Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  ‘Why in the world,’ he thought out loud, ‘would any carefree kid like Prairie Browne ever want to invite someone like me… to… dinner…?’

  This, from the mind of a major star of the Miracle Mirror screen!

  But didn’t Prairie Browne know who he was?

  Didn’t he know who he was??

  Critics, if they were privy to this premise, would be even more in awe of him than they already were. Irrefutable proof that the star they admired, but couldn’t quite figure out yet, was truly genuine after all. Entirely without ego, too. (Though what the hell happened to his memory, all of a sudden?) Notwithstanding this, no one, whether august cinema scholar or everyday tomato-plasterer, would have cause to use the word ‘saintly’ in a Butterbugsian application. Though it often cropped up on Consideration Lists of all kinds, it was never used. Almost always, terms like ‘solid’ and ‘real’ sufficed.

  Oh, and humble, too. If anyone knew.

  There were no borders out here. No lines to cross, or claims to stake. Big sky, big country, but no verifiable township and range. GPS didn’t seem to matter, and metes and bounds were laughingly irrelevant.

  He was not lost.

  He continued another half hour. Quite a ways really, in which to follow a girl on a bike, up ahead somewhere. At least he was pretty sure that’s where she was, at a considerable distance.

  In this late afternoon, made absolutely golden from the west’s unimpeded sun, bathing all in a benevolent, singularly primeval glow, Butterbugs easily retooled his mind to the circumstances at hand. Actor-skills at work again. His thinking as he walked was broad and deep, yet light as a tigg-fly’s snowflake wing. One such led him onward now, as if a brandy-hauling dog, sent out to bring lost ones into port.

  Still, he was not lost.

  ‘How charming!’ he thought. ‘Virtual guidance from an insect I’d usually put up screens to avoid…’

  The bumping along was agreeable and new. The bug’s lyrical wings, bigger than a hummingbird’s, gave rhythm to his gait, and fluidity to his thoughts. No scripting now, no lines to infuse, no directions to follow. Obedience and agreeability were fine enough, but did he have to be such a trained bear cub all the time? He quite liked the change this jaunt was bringing. Obviously, it was just what he needed. In an instant’s blessing, he felt great delight in the simplicity of being.

  He realized that much of life’s happiness is a matter of environment, and environment, once recognized, must be carefully nurtured. For it was its recognition that was the trick.

  Once he reached the headquarters of Prairie Browne’s world, he acquiesced to the further conclusion that happiness is also a matter of situational advantage.

  This place – a sizable cabin, sited on an escarpment that yielded, quite innocently it seemed, to the magisterial command of the vast, virginal wide-open that spread in CinemaScopic splendor in all four points of the compass.

  And this lodge! Much more than a cabin! A quality pile. John Wesley Powell could have commissioned it! Frederick Remington might have painted it by starry moonlight! Perhaps hemmed in by coyotes – but inviolate, nevertheless! All around were signs of self-sufficiency, with greenhouses and raised beds, and off-the-grid systems of competency through sensible rebellion.

  Prairie Browne presented it to him now.

  ‘I knew you had an honest face, mister. I don’t invite no dishonest faces to dinner, right out of the blue, y’know.’

  ‘No, no, certainly not…’

  It was here, in this Green Party homestead, over there, on its vista of the west, that Butterbugs saw her – whatever her station was – an occupant, a mom, step-mom, older sister, relative, or perhaps just a friend: Prairie’s presumed roommate.

  ‘Sorry Prairie,’ was his thought then. ‘You’ve been superseded. You’ll have to wait a few years.’

  The vision of this new person shot through his inspection plenum like an arc welder’s flash – straight into his heart and mind.

  ‘My God! What a… What a truly… Well, what a superb woman.’

  ‘Why Prairie Browne, I do declare…,’ said she who was now scrutinized, advancing to the edge of the verandah.

  Butterbugs took off his great hat. Sweat had mashed his hair down into farmer conformation, as painted by Thomas Hart Benton.

  ‘Ma’am, pardon me, but it is I who should do the declaration. A finer spot I cannot recall, nor a better prospect!’

  He gestured, in true Butterbugs style, round the dooryard and into the fleetingly-lighted landscape beyond.

  It was this kind of physicality, combined with the indubitable reality of conveying it, that made those who witnessed Butterbugs’ management of the undeniable undergo what amounted to a powerful experience. That was why they who made pictures for the cinema nabbed him to do their declarations for them. Because the young man had presence, and there was no doubt that such presence was equally transferable to real life in the timeless sense. So it was, here.

  She who stood on the verandah was herself transformed.

  Now that the breeze was in the right direction, she who stood betwixt Prairie Browne and her guest, despite brief but youthful years of taming this bit of land in the name of a place in the sun, was herself placed in the center-stage of current events.

  The certitude was metaphysical. That miracles happen. The Man had arrived.

  And now, she could hardly talk.

  ‘I… I am… Pepper Carlson…,’ she croaked.

  There was dignified silence between all – no impatience.

  ‘And you?’ Pepper respectfully added.

  ‘I found him out past the eleventh fence line,’ announced Prairie with pride. ‘That’s what I think!’

  ‘Pray, let him speak.’

  ‘I’m happy just to listen,’ Butterbugs said, letting go of the role-playing, an appreciative smile on his face. ‘To listen to the land itself. And the creatures in it.’

  Should he reveal himself? Not yet awhile. Not unless asked. This was not the first time he’d encountered fans who were too polite to spray love-mush from their gusher of adoration at the first second of contact.

  ‘Very well then,’ said Pepper with neighborly grace. ‘Prairie, show our guest where to freshen up. We’ll dine on the West-Facing Verandah. Come along.’

  As they strolled through the spaciously open interior of the lodge, Pepper regained her clarity of voice.

  ‘You’re just in time.’

  Here, in the midst of this generous tract of intact land, was a household of sophisticated development. And obviously some means. Authentic Mission pieces, attractively given character through service rather than artificial distress, populated the spaces with a practical ornamentation. A generous scattering of books throughout. Judging from the margin notes, someone was actually reading Mark Twain’s ‘Pudd’nhead Wilson’ with considerable analysis. Same with a dogeared copy of Rolland’s ‘Life of Ramakrishna’. Nowhere in these chambers was the slightest trace of forced ‘Western’ styles, or touches like hanging antlers, knotty pine, or awful river rock… The terra firma feel expanded upwards, and the soaring cathedral ceiling of the main salon made a fine impression of splendor. Nor was there any sign of an entertainment center, or online-ishness, or satellite connectivity. Immediately the young star felt at home. Gone was all tension of the set, the anxiety it generated, and the perceived threats to his future.

  Brunette hair softly fluffing on her shoulders, Pepper could scarcely contain her excitement, but her verbiage remained gentle and relaxed.

  ‘I don’t know why I made as much as I did for this meal. It’s as if you were… expected – which, I can assure you, you… weren’t…!’

  She was a bit flustered, but Butterbugs was completely charmed. Reaching a long and venerable table, she bade him sit.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind simple peasant food…’

  Like, peasant food from the small town of Palestrina above Rome, for heaven sakes! Gourmet in every way. And the ‘plain’ wine was ve
ry fine. No media-propelled nonsense, just pleasant and appealing cosmopolitan culture which, though he was not schooled extensively in it, Butterbugs naturally gravitated towards, without effort or question.

  And outside, Vittorio Storaro must certainly have been doing the lighting from controls back on the set. Or, in a more historical context, Bill Clothier. John Ford would feel comfy here, too. The slanting sun flooded the screened verandah with mango-colored redolence.

  Conversation amongst the three was calm and reasonable, rather than dependent on manufactured pleasantry or the need to prove anything, let alone one’s self. Prairie did make one sensible point in that direction, however.

  ‘Hey Mister! I can’t keep callin’ ya Mister, ya know!’

  ‘My name, then?’

  ‘I’m waiting! After all, we’ve told ya ours!’

  ‘It is… I am… Butterbugs…’

  He anticipated some sort of response of familiarity, what with all the ongoing – and going and going – media hoopla, hype, spin and gobbledygook concerning him and the New People crapola.

  But none came.

  ‘Oh, OK. Thanks,’ said Prairie.

  Apparently, some in this land were as yet not partial to the ways of floating in a main stream, down the river of others’ works in this land-and-language’s culture. That being the case, he did not look down his nose at them. If anything, he was silently nonplused, yet intrigued. There was absolutely no indication that they were toying with him or assembling a sneaky prank. Indeed, he had never detected more guilelessness from two people in his life. And he’d been around the block a few times, by now.

  Should, then, he reveal his profession? Not yet awhile. Besides, it seemed so irrelevant here.

  ‘It’s an unusual name,’ said Pepper quietly.

  ‘I like it! It’s fun!’ said Prairie.

  ‘Thanks. When my grandfather brought the news of my name to my grandmother, she said, ‘I never heard that name on a man before, but I suppose it’s all right.’ I think that’s what they said, anyway.’

  Pepper and Prairie laughed.

  ‘Boy, it’s really something, out here.’

  ‘Whaddaya mean?’ asked Prairie.

  ‘The land itself – so fine out this way,’ said Butterbugs, as if he’d fancy saying it every day.

  ‘We feel a bond with it,’ said Pepper. ‘I know that sounds a bit… artificial.’

  ‘Oh, no. Not when you’re in it. Not when you’re of it. Oh no…’

  ‘I know every inch, from Nutberry Mountain down to Jemmons Draw!’ said Prairie.

  ‘That must be quite a piece.’

  ‘Really, it is,’ said Pepper. ‘And she’s covered it all on that sweet old rattletrap bike of hers!’

  ‘Sweet old rattletrap! I like the sound of it,’ mused Butterbugs.

  ‘Do you ever dream about things like that, Mr. Butterbugs?’ Pepper asked, as Prairie went over to the window sill and watered her nailblood cacti.

  ‘Things like…?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ interjected Prairie. ‘Pedalin’ aroun’ the countryside. Lookin’ at stuff. Findin’ white rocks. You know, on a sweet ol’ rattletrap bike!’

  ‘Well… no, but I should. Especially the sweet part.’ Then he smiled at Pepper. ‘And please, no ‘Mr.’ – unless you’re ‘Ms.’ Pepper, of course.’

  They all laughed.

  ‘Just Pepper!’

  ‘That’s right, Mister!’ answered Prairie with mock haughtiness.

  ‘Oh, I dream of such things,’ said Pepper, chin in palm, gazing at Butterbugs with a lovely smile. ‘And others, too. Some pretty sweet. Some sort of sad.’

  Butterbugs felt her gaze, and gladly met it.

  ‘Know what I dream about?’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Sometimes… Sometimes, I don’t know… I guess I don’t remember most of the time.’

  ‘You can tell me. It’s just us here. We love dream-talk. We remember ours, too. We make sure to tell each other, before they fade.’

  ‘I’m in charge of The Big Dream Book!’ Prairie announced.

  ‘Well, I have a lot of dreams, sure. But you know, sometimes they just come to a halt at one place.’

  ‘Sort of like, your best dream, maybe?’ Pepper asked.

  ‘Yeah, that might be… You know, I’ve never thought of that. Never even realized…’

  ‘I love to just realize things I’d never think of!’

  ‘You… love to just realize things you’d never… think of…?’

  ‘Oh, but… does that make any sense at all?’

  ‘Sense? Gosh Pepper, it makes total sense. That too, I’ve never thought of!’

  ‘You think we think alike?’

  ‘It’s sure looking like it!’

  ‘That’s really great to hear.’

  ‘And great to know, Pepper.’

  ‘So Butterbugs, what’s your best dream, then? You remember it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes I do.’ The waning light accentuated his voice, and made it resonate with meaning all the more.

  She drew closer to him, exuding the right degree of sincerity, ready to receive an intimate confidence.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me, if…’

  ‘Pepper, if I can’t tell you, well, then, I suppose I can’t even tell myself.’

  ‘It must be so very wonderful!’

  ‘It is. I tell you, it is.’

  ‘I have splendid dreams too. Some are simply lavish entertainments. Others are full of expectations, I guess…’

  ‘Oh… Entertainments, eh? Like… movies you’ve seen?’

  ‘Don’t laugh, Butterbugs, but I’ve never seen… movies. Prairie, neither.’

  ‘Nuh-uhh!!’ Prairie agreed from way across the room, perched on the sill now. She was enchanted just by looking at the two, conversing so appealingly at table.

  ‘I suppose I’ve heard about… movies… and everything, but somehow, they just don’t… Well, they just don’t come up out here, and they don’t really have to. They don’t exactly occur. Sounds a little weird, I know…’

  ‘No. Oh no. No, it doesn’t,’ replied Butterbugs. ‘In fact, it sounds really cool. I’m envious!’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t… really, have… access to them, if you were way out here…! You know. Er, I mean… I should think.’

  ‘Nor would I need them.’

  ‘Sometimes dreams more than suffice.’

  ‘You mentioned that, some have expectations…?’

  ‘Oh Butterbugs, I’m a little shy about that, I guess…’

  ‘Of course. Excuse me, Pepper. I’m just so taken with –’ He cut himself off.

  Pepper’s eyes were so soulful, and Butterbugs’ so receptive, no words were necessary for a palpable comfort each had for the other, to settle in. It was almost a familiarity.

  From her perch, Prairie was giggling with glee.

  ‘You’re kind’ve an int-resting guy, ya know!’

  ‘Butterbugs,’ Pepper spoke in an easy segue back to words, ‘It’s just so wonderful to have you here. And so amazing!’

  ‘Pepper, I can’t… I mean, I can’t quite believe it. Yeah, amazing is right. Amazing too, that you’d have me…’

  She wanted to burst out with, ‘I’ve waited so long for you!’ but simply provided affirmation with her eyes instead, and held out her hand in search of a friendly handshake (that she wished was a loving clasp).

  He returned the gesture in kind, and when their palms met, the exchange of warmth activated a passion each knew was extraordinary.

  This achieved, they eased back into their chairs simultaneously, and assumed a more conventional attitude of getting to know each other. A bit of small talk evened things out, and they complimented each other with genial nothings.

  ‘Oh, but I forget something,’ said Butterbugs.

  ‘To bring something?’ Pepper laughed.

  ‘For dinner?’ Prairie mock-sneered.

  ‘You two got me!’ he chuckled. ‘Yeah, I knew I for
got to bring the dessert, like I promised!’

  Their mirth was so gentle, so honest, so simple and easy.

  ‘No, really, I forgot to tell you, Pepper, about my best dream.’

  She grew fervent in her regard for him again.

  ‘You can hear it, too, Prairie,’ he called over to the girl. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh, good!’

  ‘Really, Butterbugs, you don’t have to…,’ Pepper said quietly.

  ‘I know, but I want to. There’s really not much to it, because…’

  Pepper’s eyes were full of wonder.

  ‘Because, well, this is it.’

  He gestured to the room, to Prairie, and then to Pepper.

  ‘Oh, Butterbugs!’ she clasped her hands, and knew it was a complete and utter truth.

  Prairie approached and placed a single tears-of-the-constellations blossom in his hand.

  A time of quiet understanding followed. They enjoyed a sort of placid reverie, just gazing out at the polychrome sunset. The women, as if it were the first time they had seen such a thing, and the visitor, as if he never ever had the time or inclination to do such a thing. But what a wondrous discovery it was.

  Butterbugs easily embarked on his own reverie. Panning his eyes across the room, its occupants, and the great outdoors, he had no trouble conceiving of an alternative life, out here, in nature, amongst its finest creations. No acting would be necessary, nor would it be desirable. Artifice was elective, but not preferred. The line, from ‘Doctor Zhivago’ (MGM, 1965) served enough purpose to explain what his notion was about: to ‘just live.’

  For her own part, Pepper wasn’t just thinking about the sunset.

  Who was he, really? Who could he be? Happily, it was not proving to be a difficult task finding out. Would he care to – stay for a time?