The Butterfly Collector by Fred McGavran

Author:Fred McGavran
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Published: 2011-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

EMBRACING THE

INNER CHILD

The subconscious is a child, and like an angry child must be kept locked in its room. When I entered Lillian’s Wine Bar that evening, I wasn’t looking for my inner child; I was looking for Judy Revak, who had promised me a shot at her real estate agency’s virtual tour business. Lillian’s is a place where middle aged realtors, car salespeople, and insurance types gather in turtle necked comfort to drink Merlot, celebrate an occasional sale, and bemoan missed quotas and alimony payments.

My glasses fogged up, so I waited in a rain forest of cologne and hair spray for Judy’s “Oh, my God!” voice, hoping Barry Hartman wasn’t there. Hartman just wouldn’t let go of my video of a foot sticking out the bathroom door on one of my first shoots.

“Was it Harry or Sally in there?” he’d call so everyone would hear, and he could tell the story again. “Lucky they didn’t have you do the bedroom!”

When my glasses cleared, everyone was looking at Judy. She had stretched out her right arm, while an athletic looking brunette with professionally tangled curls positioned her. The massive rings on Judy’s fingers trembled in anticipation.

“Head level with the floor. Eyes down,” the brunette said, while the usual revelers watched respectfully.

“Don’t say anything,” Laura Collier whispered to me from her regular place at the bar. “You’ll distract them.”

Laura had puffy platinum hair that looked like it would break off in chunks if anyone touched it.

So I waved to Lillian for the house Merlot, hoping she’d put it on someone else’s tab. Laura had a figure that befitted a barstool and a face that showed best in dim light.

“Say ‘my name is Judy,’” the brunette said to Judy.

“My name is Judy.”

The brunette pressed down on her outstretched arm. Nothing happened.

“Now say ‘my name is Barry.’”

“My name is Barry,” Judy said, giggling.

The brunette pressed her arm, and it dropped to her side. The people at the bar gasped.

“It’s called muscle testing,” Laura explained. “She’s talking to Judy’s subconscious.”

For a second I thought Laura was going to muscle test a part of me. Then Judy saw us, and the spell was broken.

“Mel!” she cried, waving me to her. “This is my friend Tina.”

Judy always introduced a new listing as “my friend.” Tina had a face smoothed by plastic surgery and the widest smile cosmetic dentistry could manage.

“She does these wonderful seminars where you learn how to get in touch with your inner child and, well, Tina, you tell it,” Judy said, retrieving her glass.

“It’s called ‘Deep Soul Plus’ for depth psychology plus kinesthesia or muscle testing like chiropractors do?” Tina began with the rapid-fire delivery of the successful female realtor, then hesitated as if the house had termites or a leaky roof.

“Anyway, Mel, she’s giving a seminar this weekend and she has a place open,” Judy continued. “And you won’t be the only man. Barry’s going, too.”

I knew what I had to do to get her agency’s video business.

“You can put it on your credit card,” Tina said reading my mind.

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