Joe Camel & The Surrealistic Bunny

You See The Damnedest Things At 2 A.M.

Back in the day, I used to stand around a lot.

See, the house I was living in was a smoke-free home, and as a 1/2 pack a day smoker back then, I had to go outside to feed my filthy habit. My room had a door that opened up to the carport outside at the rear of the house, and I spent countless hours leaned up against my car, puffing away on a cig while reading a book, or doing my college coursework, or playing my guitar, or whatever other mischief I could get into.

I must have spent almost as many hours under that carport as I did inside. Most of the parties at that house involved moving the cars out, and setting out chairs & tables under the carport. I spent one enjoyable evening teaching a girl to two-step and waltz Texas-style, the scattered and sparse oil-dry pellets underfoot an almost perfect substitute for the wax dust on a hardwood dance floor.

My favorite times under the carport were during heavy thunderstorms, when you could stand dry and comfortable, smoking a cig while the storm vented its fury on the neighborhood. A close second was late at night, when things got very quiet, and the only sounds made were the flick of the Zippo, the flip of a page turning, and the occasional low drone of a car passing by out front of the house.

Here's the carport. It's on Davis Dr. in Arlington, TX.



It was very hard to catch me unawares back there. The driveway was one of the few left in the neighborhood still covered in gravel instead of asphalt, so I could hear the crunch of footsteps or the pop-crackle of tires rolling towards the back yard. I had friends that would leave me "presents" of purloined concrete yard ornaments late at night, so I made a habit of keeping an ear tuned to new arrivals.

So, one late night I'm out back leaning up against my car, sipping a beer, smoking a Camel, and perusing the latest Camel Cash catalog, looking for what cheap giveaway item I will trade 8 months of my life and 2.35% of my lung capacity for. I catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, look up, and enter one of the more surreal moments in my life.

There's a rabbit sitting there in the driveway staring at me. Looked kinda like this one, only maybe not quite so disapproving:



He done snuck up on me wit' those fluffy wabbit feet. Never heard him coming.

So, I'm standing there, looking at this rabbit, trying to get my brain to process this anomaly. We're in the middle of a large city. Where the heck is a big ol' domesticated rabbit coming from? None of my neighbors raise rabbits. Cats? Sure. Squirrels? Bastards are everywhere. Big flop-eared rabbits? Kinda thin on the ground.

Mr. Bunny wiggles his nose at me, and just sits there. I guess he's trying to figure me out too.

I look at the rabbit. I look at my beer. Nope, only had two bottles. I look at my cigarette. Nope, no wacky tobacky tonight. Just my usual Camel Filters. I look at the rabbit. He's still looking at me.

I come to the eventual conclusion that I'm not hallucinating the bunny. He might be hallucinating me, though, so in a cautious solipsistic manner, I approach him slowly.

What does one offer a late night visitor? Well, drinks and refreshment, of course. Mr Rabbit exhibited no interest in a sip of my beer, and he was definitely too young to be smoking, so I wandered back into the house to see if there were any carrots in the fridge.

I found some slightly wilted romaine lettuce leaves and half an onion. Well, better than nothing. Serves him right for dropping in unannounced.

I return to the carport, and Mr. Rabbit has vanished. Not a trace. I go find a flashlight, and commence to whacking the shrubbery to see if I can locate him.

Mr. Rabbit had returned to the dimension that spawned him. I never saw him again.

So, as a word to the wise, when you're hanging out on your carport late at night, give up those nasty cigarettes, and snack on some carrot sticks instead. You'll be healthier, and you'll have a treat for wandering bunnies.