Rabbit

On a cold March evening Ed Slattery and Harry the Bulldog went to the Rattlesnake Bar in Bennington, Vermont and sat down at a hi-top table in the back. They ordered brew two by two, tall brown bottles of Pacifico Clara, a good Mexican beer, that costs about a quarter each on the beach in Mazatlan or San Blas. They brought back about five or so each and the bearded clown behind the bar was reluctant to give them any more.

“We’re on foot, dude,” Ed said, lying. “There’s no need to worry.” He touched his finger to his nose. “See?”

The bartender cut them off, so Ed and The Bulldog cheers to nothing and drain the last one already late for the movie.

Ed got behind the wheel of The Bulldog’s 1970 International Scout because his friend was somehow drunker than he was. So many vehicles have passed through this Vermont-Gardener’s life, and each car was like a woman, guaranteed to break his heart.

It was very cold and there was plenty of snow on the ground. It easily could have been January, and the stark barren trees creaked and groaned in the steady wind. The Scout had no radio and no heat, so the two friends had scarves up around their necks, Armani coats on their backs, as they rumbled through the small town to the Holeinthewall theatre to see the Coen Brother’s, “O, Brother, Where art Thou?”

There was no one in the theatre. They sat right down just as the last preview ended and Ed took out his one hitter and got up to go have a wee smoke in the John.

“Why not just smoke it right here?” The Bulldog said in his characteristic bluntness. “You sure?”

“The guy working is most likely more stoned than you, bud.”

Ed sparked it leaving a bit for the next day in the plastic ear plug container that he took from Isaac’s house three days before when he headed up to Vermont. The sweet incense filled the empty theater and is always a good accompaniment to good movie and is even better and necessary if the movie sucks.

After the movie they decided to hit another bar, the regular bar, Kevin and Mike’s, over in North Bennington. It was beat and nearly empty, sadly no sexy art school students were around for the boys to lay their rap on. They drank a few Amstel lights and lit out of there, bored, yet neither of them eager to go back to The Bulldog’s heat-less barn perched right on the edge of the Brattleboro river.

“I’m hungry,” The Bulldog said.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

“Let’s got to the Shop Rite.”

“Why not?”

They went to the 24 hour, super-huge-over-the-top market and bought sushi and two bottles of Spanish Rioja. They clowned around the aisles playing with stuffed Easter bunny rabbits and throwing walnuts and almonds at each other, annoying the 60 year old lady who worked up front. The Bulldog picked up a bright pink, 3 foot long rabbit, with bright white ears.

“What do you think about this one,” he said, “for Amanda.”

“Bloody perfect.” Ed said. “She’ll be wrapping her legs around that in no time.”

“That’s where I want to be.”

“Can I come too?”

They sat in the truck and ate the sushi, stomping their feet to keep warm and savoring the karmic burn of the wasabi. They didn’t bother opening the wine knowing that it would be a waste at that point.

“Let’s drop this off at Amanda’s house.” The Bulldog said. “Surprise her.”

“Sure," Ed said, "you are a bleedin' romantic."

He fired up the Scout and they took off. Those last few beers took The Bulldog out of commission nearly, for driving clearly, yet he was awake and giving Ed directions through the narrow, unlit back roads of North Bennington. They approached a steep turn in the road, bouncing over the bumps and pot holes and Ed was thinking that if they continued these late night, drunken and aimless nocturnal adventures they were going to be busted by some lurking, bored-more-than-them-cop. That night was the third in a row of pretty much the same action for the boys: chop wood and deliver it to rich yuppies during the day, drink beer, listen to music, drive around, scanning for girls, hit the bars, hit the market, eat sushi or something else and then leave flowers or a poem or a bottle of wine on one of The Bulldog’s latest-loves' front steps hoping she'd wake up and take them in. Ed took the sharp turn in the road slowly and a car passed them. The Bulldog looks back and Ed glances in the rear view mirror.

The car’s brake lights flare red.

“Oh fuck," The Bulldog siad, "that’s a cop. my tail light is out.”

“Fuck.” Ed said.

The Bulldog was nervous, not being behind the wheel, and drunk.

 “Go-Go-Go," he said, suddenly freaking out. "Drive, man!!!”

Ed hit the gas and the shaky 35 year old beast of a truck whirled around another sharp bend and down a steep hill. Ed blew through a stop sign with the The Bulldog frantically yelling “Go right, go right, oh shit…” looking over his shoulder then back at the road, then over his shoulder again.
Ed had never seen him panic before, this is a guy who could knock a 200 lb man on his ass with one punch and drink a 12 rack without feeling it. The Bulldog also had run-ins with the law many times before. But because he wasn’t driving he felt helpless.

“Oh shit, go down there," he said. "oh shit…”

Flying down another quiet street Ed recognized Amanda’s house from another night when they had gone there for dinner with her and a friend, the gorgeous modern dancer Ed had nicknamed “The Neck." He had been unable to persuade her graceful self to do any more than dance with him on the farmhouse floor as the four of them drank bottles upon bottles of wine after dinner. The front porch light was on and Ed considered pulling into her driveway, getting out the car, and hiding in the shed or even running through the woods. Such is the tremendous and at times justified fear of Cops in America. The Bulldog could sense what Ed was thinking and even then, with the law breathing down their necks, a possible heap of trouble for both of them ahead, he'd sacrifice escape for the hopes of sleeping with a woman. “Keep going, man, shit, don't stop....keep going straight on....” he said. Ed bent to his task.

They took another turn onto a dirt road full of pot holes and Ed was just beginning to believe they may have actually lost the cop when the glare of headlights and the blue and red colors of doom signified that the jig was up.

“We’re fucked,” Ed said, more to himself than to The Bulldog. The road was a dead end leading right into Lake Paran. Before Ed pulled to a stop at the cul de sac he passed The Bulldog the little blue ear plug container holding the last crumbly buds. “Lose it,” he said, and The Bulldog casually dropped it out the window. Ed pulled to a stop and saw that it was not one, but three cop cars now. Two locals and one state trooper. The two friends sat there with six head lights dead on them and the merry-go-round reds and blues flashing in their face. Ed rolled down the window just as a tall, clean shaven, short haired cop approached the Scout. He looked down at the ground. Ed had pulled up right over a big puddle.

“Do you want me to pull up a bit.” Ed said. Making first contact with The Man demonstrates strength and is essential when dealing with those-that-will-fuck you whether you deserve it or not.

“No,” he said. “Where are you going tonight?”

“I’m kinda lost officer," Ed said, " I’m new to town and I'm...”

“It seemed like you were trying to evade me, back there.”

Ed looked right into the cop's eyes .

“Oh, no, officer,” he said, “I’m trying out my friend’s rig here, and I got kinda lost. We’re just trying to drop this off to a woman who lives around here somewhere.”

The cop leaned down and looked past Ed at The Bulldog and the pink bunny with its long bright ears.

The cop paused for three seconds.
“May I see your license and registration please?” he said.

The Bulldog opened the glove box and a mess of papers, old fuses, cd’s, garden clippers, nails and a screw driver fell on his feet.

“Officer,” Ed said, “I don’t have my license with me, but I know the number.”

He had memorized the number the day he got his license when he was sixteen years old, knowing that memorizing it in itself conveys a vague aura of responsibility.

“What is it?” the cop said. Ed told him and he scribbled it into his notebook. Another cop was standing behind him silhouetted by the bright head lights.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” he said.

“I had a couple of beers,” Ed said, as nonchalantly as possible.

“How many beers did you have?”

There was no way he was going to tell him about the six or so he had before the movie.

“I had two or three.”

“And when was that?”

“About an hour ago?”
"Where were you?"
"Some bar."
"What bar?"
"Kevin and Mike's" The Bulldog said. 

The cop scribbled in his book.

“What time is it now?”

Ed had no idea.

“I think it’s around 1 or 1:30?” he said.

The cop jotted something else in his notebook.

“It’s just after midnight.” he said flatly.

“Oh…” Ed said.

“What kind of beer were you drinking?”

“Amstel Light, sir.”

“Do you have the registration?” he said, and looked into the Scout. The Bulldog was flipping through the mass of papers.

“I can’t seem to find it, officer,” he said. “but it is registered in Arlington.”

The officer was very polite, to his credit, dealing with two vagrants who were obviously trying hells-bells to outrun him. Ed knew there was a crime in that, somewhere. Evading a police officer? Reckless driving? Endangering the public…? The unavoidable feeling of doing something stupid and pointless and getting caught suffused his whole person. God Damn Mother Fucker, Ed thought.

“Ok, thank you.” the cop said, looking into Ed’s eyes as only a cop can do, “you two just sit tight.”

He walked back to his car, and Ed was shaking, from the cold and the nerves. His right leg started shaking uncontrollably.

“Well this is fucking great,” he said.

The Bulldog was still shuffling the papers that did not cease spilling out of the glove box.

“It’s going to be alright,” Ed said, comforted by his own voice, trying to distract himself from this ridiculous situation. He considered the various outcomes: arrest? jail? a record? He had so far avoided any real problem with the law, getting out of scraps and scrapes without a mark. He wondered if his luck had finally run out. Ed looked at the pink bunny, lying there across The Bulldog’s lap.

He put his hand on its head and felt the soft fur and squeezed it

“Take it easy, buddy,” The Bulldog said, “it’ll be alright.”

The cop came back and stood a few feet from the window.

“Would you step out of the car please?” he said, a command veiled in a question.

Ed opened the door and had to jump from the running board over the big brown puddle. There were only two cop cars there, the State Cop had at some point left the bunk-ass scene. The cop stood next to Ed. Ed was taller than him by a few inches. Then the cop stepped directly in front of him. His companion hovered a few feet away. The cop held up a silver cross pen in front of Ed's face.

“Now,” he said, “I want you to follow the top of this pen with your eyes only. Do not move your head.”

“Ok.” Ed said. Here... we... go...

The cop moved the pen slowly to the right, Ed watched it and saw the form of the other cop in a holographic blur, with the bright head lights behind him making it very difficult to focus.

“Do not move your head,” he said.

“Ok.” Ed said. Take it easy.

He moved the pen to the left and all the way to the right again. Ed followed it without moving his head.

“Alright,” the cop said, moving to Ed’s right side. “I want you to do what I do. Stand on one leg and put the other one out, at a forty five degree angle, like this.” The cop was kind enough to show him. Ed watched him do it. What the fuck? he thought. He wasn’t even drunk anymore, just nervous. But this?

“Now do that and count from one-one thousand to thirty while looking at your toe.”

Ed stalled for time to gather his wits and his breath.

“Officer, excuse me,” he said, “I’m a little nervous.”

“You’re a little nervous?”

“Yes sir, I’m not from around here. I was trying out my buddy’s rig…”

“Ok.” the cop cut him off. “It’s all right. Just do what I showed you.”

Ed didn’t have time to think. He lifted his right leg without considering which foot would be better to balance on. He looked at the scuffed tip of his dead brother Richard's old brown boot.

“One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand…” 

At 16 or 17 he nearly lost his balance but held the late night cop-pressured yoga pose.

“Twenty-nine one thousand, Thirty one thousand,” he said and brought his foot down, dazed and relieved.

“Ok,” the cop said, “now I want you to walk nine paces, heel to toe, like this.” There's more? Ed thought and watched the cop walk the invisible line. The ground was muddy and uneven and Ed's arms went out naturally and he walked keeping it straight  without weaving or swaying or stepping off the magical invisible line. 

The other cop greeted Ed with a black box in his hand. He removed a white tube from a piece of plastic and inserted into the box.

“Now we want you to breathe into this,” he said. Ed wondered if he was over the limit. He had never taken a breathalyzer before. How long did the alcohol stay in your system? The limit was .08 of a percent which means if you drink three beers in an hour you are probably over; and in Vermont, like many other places, there are a multitude of drunk idiots tearing around town, so the cops are ready, willing and able to bust you. Not like we didn’t give these guys a reason, Ed thought.

“Excuse me officer,” he said, to the first cop, “I’m a little wary of taking this, I don’t mean to cause a problem, but I’m a little hesitant.”

The little hovering cop piped up, “It cannot be used in court…” he said, lying.

The first cop interjected, “This is only to see if you can drive away from here.”

Ed was pretty sure he was lying too. But what choice did he have? Flying through his head were thoughts of the policy if he refused, could they arrest him or take him and The Bulldog to the station? Mandatory fines? a piss test? Just being in a station or a cell was an abhorrent, surreal thought. Fuck that, Ed thought. Alea Jacta Est...

“Ok, I’ll do it.” he said.

The cop held the white tip up and Ed put his lips around it and gave the most feeble breath, keeping the sides of his mouth open, trying to bring some of the outside air into it.

The cop brought the black box down and the three of them stared at it. Digital numbers shot up from zero, in decimals of ten. The numbers rose up to 30 then forty and Ed thought he was screwed, but when it settled he saw clearly it was .04, not 4.0: a number he had never reached drunk or as a scholar.

Ed was mighty pleased.

“Please go back to your vehicle.” The first cop said, with absolute indifference.

Ed negotiated the big muddy puddle and got in the Scout. 
“We going to be alright?” The Bulldog said.

“I don’t know man, I think so.” Ed said.

The cop came over and gave Ed a ticket for an inoperable taillight.

“You guys take her easy now,” he said. Since Ed was driving the ticket was in his name. 
"Thank you officer," Ed said, which is a necessary but odd thing to do. He fired up the Scout that shook a few times and rumbled to life and they pulled away slowly past the two cruisers with the red and blue lights swirling in night.

“Let’s go back to my barn.” The Bulldog said. 

Ed was busy gathering the fraying bundle of his nerves into some sense of calm and order. 

“Sure” he said, and realized what they must do. They trundled out on the same road bouncing and bumping over the holes and Ed pulled over in front of Amanda’s house.

“Bulldog,” Ed said, “This is the rabbit's new home.” The Bulldog hesitated, looked at Ed, then opened the door and with bunny in hand started up the path led to the house. Just then the two cop cars cruised by slowly, the flashing lights off. Ed sat there cold and shaken. He smiled, a weary, relieved, mischievous smile, knowing the cops were watching.