Chaos, Inc.

Butters, the other South Park characters, and South Park itself belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone. See endnotes for specific references

Chapter Seven: Sightseeing

Butters had Wendy drop him off at the Congressional offices and did what Clyde had suggested. He played tourist and dropped in on as many representatives from Colorado as he could. He brought along a digital camera and the congressmen were happy to pose for pictures, but so far, they didn't seem to have any helpful information. They were cautiously commiserating about his old school friend Eric Cartman and said that they hoped everything would work out, but they all really had to be going now.

By 3:30, he was tired of talking to congressmen. It seemed like a perfectly natural thing to go grab something warm to drink. Let's see—where was that place? Oh, yeah—there was the Supreme Court building, and there was that Shakespeare library, so Harbuck's must be right over there. And—he peeped through the glass window—Carrie was in there, too. He stepped through the door. He felt warmer already. And Harbucks was playing some kind of big band jazz as background music. He loved that stuff.

Carrie smiled as he came up to the counter. "Hi there! It's Butters, isn't it?"

"Yep," he said. "Butters Stotch."

"Let me guess," she said, "you want hot chocolate, right?"

Butters shook his head. "Nah," he said, "I th-think I'll have hot m-milk with some vanilla in it."

She reached for the steamer. "Whoo. Living life in the fast lane today, I see. So what have you been up to?"

He shrugged. "Oh," he said vaguely, "sightseeing."

"That's nice," she said. "Been to the Lincoln Memorial?"

"No," Butters said.

"The Aerospace Museum?"

"N-No."

"The National Gallery of Art?"

"No," he admitted.

"Hmm," she frowned, "for a guy who's going sightseeing, you sure aren't seeing many of the sights, are you?"

"I-I, uh. . . well, m-maybe I don't know where to st-start," he said lamely.

She turned away to pour out the hot milk and Butters heard the song in the background more clearly. Hey, he knew this one. Glenn Miller. His parents loved to dance to this one. He shook his head. His parents were such squares. He was, too. He started to sing along under his breath.

"A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I. . . "

"Got a gal," Carrie joined in, "in Kalamazoo. . . ." They looked at each other, startled.

"You know that song?" she said.

"Yeah, I love it," he said. "M-Mom and Dad used to d-dance to it all the time. You like it too?"

"Well, I ought to," she said, ringing up the hot milk, "I'm from there." At his puzzled look, she added, "Kalamazoo. I'm from Kalamazoo."

"Oh," he said, taking the milk. "Kalamazoo's a real p-place?"

"Yes, it is." From the tone of her voice, it sounded as though she heard this all the time. Feeling as though he might have flubbed something, he went to sit down by himself near the window and drank the milk. She waited on some new customers, but when there was no one else in line, she came up to him.

"I d-didn't mean ta say somethin' dumb," he said.

"I know," she said. "People say that a lot, but I shouldn't have gotten annoyed with you. It's not your fault."

"Oh, th-that's ok," he said, staring down into the milk. There was a pause.

"It doesn't sound as though you're having much fun here," she said.

"Not a lot," he admitted.

"Well, that's Washington for you," she said, "a city of Southern efficiency and Northern charm." She hesitated, then said, "I've lived here a while. I don't want this to sound wrong, and I definitely don't usually do this, but you seem. . . "

I seem what? thought Butters.

"Harmless," she finished.

Oh, he thought.

She continued, "I'm supposed to finish my shift in about fifteen minutes. If you want to, I can show you at least one sight you definitely shouldn't miss. Oh," she gasped, turning even pinker than usual, and putting her hands on her cheeks, "that came out very wrong. I meant a sightseeing sight."

Butters felt himself turning pink, too. "I-I knew what you m-meant. I d-did." They looked at each other, eyes wide, and then laughed. It seemed so silly. People were so dumb about things like this—she was just being nice because he was nice, and that was all. "Yeah," he said, nodding, "I'd love to do that."

But she was already gone. A silver-haired man in an elegant black coat was at the counter, looking annoyed.

"Sorry," she said, running behind the counter.

"It's all very well," said the older man, "to be friendly to the guests, but you mustn't ignore people. Especially not," he added, "important people."

"No," she agreed.

The man leaned in and said quietly, but in a way that was perfectly audible all over the coffee shop, "We don't encourage Harbuck's employees," and he looked meaningfully at her, "to pick up dates with the guests."

Carrie turned a bright red. "I-I wasn't. . . . " she stammered, "I mean, it won't happen again."

Butters decided he hated this guy.

"There, there," said the silver-haired man, "I'm sure we'll do better next time, won't we? I shouldn't micromanage like this. I would like a grandissimmo decaffeinated non-fat mocha java latte," he added, "and I would like it to go."

Carrie got him his latte in silence and waited until he was gone, then took her apron off and punched out. She passed the table where Butters was sitting and slipped out the door.

He got up and jogged after her. "Hu-hey," he said, "you wu-weren't going b-back on whatcha said, were ya? I was lookin' forward to it."

"I probably shouldn't have done that," she said, looking uncomfortable.

"Aw," said Butters, "who c-cares what he thinks? You d-didn't do anythin' wrong. Su-say, who was that guy, anyway?" They began to walk down the block.

"You should recognize him," she said. "He's the Senator from Colorado. Senator Harbuck. He owns the whole franchise."

And he's an asshole, thought Butters, but he wasn't going to say that out loud. "That was r-really mean," he said instead.

Carrie shrugged. "No, he's not too bad, really—just thoughtless and rude. A lot of people are rude to people who wait on them. I guess you know all about that, huh?"

Butters had to think about that one for a minute. Oh, right, he thought, I run a gas station. "It ain't so bad in South Park," he said. "Everyone's real nice there. They think I'm an idiot, but they're n-nice ta me 'cause I'm their idiot."

"I'm used to it by now," Carrie said. "He doesn't come in that often, anyway. And if you think he's bad," she added, "you should see his wife. The Senator can be a pompous dork, but the Boss Lady—she really scares me."

Butters pictured a tall, grey-haired lady with a snooty expression and glasses on a jeweled chain around her neck.

"Oh, let's forget about it," Carrie said, and smiled. "Come on, Butters. I'll show you the most beautiful art gallery in Washington."

"Wu-wow," breathed Butters.

They were standing by a large artificial lake with a stone edge and walkway, looking northeast. The late afternoon sun was behind them, falling on what seemed like a whole orchard of –

"Cherry trees," said Carrie.

And they were all in brilliant pink and white bloom.

They stood and looked at the cherry blossoms for a while.

"Wow," said Butters again.

"Aren't they gorgeous?" said Carrie. "I love art galleries—I practically lived in the National Gallery for a while—but this is my favorite, and it only happens in late March or early April. A lot of people plan their vacations around this. Did you know these were here?"

Butters silently shook his head. It was his favorite art gallery too, he decided, and he loved art. They started to walk around the edge of the lake.

"The Japanese gave them as a gift to the United States almost a hundred years ago," said Carrie. She put her hand on one of the tree trunks, and a few pink blossoms fell slowly down and lodged in her brown hair. "I love these," she said. "We've got lots of cherry trees back in Michigan, of course, but nothing like this."

Carrie. Ping. Michigan. Ping.

Carrie from Michigan.

"Is—is Kalamazoo in M-Michigan?" said Butters stupidly.

She took her hand off the trunk and began walking again. "If there's another Kalamazoo, I don't know about it," she said.

"Are—are you," he said, "C-Carrie from Michigan?"

"Of course I'm Carrie from Michigan," she said. "My name's Carrie, and you already know I'm from Michigan."

"No, no!" he said. Geez—how do you ask something like this? He stopped dead by the side of the lake and recited desperately.

"Hu-hi. How are you? I am f-fine. My name is B-Butters Stotch. I am nine years old. I am in the f-fourth grade and I go to South Park Elementary. I l-live with my Mom and Dad in Su-South Park, Colorado. I have two hamsters. Their names are F-Fang and Destructo. They are really cool. Well, I gu-guess I got to go now. Your friend, Butters Stotch."

She looked confused. He kept going, eyes closed, trying to remember.

"Hi, Butters. Th-Thank you for the letter. I am fine. My name is C-Carrie—C-Carrie--" –he stumbled over the last name—"and I am in the fourth g-grade. I am eight and three-quarters. I go to M-Milwood Elementary School. I live with my Mom and Dad in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I have a cat named—" he thought

hard—"P-Puff-Puff and a dog named Swanson, and I like to make p-pictures with glue. Hope you write b-back. Your friend, Carrie."

Carrie was dumbfounded. "You remembered that?"

Then, together, "That was you?" They stared at each other.

"Yeah," said Butters, still stunned. "It m-must have been. P-Penpal Project. Fourth grade. Ms. Choksondik made us pick a su-state and then write to a kid in our grade who l-lived there. We pulled names out of a box. My-my cursive ju-just sucked back then, too."

"I do remember!" Carrie said. "We had to do the same thing. Almost all the kids got one letter and that was all. I mean," she said, "nobody wanted to keep writing. So I wrote that I hoped you'd write back—"

"And I did," said Butters.

"You drew a picture of your hamsters on the back."

"Yeah," said Butters. "I've always liked hamsters."

"And then, after a while," said Carrie, "you stopped writing. Why?"

This was going to be embarrassing, thought Butters. He muttered something inaudible.

"I'm sorry?"

"I su-said," and he took a deep breath, "I was in j-jail."

Carrie blinked disbelievingly. "You were nine and you were in jail?"

"Uh-huh," said Butters uncomfortably.

"What for?"

"For TP-ing the art teacher's house."

"Why? Didn't you like art class?"

"No," said Butters, "I loved art class. And I d-didn't TP her house, either. My friends Stan and Kyle and E-Eric did. But they caught me instead, and I r-really thought I musta done it. They shot me up with s-sodium pentothal," he added, as an afterthought.

Carrie shook her head and started walking again. "You really come from a strange town, Mr. Stotch."

"Yu-yeah. I guess," said Butters, walking along beside her.

"So what happened?"

"Wu-well," explained Butters, "first I was in j-jail, an'-an' I thought you'd be all m-mad at me. I told 'em I had a—" and he blushed, "a—a girlfriend in Michigan and that you'd be really mad. An'—an' nobody believed me about the TP, an' nobody believed me about you, either, an' my parents got all mad at me for sayin' I did TP the art teacher's house when I d-didn't, an' grounded me, and I guess," he finished, "I got to thinkin' I just, you know, um—made you up."

And right after that, he thought, I met Lexus. What a mess.

He glanced over at Carrie as they walked north alongside the lake and rounded the north side. More cherry blossoms floated down from the trees and landed on her hair, on the shoulders of her gray wool coat, on the ground. She was so ordinary and so beautiful. What were the chances of his ever having found her again, the little girl who had written back, who'd thanked him for the hamster pictures, who'd drawn a picture of her house and her family standing in front of it? Practically zero. They could drag him off tomorrow and he might find himself wearing one of those orange jumpsuits and sharing a cell with Cartman, but even if they did, he'd still have to say that he really was an unusually lucky guy.

"Did you ever think," asked Carrie, "of trying to find me again?"

"I did," he admitted. "The problem was, I'd forgotten your last name."

She stopped again. He turned to look at her and had to shade his eyes. The sun was coming from behind her now, brilliant orange, setting the cherry trees on fire.

"Well, I think you'll remember it now," she said. "It's Wisnia."

She stepped closer. Her face became visible out of the glare and Butters could see that she was smiling.

"It means 'cherry tree' in Polish," she said.

They began walking back the way they'd come. Butters knew his hotel was somewhere around here. In fact, there it was, right across the street. And he guessed Carrie must live in this direction. Although, maybe not, come to think of it: this was a tourist and downtown area.

"There's a Metro stop not far from here," said Carrie. "I'd better get going."

Well, the least he could do was walk her to the Metro stop. And while he was at it, he was going to figure out some way that he didn't lose track of this girl again. He wasn't quite sure how you did that—asked for a phone number, an address, or something—but he was definitely going to do it, whatever it was.

Carrie stood frozen next to him, her eyes fixed on a woman getting out of a long, sleek black car.

"Woo," she said. "Speak of the devil. It's the Boss Lady, Senator Harbuck's wife. I'm sorry, Butters, I don't want to run into her today. I'll see you later," she said, and was away along the block and down the Metro stairs like a rabbit down a hole before he had time to register whether she had or had not kissed him on the cheek. He sort of thought she had, but---

Son of a biscuit! How was he gonna get hold of her now?

Well, too late. He'd just have to hope he ran into her at Harbuck's again. By golly, he'd drink eight cups of cocoa a day if he had to. Whatever it took.

He crossed the street and saw the lady from the car—the woman Carrie called the Boss Lady—a bit more closely. She was sweeping up the steps of the hotel now, and there was something familiar about her. Butters walked behind her into the hotel.

She turned to go into the lounge and Butters could see her face. It was a little tighter, and she was a little thinner, and she was very, very blond, but still, she really did look an awful lot like. . .

"L-L-Lexus?" Butters stammered.

Author's notes: "(I Got a Gal in) Kalamazoo" is by Harry Warren. It was one of Glenn Miller's biggest hits.

There really is a Milwood Elementary School in Kalamazoo. Its address is 3400 Lover's Lane. You can't make stuff like that up.

Puff-Puff and Swanson were, of course, early names for the character who eventually became known as Butters.