Deep Breath

Vince Bunnyman took a deep breath.
It was something new.
Something untested.
There was nothing to do.
Don’t judge.
Be open.
Let it happen.
He was told to trust his body.
Trust was something that had eluded him.
Especially in recent years.
The thought made him uneasy.
Apprehensive.
Nervous.
Excited.
There was nothing to do.
Explore the feelings.
Explore the responses.
Let the twitches come.
They can’t hurt.
First left.
Then right.
The first sensation is unexpected.
Not ideal.
Go with it.
There is nothing to do.
Pins and needles soon come and the feeling is a welcome reminder of falling asleep on your arm or having your leg elevated for a prolonged period.
Prickly comfort, but comfort nonetheless.
Hands grow bigger with time.
Stronger.
More powerful.
Like he remembers his Father’s.
There is nothing to do.
Pain was always a possibility.
It appears in the most unlikely of places.
Go with it.
But not too far.
Remember it can’t hurt you.
But it does.
Vince twitches.
They’d said it was allowed, and he feels better for it.
Detached from the cause of it all.
There is nothing to do.
Right becomes dazzling.
Shapes that glow and amaze in the darkness.
His childhood is trapped in that moment.
That feeling.
Left is blank.
True darkness.
But it doesn’t bother him.
He enjoys the blindness in the safety of the dark place.
But it doesn’t last.
It rarely does.
There is nothing to do.
Take a deep breath.

Whisper

Vince Bunnyman hears every whisper.
Loud was a blur.
An uncomfortable buzz.
A mixture of syllables and gunshots.
Twenty decibels.
Quieter than a Librarian.
That was his range.
His optimum level.
Quieter didn’t mean easier though.
As a child he always knew in advance what his parents were getting him for Christmas and Birthdays.
They found surprising him difficult at best.
He heard in advance every horse his Father would lose his money on each and every Saturday.
He also knew that his Father’s Bookmaker was planning on buying a brand new, very expensive car.
Vince’s family had only ever had two cars.
Both were gas-guzzlers.
Both were blue.
Both scared him when the engine backfired.
Which it often did.
In Grade 6 he heard every secret that the popular girls would convey between their desks whilst the teacher was writing on the blackboard.
Unfortunately almost every secret involved something at Vince’s expense.
Mostly relating to his hair cut and love of cold Pop Tarts.
When it came time for his senior dance, he knew exactly who would be going with who well before anyone got a chance to say yes.
Vince also got his chance to say yes.
During one of the many slow dances however he was forced to witness his date nibble on Billy Crosswaite’s ear.
At least she didn’t whisper into it.
Vince could not have handled hearing her sweet-nothings caress Billy's ear.
The punch he drank on the side of the dance floor was already bitter enough.
He was soon distracted from the nibbling though as Camilla Jones confessed to her date that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.
On his first day at his first office job he tried his very best to fit in.
He collected their documents from the photocopier.
He made them Earl Grey tea.
He even laughed at their lame jokes.
But they were just like the popular girls.
They thought they couldn’t be heard on the other side of the office.
They could have been another hundred metres away, Vince still would have picked up every word that came out of their scheming mouths.
He didn’t deserve to be treated like this from his new co-workers.
The plotting.
The planning.
The whispering.
Fools.
It didn’t matter.
He’d brought his lunch from home anyway.
Last week a friend took Vince to a gig.
Rock.
And roll.
His friend thoughtfully also brought him a pair of earplugs.
Vince lasted two chords into the first song.
He still managed to enjoy the entire show.
Watching from outside through a small window, earplugs firmly in place.
This was Vince’s curse.
But it’s not always a bad thing.
Now, as he lies in the dark, the volume is perfect.
He absorbs her voice.
Her day.
Her whisper.
Anything more would be deafening.

Couple

Vince Bunnyman avoided the elderly couple.
He shouldn’t have made fun of them.
He shouldn’t have moved seats.
And he most certainly shouldn’t have judged them.
His heart is now heavier.
Eyes open to bigger pictures.
Today she came alone.
Before entering she stood, stooped at the window, and watched.
Vince couldn’t be 100% sure what had caught her attention.
Possibly a Fly.
Possibly the smooth, calming movements of the man cleaning the window.
Possibly nothing at all.
When she finally entered she was told where to sit.
A common courtesy by the owner to a long time customer.
She had built this suburb.
Her and her husband.
From its humble begins to the thriving community it bears today.
He was a Doctor.
A kind, humble man, quite and reserved.
She was the woman behind the Doctor.
The two of them had settled here many, many years ago.
A time only they could remember.
And they had overseen it all.
The Library.
The Post Office.
The Church.
The small shops and cafes like the one she was now in that bustled with life.
They were there for all of it.
Her food is served.
She holds her head up with one hand, whilst picking through her meal with the other.
She wished he were still there on the other side of the table.
She would have ordered his food and his drink.
Exactly what he wanted without him needing to speak a word.
She would help him cut his Schnitzel before tending to her own.
She would do everything short of chew and swallow his food for him.
But not today.
Once she has finished her meal she ambles through the small paper.
The tiny print made only legible by the magnifying glass she keeps in her handbag.
She looks up, as if to speak, but keeps the interesting piece of the news to herself.
He would liked to have heard about the latest news from their home country.
She would liked to have told him about it whilst he slowly finished his Cappuccino.
She still carries his photo in her purse.
A photo of the two of them taken in a photo booth at the New York World’s Fair in 1940.
Two weeks after they had met.
He looks directly at the camera.
Calm.
Happy.
She has her face turned, gazing up at him.
Admiration and love fill the picture.
Everyone should have one of these photos and she is thankful for hers every single day.

Know Your Bunnyman Part No. 6

Vince Bunnyman is masquerading as a grown up.

Remorse

Vince Bunnyman picks up the cigarette butt with remorse.
It shouldn’t be there.
He throws it in the bin and looks for acceptance.
The police officer nods and continues on his way.
Clearly a slow day for crime fighting.
Vince walks on.
“So he calls me in the middle of the night and I’m like, Brad I can’t handle this right now”.
Brad is an asshole, and Vince instantly hates him for what he’s done to her.
Lichtenstein was right.
She was better off without him.
Better off sinking lower than she thought imaginable.
She was right to hang up on Brad.
Vince would have done the same thing.
Or at least, he likes to think he would.
Vince walks on.
“No, don’t worry, I’ll just get my maid to bring out some jelly shots”.
Jelly shots were his answer to everything.
All of life’s pain.
Intimate moments with the maid were a close second.
Vince had once also believed in the healing properties of jelly shots.
Maybe that’s why he now wore tracksuit pants and a stained t-shirt, rather than a three-piece pinstripe suit.
They were also possibly the reason he never had the resources to have someone bring them to him.
He would have liked that.
Vince walks on.
“Oh yeah, I do yoga all the time”.
“No. Not yoga, yoghurt”.
“Oh yeah, I do that too”.
Yoghurt was a mass of bacteria.
Yoga was a mass of awkward positions.
Vince had little interest in either.
Neither did the girl who was admitting to a leisurely pursuit of both.
Vince walks on.
“I can’t remember if it’s Bon Jovi night or not”.
She loved Bon Jovi night.
She wished it were more than once a month.
Her boyfriend did not share her enthusiasm and his posture and facial expression made that abundantly clear.
Vince sympathised with both of them.
He too would like to experience Bon Jovi night, but no necessarily with her.
Vince entered the Milk Bar.
Next time he would drive.

Office Haikus

Vince Bunnyman’s day at work through the ancient art of haiku poems.
8:35am.
Morning brings coffee.
Instant, white with one sugar.
No cream biscuit though.
9:03am.
How was your weekend?
Insert meaningless response.
How was your weekend?
10:27am.
Cake for morning tea.
Double chocolate mud cake.
Fat fat fatty fat.
11:06am.
First meeting of day.
Statistics fly like seagulls.
Noisy and pointless.
12:49pm.
Soup sits on my breath.
In drastic need of some gum.
Don’t reach under desk.
1:19pm.
Email down again.
IT put down the donuts.
People need their porn.
2:10pm.
Where is my red pen?
Stationary cabinet
is empty again.
2:14pm.
Seriously now,
who has taken my red pen?
Now forced to use blue.
3:33pm.
Another meeting.
Dave’s process presentation.
Try to look awake.
4:41pm.
With my new haircut.
I’m told I look a bit like,
one Michael Buble.
5:00pm.
As five o’clock strikes.
Everyone’s thoughts turn to home.
My thoughts turn to beer.
Epilogue:
Spending the whole day.
Thinking of haikus at work.
Yields little output.

A Lover & A Fighter

Vince Bunnyman is a lover and a fighter.
If push comes to shove though, and it often does, his one and only love is fighting.
It began on his first day of Kindergarten.
Mark Wilkinson took Vince’s Tonka Truck from him without asking and Vince had never felt such anger.
He lashed out in ways he had never experienced.
Sand and open palms flew wildly in every direction.
SLAP!
Tears followed.
Mark Wilkinson swore that he didn’t hit Vince and to this day Vince hasn’t told another soul that he’d accidentally slapped himself.
Mark was unharmed aside from a small amount of sand that found its way into his mouth.
Vince was inconsolable.
As their teacher picked him up from the sandpit his arms and legs still flailed out of control.
Mark spat the small grains of sand back into the sandpit and looked on in bewilderment.
Vince may not have been victorious that day, but no one ever touched his Tonka Truck again.
During his primary school years Vince’s passion for fighting grew steadily.
He would fight anyone that looked at him funny or had more football trading cards than he did.
He would fight older boys, younger boys, girls of any age, and even the school’s gardener.
No one was safe from being challenged to a fight by Vince.
Those who accepted his challenge were instructed to meet him behind the bike shed after school.
Most of the time however, Vince was nowhere to be found.
His excuses ranged from having detention; to attending a better fight at another school; to training for his black belt at a fight academy with a real life Ninja.
Needless to say, no of these were true.
The truth was Vince had to be out the front of the school straight after the final bell to be picked up by his Mum, and his Mum would always yell at him if he was to keep her waiting.
And he didn’t want that.
When he did appear though, Vince was quickly put back in his place by boy, girl and gardener alike.
Still, covered black, blue and embarrassed, Vince fought on.
By the time he reached high school he’d begun wearing a leather jacket and eventually formed a small gang.
There were only two other kids in the school who would join Vince’s gang.
Both were 2 years below him.
Both were near sighted.
Both had chronic asthma.
They trialed many names for their gang.
The InVincibles.
The Ass Punch Crew.
The Three Tough Guys.
The Bette Midler Appreciation Society.
None of them stuck though and the gang remained nameless.
They even tried starting their own fight club.
Deep in the basement of Vince’s family home they would take turns wearing Vince’s leather jacket and fight each other.
Fists were thrown.
Legs were thrust.
Name calling was attempted.
Luckily no one ever got hurt.
Mainly due to none of them ever landing a punch, kick or mean name with any kind of efficiency.
It kept them off the streets though and, more importantly, away from other, more able gangs.
Vince recently started his first job.
Data entry.
There aren’t many opportunities to fight in the white-collar world for Vince, but next Saturday he and his fellow work colleagues will participate in a team-building exercise that Vince is very much looking forward to.
Corporate Boxing.
Vince’s opponent is a middle level manager named Mark Wilkinson.
Vince isn’t sure if it’s the same Mark Wilkinson whom he first fought with in the Kindergarten sandpit.
But it doesn’t matter.
Vince will show everyone why they should never touch his Tonka Trunk.