife; The Chicago Tribune Sunday Travel Section printed his article Morocco's Street Dealers. Remaining in communication, he sold advertising to local, regional and national accounts for a FM station in Greensboro, North Carolina, plus wrote and produced commercials. For several years, he covered the southeast as Associate Editor of a major furniture trade journal. In high school, Mr. Angel was influenced by some work by Bernstein and, after a long lost cousin suggested it, Kerouac, Hesse and Dostoevski. College added Shakespeare, Hemmingway, Mailer, Camus, Sartre, Up dike and Welty. Since 1984, he has practiced metaphysic transcendental meditation. Though not mentioned in the book, he credits it for being one of his primary inspirations for writing S.O.B., with its assortment of characters trying to decipher how to fit in where, under the weight of the unexpected.