Bunny Simpson picked a shirt off the floor and stuffed it into his bag. His boss at the cigarette store had just warned him that a pair of Denver police detectives had been looking for him. They had his DMV photo printed out and everything. “Plainclothes,” she said like the lack of uniform meant even more trouble. She told him to take the day off and get his affairs in order. For Bunny, that meant going home, packing a bag, and catching a bus up to Grand Junction. He’d hide out with his mother, let the dust settle. That was the plan. Denver was done.
“Jesus, Bunny, what the hell am I gonna do without you?” asked Uncle Rayton from the couch. “Don’t go all what am I gonna do without you,” said Bunny. “I got enough problems as it is.”
“I’m not saying for survival, I’m saying for company,” said Rayton.
“It’s gonna be lonely here. Who am I gonna eat my burritos with? Who am I gonna share a beer?”
Bunny heard the question, but he didn’t answer. He was too busy searching for any last items that needed grabbing. He was only twenty-four; he didn’t own many things. Still, he felt like he was forgetting something crucial.
Bunny called Rayton his uncle, but they weren’t related by blood; he was more of a family friend. Rayton was in his sixties; he had sad eyes and a weather-beaten face. Fifteen years ago, the man had been in a car accident, and now both of his legs, right at the knees, ended in stumps.
Bunny had been living with him for three and a half years. He helped keep the place tidy, he helped get Rayton into his wheelchair, and he helped push him to his destinations, too. For that, he got a sofa to sleep on and a shower to wash in. He kept his things in the corner of the room. It wasn’t a fancy place; it was a mobile home in a trailer park in Elyria-Swansea. But it was safe.
Bunny looked around, spotted a book, and held it up: Modern Card Counting, by Rod Roland. “I’m gonna borrow this, if that’s cool?”
“Keep it.”
“I got your belt on, too,” said Bunny. The belt was too long—it pointed out at the side like a wind vane.
“Trouble like this doesn’t just go away,” Rayton said. “It’s better to clear it up. Take your hit. You don’t want to have nothing hanging over you. It’s gonna turn you into someone you’re not. I’ve seen it before.” Rayton took his cap off, brushed his hair back with his hands, and pulled the cap back on. “I know you, Bunny, you can make something of yourself.”
“I appreciate that,” said the younger man.
“You got a handsome face,” said Rayton. “You could end up being a CEO with a face like that.”
“I got these scars, though, too,” said Bunny, touching his jaw.
“They add to the whole thing. Real talk, Bunny, you could go a long way with that face.”
Bunny zipped the duffel bag closed. “I gotta just figure it out,” he said, looking around the trailer. He realized he might not see this place again and he shook his head. Things sure could change fast, thought Bunny. You could wake up fine in the morning, find yourself running with a bag in the night.
“It’s the way you handle yourself,” said Rayton.
Bunny looked at the man and saw tears in his eyes. He walked over to him, bent down, and gave his big shoulders a hug. Rayton smelled like maple syrup and cigarettes. “I’ll be back,” Bunny whispered.
That was Bunny’s last moment of peace. When he stepped outside, he was met by a semicircle of six cops in green tactical uniforms. They had shotguns pointed at him and they barked that they were the police and they told him to “get the fuck down on the ground!”
Next thing Bunny knew, he was flat on his stomach, dirt in his mouth, looking at black boots. They yanked his arms behind his back and cuffed him. Bunny’s neighbors were gathering. One of them had his phone out and was taking video. Bunny turned his head the other way and looked toward Rayton’s trailer. The cops had gone in there, too, and Bunny could hear a commotion. “Hey!” yelled Bunny. “He’s handicap!”
He felt a knee on his head and the side of his face pressed into the dirt. He braced himself to hear gunshots from inside the trailer, but thankfully there were none.
More of his neighbors gathered. There was all sorts of hollering going on now. Bunny hated to be the center of attention like this, and he closed his eyes and prayed to Jesus for help. Help me, and help Rayton, too, please God, just help with this one.
Eventually, with his hands behind his back, they lifted Bunny to his feet. He looked for Rayton but didn’t see him anywhere. They marched Bunny through the trailer park, turning him sideways at one point to fit through a narrow passageway. Bunny felt a mixture of shame and notoriety; cuffed up like that, he couldn’t help feeling like a bit of a bad boy.
On the other end of the lot, a dude named Herman asked Bunny if he was alright. “No,” said Bunny. “I’m not alright.” He wanted to say, What the hell does it look like? But he held his tongue.
They walked him all the way out to Adams Street, where four Denver police cars sat parked and waiting. To Bunny, everything looked more vivid than normal. The adrenaline in his body made the clouds and fences and street and cars and everything else pop out crystal clear.
The cops put him in the back of a squad car, and buckled him in. He sat there with his wrists hurting from the cuffs. The seats were made of hard plastic. The car floor was dirty. Some spit had dried on the nearest window. Bunny took a deep breath and cursed all the choices he’d ever made. Getting cuffed up and marched past his neighbors? That seemed like the worst possible ending to his story. Shit, he thought, sitting there, shaking his head. Truth was, Bunny didn’t have the perspective to understand what was happening. Getting cuffed up and marched out like that wasn’t the end of his story. It was just the beginning.
*
Six days earlier, he’d been selling a pack of Pall Mall Super Slims to a heavy-bosomed older lady in a bubblegum-pink T-shirt. The receipt was printing out of the machine when he saw his friend, Jerry LeClair, pull into the lot. Jerry’s Blazer kicked up a little cloud of dust when it stopped. Bunny ripped the receipt from the machine and gave it to the lady. She thanked him, smiled, and turned to leave. Bunny watched her walk to the door, and then he watched Jerry come in.
“Hey man,” Jerry said, sniffling a little. Jerry, at twenty-six, was older than Bunny. He was a little chubby and had long eyelashes. Bunny, on the other hand, was slim, wiry; and while Jerry’s skin was smooth, Bunny had little scars on his hands and face. Jerry wore a white T-shirt, with a gold chain underneath. He was Bunny’s best friend. They’d met four years ago at a punk rock show in a warehouse in Golden.
“I said I’d pay you on Saturday,” said Bunny, knocking his knuckles on the counter. He owed Jerry sixty dollars, but he didn’t want to be hassled for it, especially not at his place of employment.
“Come on, man,” said Jerry. “I’m not here for that.” He stepped to the counter, leaned on it like he was at a bar. Then he whispered, “I got this thing, though, if you wanna maybe make five hun—”
“I can’t hear you,” said Bunny. “Why you talking so quiet?”
“I said, I got this thing if y’all wanna make five hundred.”
“What kind of thing?”
“Remember that MILF I was telling you about? The one I sold the Var to?” Jerry, among other hustles, sold steroids to gym-goers. Var was short for Anavar.
Bunny nodded. “Yeah.”
“She wants someone to get rough with her ex-husband.”
“Rough sex?”
“Not sex, man—to fight him,” whispered Jerry.
Bunny knew he didn’t want to see his friend that morning. This was the exact kind of shit he didn’t want to get involved in. Still, five hundred, though. That was a lot of money. “Five hundred to split?” he asked.
“Five for you.” “How much is she giving you?”
“Don’t worry about that, player, I’m contracting you out.
You can set the price when you contract me out.”
“Five hundred, though?”
Jerry laid it out for him. The husband went jogging every day. He ran through Washington Park. His route took him off the main path and into a less populated area. They’d run into him there, exchange words, and get in a little scuffle. That was it. It wasn’t their kind of work, that was for sure, but it seemed easy enough.
“Why’s she wanna do it?”
“I don’t know, man, either she’s tripping, or the dude’s tripping. I didn’t give her a questionnaire and make her fill it out.”
Bunny imagined the so-called less populated area. Then his thoughts shifted to a church he used to attend. Pastor Dan with his hands rubbing all over Bunny’s body, rubbing down between his legs. Jesus is love and love is play.
“I’m sorry, man, I can’t do it,” said Bunny, feeling agitated. “I’m trying to stay on the straight and narrow.”
“I need help on this,” whispered Jerry. “Look at me. I’m not built for that kind of work. I’m not a roughneck.”
“I’m not, either.” “You like to fight, though.”
“I hate fighting.”
“You’re good at it.”
“I’m sorry, dude.”
“Alright,” said Jerry. He took a deep breath and sighed. “Give me a pack of those Winstons, then.”
Bunny put the pack on the counter.
“Interest on the sixty,” said Jerry, picking up the cigarettes and giving them a little shake.
Alone again, Bunny scanned a pack of Winstons. Then he pulled out his wallet. He had one ten-dollar bill in there, and he used it to pay for the cigarettes. His boss kept a tight track on the inventory. Muttering to himself, he took three dollars from the register and put it into his wallet, then he took a quarter and stuffed it loose into his pocket. The rest of the day, nobody came in except for some shift workers from the refinery and a tweaker or two. Bunny felt uneasy the whole time. Nervous and anxious.
When he got home that evening, he found Rayton sitting on the couch, surfing his computer.
“Did you eat any of those oranges?” Bunny asked. He could already see the bag sitting unopened on the counter.
“Oh man,” said Rayton. “I was sitting here, yapping my gums on the phone to Marky and them and I forgot all about those oranges.” “You gotta eat the oranges,” said Bunny. “Fruits and veggies, man. You need your vitamin C. Social worker said that.”
“I know,” said Rayton. “Grab one and let’s have some.” Bunny ripped open the mesh bag and flopped down next to Rayton on the couch. Without talking, they both peeled their oranges and piled their peels next to them like little plates.
“Thank you, Bunny.”
“For what?”
“For being such a good boy.”
“Shit,” said Bunny.
At dinnertime, Bunny lifted Rayton from behind, kicked open the front door of the trailer, carried him out to his wheelchair, and set him down as best he could. Even without his lower legs, the man was still heavy. Bunny had to pull him backward through the dirt until they got to the sidewalk; then he could push him normally.
For dinner, Rayton treated them to frozen burritos at the convenience store. The clerk heated them up in the microwave. While they waited, Rayton told him that the landlord had been hassling him for rent. They owed $780.
“Damn,” said Bunny.
“Yep,” said Rayton.
“Hold on,” said Bunny. He felt a little sick with anxiety, but he stepped back outside and called Jerry. “I’ll do it,” said Bunny when his friend picked up the phone.
“I knew you would,” said Jerry. “I had a feeling. Don’t worry, we’ll make it easy.”
___________________________________
