Saturday, October 10, 2015

Poem Number Four: Still January, 1983 - Talk to You Later.

The name of the hippie store is 'Butterflies'.
The name conjures up butterflies lighting up a sunny, summer day, even when you're down.
It also speaks to the kind of butterflies you get in your stomach if anyone you know sees you in a store like this.

Here we are; Stacy Mckenna McKinnet  and I, in our business casual attire entering the store famous for the owner:The Queen of 1971. Mrs. Applegate, or Ms. Applegate, as she prefers to be called used to crochet everything. Even now, I can't imagine a long, crocheted acrylic vest that ties in the front without seeing Becky's mom. Becky, my classmate, tries to hide the surprise in her eyes as Stacy and I enter her family store. I'm waiting for her to ask us if we were lost; a futile question as Stacy and I grew up with her in Kazoo.

Becky, Lorna Finch Applegate's only child, is being groomed to take over Butterflies.
Stacy and I stare at her like a couple of lost puppies looking for their mother.
Stacy and I in our casual Yuppy attire stick out like sore thumbs.

Lorna merrily descends upon us with the milder mannered Becky in her wake.
"So, Robin. I hear you lost that capitalist, yuppy frat boy. Do you still go by 'Robin Sullivan O'Connor'?" she begins. "Once you drop your ex-husband's name, your psyche will heal a lot sooner."
What will she do for an encore? Tell us to burn our bras?
"I'm still in shock, Ms Applegate." 
"Oh, please. Call me Lorna."
"Yes, Lorna." Lorna who kept her husband's last name. Hmph.
Becky warmly greets us with, "How about a tour of the store? We have a lot of new merchandise you might like." We nod and follow Becky.

Stacy blurts out, 'We need your help. We have night terrors we can't get rid of.'
I chime in. 'We're thinking about hypnosis, but we don't know what to do.'
'Oh, bugger, Robin! We were so caught up in our night terror crisis that we left wet, salty footprints all over the carpet! I can pay to have it cleaned.'
Becky smiles, 'This time of the year, ten more people will track in snow, salt and sand.
It's fine. I don't suppose the two of you believe in past lives.'
Stacy and I look at each other and freeze.
And it is Stacy who brakes the silence, 'We don't know what's bloody wrong with us!'

Becky calmly hands us business cards of a hypnotherapist who is  also an 'intuitive', whatever that is.
Then, I spot a necklace, picture jasper. It doesn't look all crocheted or beady. I show it to Stacy. We continue shopping, now relaxed since we have a valid reason to be in the store.

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