Chapter Four
Building Towards Zero

The path from my therapist's office to my car and the commute from the parking lot to Bugs Bunny's front door all streamed by in a blur. Before I knew it, or had had adequate time to prepare myself—which, in my case, was simply an oblique euphemism for "chicken out"—I was rapping on his door with two knuckles, my heart racing, my mind drawing a blank as if being controlled by another entity.

For a long time, there was no answer, not even the sound of tensely shuffling feet on the other side. The gentle chirp of a thousand songbirds above my head and the steamy crackle of my car's slumbering engine, however, somehow spurred me to knock a second time.

The door swung open almost immediately, startling me a bit. There, in its wake, a look of pained disturbance shrouding her face, appearing as though she may have shed tears not long ago, stood Honey Bunny, Bugs' slim, illustrious, young wife, a cordless phone clenched tightly in her left hand.

"Um… hi," I babbled awkwardly, caught off-guard. On level ground, she and I were nearly the same height; with the unevenness of the doorstep, however, she towered over me like a giant, her prying eyes strangely astute and condemnatory.

She made no attempt to hurry my explanation.

"Is—is Bugs home?" I felt like a sheepish fourth grader visiting his neighbor's house for a "play date." A rusted Huffy bike and tattered baseball mitt were all I needed to complete the illusion.

Honey seemed to have painted a similar mental image. "He's out back," she replied shortly, her voice a bit weak, "playing with his toys." With that, she closed the door in my face; not a slam, but firm enough to deter me from knocking anymore.

'And that's the woman he expects me to drive around for a week?' I wondered snidely to myself.

Around the side of the Bunny household, a long, winding slope covered in gravel curved down to a cluttered, unkempt garden where hundreds of innocent flowers, many of them bundled together in pots and cartons, were shipped each year to die. Bugs had never been much of a green thumb—despite his adeptness at digging holes—and Honey was, quite frankly, a bit too materialistic to bother with constantly tending to any living organism, much less one she hadn't desired in the first place. I knew for a fact that the garden had been an anniversary present—from Bugs to her—and while she'd feigned excitement at the time, she had quickly shifted virtually all of the responsibility onto his shoulders in the years that followed, quietly reminding her admittedly well-intentioned husband to stick to jewelry, candy, and Hallmark cards in the future.

On this day, Bugs appeared to have abandoned the garden entirely, switching his ADD-shortened focus to the semi-new riding lawnmower parked, all by its lonesome, in the tool shed nearby. From what I could tell at a distance, it appeared to be leaking oil rather conspicuously, thus rendering it completely useless for the time being.

Bugs had undoubtedly heard me coming—the crunch of the gravel underfoot effectively amplified each step—yet he feigned as though he hadn't, instead waiting for me to make first contact. He must have presumed I was still cross with him over Wile E's under-the-table deal. Oddly enough, I found it quite difficult to become angry at the moment; rather, I felt more vulnerable, more uneasy about the whole situation. Every ounce of spite and ill will which had overcome me earlier in the day had since festered and vanished.

"Bugsy," I greeted, as brightly and lightheartedly as possible, my voice small and adolescent, "what's, uh… what's goin' on?"

The hare slowly looked up from beneath the hull of the lawnmower, a wrinkled look of distaste and irritation on his face. "Not much," he replied intensely; then, as if realizing who I was for the first time, his mood abruptly softened. "What brings you down here, out o' 'da clear blue sky?"

I wasn't sure how to respond. My mind and my bill briefly fought for supremacy.

"I—I have to—" ('Need! Need, you fucking idiot!') "—I need to talk to you, um… about something—" ('Something important! Don't forget important!') "—something important." My heart sank. Even my insides were at war with each other.

"Lemme guess," Bugs sighed, completely oblivious, "it's 'da script thing." He clasped his hands together. "Daffy, I'm sorry. I swear to God I didn't know. Wile E made it sound like you'd already agreed to it."

Suddenly, every ambiguity sharpened and slid into focus. "You believed him?" My voice was critical, judgmental, almost mocking.

He sighed again, more heavily this time. "Okay, maybe I did jump 'da gun a lil' bit, but I didn't mean to steal your thunder. Ya' have to understand, I thought I was helpin' you out."

Subconsciously I resented the implication that I should need his help to achieve a green-light on anything I might have lent my name to. Regardless, I made no mention of the feeling. Fighting down my arrogance and natural pride was often easier said than done, yet in this case, thankfully, only the reverse was true.

"So, uh," Bugs' eyes drifted sheepishly away from mine, "what's 'da deal wit' you two anyway? Are ya' goin' forward wit' production?"

I repeated the story as I had to Dr. Macy. The hare's reaction was far more empathetic than I had expected.

"I'll tell ya' what, doc," he assured me with convincing sincerity, "tomorrow I'll go down and have a nice, long talk wit' Wile E myself. Don't you worry 'bout a thing. I'll convince him he doesn't need my name to sell your product." He patted me jovially on the back. "How's 'dat sound, ol' buddy?"

"That sounds—" I was almost speechless, "—great…"

With every poisonous realization my therapist had helped me to reach regarding Bugs still fresh in my memory, I was utterly astonished at the generosity and sheer benevolence which he now displayed towards me. This was not an enemy, I told myself. This was not a person who would attempt to hurt or willingly take advantage of me. This was a friend, a best friend, one whose kindness and thoughtfulness was greater than words alone could describe.

I shoved my hesitant promise to Dr. Macy to the back of my mind, suddenly feeling as though she were the one whose motives I should have paid more attention to, whose judgments I should have questioned more thoroughly.

"Is 'dat all you wanted to talk about?" Bugs inquired gently, not in a manner which would have suggested that he had tired of my company, but in one which graciously offered me the chance to spark the next wave of discussion unfettered. There was also a certain inflection in his tone which seemed to suggest that he knew there was more on my mind than I had originally put forth.

Pausing for a moment, swallowing the last of my concerns—for, at the moment, they seemed incredibly small, petty, and insignificant—I nodded.

"Yeah, that's it." The words flowed effortlessly, unhindered, as brightly as ever. It was as if an enormous weight had been lifted off my shoulders. "What's new with you?"

The rabbit shrugged his shoulders, a look of weariness playing over his features. "Nothin'," he sighed, "unfortunately."

I could sense his dishonesty. "Are you sure?" Something was distracting him, preoccupying his thoughts, tiring his nerves.

"Yeah, just," his voice broke off feebly. "Me and Honey aren't gettin' along so well right now. 'Dat's it."

"Oh. Is it serious?"

"Nah, nah. Just one o' 'dose things."

It was a conversation destined to go nowhere, too personal to last. "I'm sorry," I murmured, my voice dropping an octave on the last syllable. "Maybe it'll be good for the two of you to get away from each other then." Realizing how inconsiderate that sounded, I cleared my throat and hastily tacked on: "I mean, when you go up to San Francisco next month."

He didn't seem to notice. "Yeah." A light breeze rushed through the garden, rustling his ears. "Maybe it will be."

My eyes floated absentmindedly towards the sky. "Looks like rain," I pointed out, shoving my hands into my pockets. Lately, it seemed almost every day appeared that way for at least an hour or two, a dull, opaque canopy of silver clouds overtaking the rich, misty blue like a massive curtain falling over the city, fading every detail, dispiriting every person unlucky enough to be caught in the gloom.

Bugs' response was even duller than I'd expected.

"Yeah. It does," he said, turning his back to me.

You have no idea
what you're getting yourself into.