The Rabbit

A humorous look at a very specific event from my childhood.

Back in 1972, I had this friend in Nebraska.  What a pal.  His name was Doug.  We met at the beginning of 7th grade and never separated once during the year my family lived in the town of McCook.  If Doug wasn’t spending the weekend at my house, I was at his.  We were inseparable.  We had so much fun together doing some really risky and ridiculously stupid things.  

One of the more stupid things occurred when I got a BB gun for Christmas.  Somehow I managed to “smuggle” the BB gun to Doug’s house after getting permission from my mom for a sleepover there.  Doug’s family lived way over on the other side of town along B street.  B street was the main drag through town and was always busy with traffic.  We lived on the extreme west end of town and they were on the extreme east end near the tracks. 

That end of town was a tough area.  Doug’s house was old, small and sparsely furnished.  I really liked being there though.  I spent many weekends at Doug’s place and got to know many of the characters from the more colorful side of McCook.  Doug’s dad worked at the gravel pits and his mom babysat a whole herd of little kids.  Doug’s mom was extremely obese and was a little slow.  I really liked her though, she treated me like one of the family.  Doug told me one time that he’d overheard his dad tell someone that the doctors had told him his wife was mildly retarded.  That hurt Doug something awful, he really loved and respected his mom.  Hearing that had to have been a real shock to his system.  He grew up with her.  He didn’t see her that way.  He knew her as his mom and not as a person who was mentally challenged, mildly or otherwise.  She was definitely slow, but mildly retarded seemed a little harsh for my young brain.  All I knew was that I liked all of them, Doug, his mom, his dad, sisters, crazy neighbors, all of ‘em.  I always looked forward to a weekend at Doug’s.

Doug’s house was a kind of meeting place for many of the neighbors his folks were friends with.  The weekend would come and they would all gather, drink beer and tell stories while Doug and I would listen and egg them on.  I received quite an education from those gentle sweet soles and always tried to get them to tell the same stories each time they were around.  I was a good listener and that really got their blood flowing.  Here was a room full of adults and they would all be jockeying for position to tell their stories to ME.  Hilarious!  After a while of listening and laughing with them, Doug and I would leave the room and go off exploring or to another friends house to pass the time.  I have some of the best memories from that time in my childhood.  There was a relaxed attitude at Doug’s house and that gave me a freedom I’d never before experienced.  I was 11 or 12. 

Behind Doug’s house there was an empty lot with trees, bushes and weeds.  The BB gun had been in my closet for too long.  This weapon of mass destruction needed to do what it was designed to do: kill unwitting birds.  We got to the vacant lot and shot at some birds for a while.  Our efforts killed or wounded absolutely nothing.  We pretty much scared them all off and had nothing left to shoot at.  I can’t really recall which one of us came up with the idea, but we somehow decided to make a change to the hunt.  After some discussion, we agreed to a contest we would call “BB Gun Fights”.  It is very important right here to remind you that we had ONE, O-N-E ONE, BB gun.  The question you are flipping around in your head as the reader right now is more than likely “How can two people have BB gun fights with only one BB gun?”  We considered with great scrutiny our dilemma.  There was a severe shortage of weapons, this much was true. Two willing marksmen, plenty of ammo, one gun.  Hmmmm.  

We decided there needed to be rules. One of us would be chosen by lottery to go into the vacant lot and hide.  The other, who we would call The Hunter, would take the BB gun and go into Doug’s cellar where he would count to 50.  Once 50 had been reached by the Hunter, he would emerge from the “bunker” and ready himself.  The other person, we decided to call him “The Rabbit”, would watch from his hiding spot and at any point of his choosing would do the right thing.  He would burst from his spot and run to the next spot giving the Hunter an opportunity for a kill. We decided to have a time limit of 5 minutes for each of us to be the Rabbit.  Neither of us owned a watch so we just figured anytime one of us had been “killed” 5 times, or, something around five minutes had elapsed, that would end his term as the Rabbit.  We had no idea at this point what level of agony might be suffered over the five minute period for the Rabbit, but figured it was a good reference point, so five kills or five minutes, whichever came first.  Ok. This is all making complete sense, what else?    

Next, we introduced one very hard and fast rule:  THERE WAS TO BE NO AIMING FOR THE FACE!  We were quite proud of ourselves for being so responsible about making sure we had this rule.  We were obviously thinking like adults right here.  PARENTS would probably sanction a game like this with a rule like that.  Again, it was very responsible.

We agreed to rock, paper, scissors to determine who was to be the first Rabbit.  I knew Doug.  He would choose paper.  Doug always chose paper.  Sometimes, I wondered if Doug really understood the whole concept of rock, paper, scissors because he ALWAYS picked paper.  Sometimes I would pick rock just to let him believe his choice of paper was really working for him.  Paper covers rock and Doug would get the win,,,,SOMETIMES.  BUT, when I really needed a win for myself, I knew exactly how to defeat this hapless amateur.  

It was time.  I was so ready for this. Here we go, 1, 2, 3, BAM! SCISSORS HA! GOTCHA!  

Doug had rock.  Rock smashes scissors.  He looked at me like he’d played paper all those other times just to “lure” me to this one moment where he would pounce.  My mouth was hanging open. I was to be the first Rabbit.  Ok.  Fair is fair.  He got me.  I’d been had.  He was eager to get to the bunker and begin the count.  I had nothing to say, I lost.  

“Okay, go to your stupid bunker and start counting,” I said with attitude, “but REMEMBER!......NO SHOOTING IN THE FACE!”  I was a little on edge.  I’d lost on a sure thing and now I had to be the duck in some kind of freakish carnival game.  Nervous? ... I gotta say I was a little twitchy right there.

I scrambled to get to a little mound in the vacant lot as soon as I saw Doug disappear into the cellar.  My heart was beating like a snare rattling out a drum roll.  I waited.  Thump thump thump thump thump.  Time went by so slow.  My adrenaline began to subside.  Thump....thump ... less and less.  C’mon Doug.  At first I wanted him to have lost count and have to start over, but now I was ready to get this show on the road.  I could take a nap over here, where is this guy?  I peeked over the mound and there he stood, only about 25 feet from me and looking toward the other side of the lot.  The Hunter had snuck up on the kill zone while I wasn’t watching.  Nice move.  I had to make a break for it.  There was a tree about 40 or 50 feet to my left. The tree wasn’t very big, but appeared to be adequate cover from the hail of BB’s that were sure to be sprayed my way.  Quietly I got to my haunches and sprang.  

Go Go GO!  I ran as fast as I could.  I heard a familiar noise as i made the halfway point.  It was a curious noise, like a snap or a pop.  The realization of what the noise was hit me at the exact moment the BB did.  YEOW!  Right in the thigh!  Man that stings, YEEEEOWWWWW!  I’d been maimed.

The remaining sprint to the tree turned into a slow, kind of old person limp. My retreat to safety was accompanied with some very unrefined 12 year old cussing mixed with some bad attitude and a tirade that included accusations of cheating.  Doug was laughing so hard he could barely get the gun pumped up for his next shot.  “Next shot?” I remember thinking...”Oh crap. Five minutes or five kills”.  I knew I had to try hard to make it through the rest of the five minutes, kill free.  I reached the tree before he could get a bead on me again.  I was so small I was completely hidden by it.  He had no shot.  I took a minute to allow the pain to subside some.  I rubbed my thigh.  MAN that hurt!  I knew I couldn’t wuss out and hide behind the tree the whole time, so I faked a move left then took off right.  I then began running around that lot as fast as a kid could run.  I zigged, I zagged, I ducked, I dodged, I hurdled.  I wished a track coach had been handy to see this, I was sure I was breaking records.  Doug fired at me many, many times. 

Snap! “MISS!”  Snap! “MISS!” Pop! “LOSER!”

Somehow, I managed to get back to the safety of the dirt mound.  That HAD to have been 5 minutes by now.  “Hey”, I’m hollering out, “you got me.  I’m hit.  Your turn.  C’mon.  This rabbit is dead!”  There MAY have been a hint of whining in my voice.  “I surrender.  I’m coming out.  Put the gun down.”  

“Oh alright,” was his reply along with words to the effect of me not taking my hits like a man, sore loser references and me being a baby or some other ridiculous nonsense.

Okay.  It was now MY turn at bat.  I was going to make every shot count.  I had it all pictured in my head.  My first shot would be a thigh shot, just out of revenge.  Next, I would get him in the side, then the back and even the butt.  My brain was literally swimming with all of the possible ways I could inflict pain on him.  We had agreed at the outset of this game that we would take off our coats. All we had for protection was our shirts and our pants.  He would be BEGGING for mercy.  I got up to where he was.  We briefly discussed trauma, general wound care and pain management.  Because I had all the information on the subject, I did all the talking.  Doug nodded as if to say he understood and was ready for me to help him spill his own blood.  He handed me the gun.  I was now in control.  I would be delivering the kill shots from this point forward.  He may as well start crying now, cuz it was coming.  I was still reeling from the thigh shot and couldn’t wait to come out of that bunker with guns a’blazin’.

The BB gun was a single shot rifle.  We had the BB’s in a round cardboard container with a lid on it that had the Daisy logo written all over it.  “Gimme the BB’s,” I said with my arm extended and my hand out.  I was holding my trusty rifle with the other.  My stance was that of a drill sergeant. 

“These BB’s?”  Doug held out his hand and there it was; our remaining ammo.  He had dumped the BB’s into his hand as I was walking up. 

“That’s odd,” I thought. “We have a perfectly good container for those...why did he....?  Whatever.”   

“Yes, THOSE BB’s, now hand ‘em over,” I said as my hand began inching toward his for the safe and secure transfer of ammunition.  I’ll never forget what happened next if I live to be 150.  Doug smiled, closed his fist, pulled his hand back, and like a major league pitcher, hurled the whole handful of BB’s deep into the lot.

I screamed like a girl.  He laughed like a crazed lunatic.  It took just a second or two for me to actually put 2 and 2 together, but when I did, I dropped my firearm and leapt for him.  I’d been had and this guy was going DOWN!  

It is important here that you, the reader, understand the difference between myself and my friend Doug, size wise.  On this day, I was 11 or 12.  My mother had years earlier made the insane decision to put me into Kindergarten when I was just 4.  I didn’t turn 5 until DEEP into November of that year.  No big deal, right?  No big deal until you understand what that means in the way of general body development.  I SHOULD have been a 6th grader,  I was actually a 7th grader because of my mom’s completely random decision way back in ’65.  The difference between a 6th grader and a 7th grader was HUGE.  For some reason, when God decided to create us, He made that point, the point right between 6th and 7th grade, a major milestone on the growth chart for boys.  I was LEGALLY a 6th grader and was so small, I could have passed for a 5th grader.  Still, no big deal, right?  Well, it wouldn’t be a big deal if that were all of the information I had to offer. There is one more detail which you the reader need to know right here.  

At around HIS age of 5, DOUG’S mother made a decision about HER boy much the same as the one my mom made about me.  It happened, however, that DOUG’S mom made a decision that was just the opposite.  Doug, apparently, had been struggling with his ABC’s or something back in Kindergarten and a decision was made to hold him back and have him REPEAT Kindergarten.  Who flunks Kindergarten?  Doug did, and that made him 13 or 14 while I was 11 or 12 and both of us were 7th graders.  I was legally a 6th grader, Doug was legally an 8th grader.  Doug was about the size of...hmm...let’s see, a college football player.  Doug was, by far, the toughest kid in our class.  

When I leapt for him he just kind of put his hand out and nudged me to the ground.  He then put his foot in the middle of my back and held me like that until I cooled off.  Doug and I had been through this little exercise many times before.  Doug respected my need for revenge, but also knew how fragile I was as the smallest kid in the class.  He could have actually hurt me and he knew it.  His foot would hold me there with just enough pressure to remind me that more was available, but not enough to actually really cause any permanent damage.  We were really an odd pair.  One of us was built like a heavyweight boxer and the other built like an 10 year old ... girl.  HA!  I could never whip Doug.  I knew it and he knew it, though I tried many times.  We were best friends and everyone in our class was very aware of that fact.  By the time we moved to town, my older brother and I had begun growing apart and he was no longer in my corner so much.  Doug was my bodyguard.  NO ONE messed with me.  If they did, Doug shuffled me behind himself and put his face right into theirs.  It didn’t matter who it was.  The kid was tough as nails and everyone respected him, or else.  Doug and I were a team.  

I’ll never forget that day.  We both always knew that revisiting our BB Gun Fights would just be asking for trouble.  We never did.  I guess we knew our rule of “No aiming for the face” was only a guideline and would never stand up in a court of law if one of our parents ever had to sue the other for the negligent disfigurement of their child.    

“I may never get my shot at revenge,” I remember thinking.  “He hi-jacked me good that day, he deserved SOME kind of retribution.  I needed to make him suffer somehow.” But we were best friends and best friends forgive each other, right?

Months later, Doug and I were walking down a sidewalk near the junior high.  As we walked along we were talking.  Doug was going on and on about something that happened in school that day and out of the corner of my eye I saw it.  It was on Doug’s side of the sidewalk and we were only about five strides away when it caught my eye.  There, in a massive pile, was a mound of dog crap; so fresh, one could almost SEE the stink and the heat coming off it.

  

I felt my thigh.  It STILL kind of stung and that was MONTHS ago.  He never had to pay for that.  Was THIS going to be my shot?  I had to act fast, only four strides left.  All I had to do was keep his attention on me for a few more steps.  Then, I would need to just lightly “bump” my shoulder into his side right at a very precise moment.  This action would cause Doug to stumble slightly and require him to take a half step to keep his balance.  That half step was all I needed.  I was pretty good at math.  If my calculations were correct and my timing was split second accurate, Doug would be standing ankle deep in a sticky stinking mess in mere seconds.

Yes, I would have to take a nasty beating for it, that much was certain, but the SMUG LOOK on his face back there when he chucked those BB’s...the guy needed to pay!

I had one last second to decide. “Do it? Don’t do it? Yes? No? Bump? Don’t bump?”

 

Step right, step left, step right.  

“Hey man, watch out!  There’s a huge pile of dog crap right there.”

“What?  Oh.  Damn!  Almost stepped in it, thanks.”

“No problem.  I got your back, brother.”

Best friends.  Best friends sometimes have to just forgive each other and move on.

Author's Note

Any and all reviews are welcome and encouraged. Thank you for reading my story.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Heh-heh, you got me there--I was sure Doug was going to step in it. Your "better angels" must've taken over, or else the fear of getting thumped. Doug reminds me of one of my childhood friends, Buster Woods, who'd pound anyone into the dirt who messed with him. (Or me) Like you, I had a BB gun. I think everyone did, in fact, and when you've got one, you have to shoot things. I needed glasses and didn't know it, which made me a terrible shot. I'd shoot at birds all day, never hitting one. When I got lucky and brought one down, I'd put the gun away and grieve for days, swearing I'd never shoot at another one. I really do enjoy stories like this, especially when they are so well written.

[ToddK]

I know how you feel about killing the birds and feeling awful about it. As a young adult, I went deer hunting with my bro-in-law and a few others. We drove into a pasture and a young buck popped up and just sort of hopped or bounced right out in front of the Suburban we were in. "Get out!! Take the shot!!! Get this guy!!!" was being shouted at me. I slowly and quietly got the back door open and held up the borrowed rifle and took aim. I always felt that I was strong, but couldn't for the life of me get a good aim on the deer because the end of the barrel was moving too much. The rifle was so heavy. The buck just stood there. I was only maybe 40 or 50 feet from him. He was staring me down. I pulled the trigger and his entire rear end blew up. It was a hit, but SO not a kill shot. He dropped his rear end and if you ever thought a deer doesn't make noise, you are dead wrong. The sound that came out of that animal was a mix of sadness and deep pain. It was so horrible that I ran over to him to figure out a way to silence his cries. I got to him and quickly glanced back at the vehicle. All of them were still sitting inside. Someone hollered out "Kill that thing! I still need to get mine today!" I looked at my prey. He was looking at me. I operated the bolt action putting a fresh round into the chamber. It was no more than 5 feet from the tip of my barrel to the young buck's head. I fired. It was a kill shot right below his ear. He went down and the group came out and gathered around him with me. I felt so awful I wanted to take it all back. I didn't need the meat. None of us did. No one was filling freezers that day. It was all about fresh meat for deer jerky. They brought out a canvas back that I hadn't seen before. Within minutes, the deer was gutted, tagged and in the back of the wagon. I never hunted deer again. I'll never forget those cries brought on by my horrible amateur miss. The guys finally stopped asking me to go along every year. To this day, I still have no problem being left out of the hunt.

[Samuel Dickens]

We were very poor and needed the meat, so in the wintertime, I'd often go hunting for small game--squirrel, rabbit, quail. In the summer, I brought home fish. It was how many of us poor Arkansans survived. Like you, I have no appetite for killing.

[Samuel Dickens]

Oh--I finally got glasses when in the 8th grade and became a much better shot.

[ToddK]

Just saw these. There were many when I was a kid who needed deer, elk, gam e birds, all of it, just like your gamily. I can so appreciate that. I have zero problem with hunting...just no stomach (or heart) for it. And glasses help with everything.