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The Shoelaces of a Rabbit

He lived atop the hill in a grandiose half-castle resembling anything but a home. The hill’s top stood half a mile from the city’s eastern limit. He lived there in a state of solitude. He was all alone, just not by your definition. Parties were hosted twice a week with an occasional third. Visitors came and went, rarely leaving the lieu to an empty house’s creaks and clangs. Regularly, he was frequented by women of the night, daughters of fathers of respect, even celebrities of the limelight. The building was acquainted with the lot of the city folk. He knew them too; they simply did not know him. He was all alone, just not by your definition.

The property was, in terms of partying, self-sustaining. The shine they drank was in the barn, the herb they smoked was in the basement. The sex they had was kept to the smaller rooms, their singing and dancing was on the main floor. There were vegetables in the garden and sheep in the pasture. They could cook in the kitchen and shit in the bathroom. Despite all of this, the master bedroom was always empty, uncommonly so while he was in it. Though there was a consistent flow of these “despicable acts” (something parents of my friends called the happenings of that house), the police rarely frequented. They kept away unless something horrifying had happened the previous night.

A cycle, likely more than one, would have been easily observed if anyone had bothered to look. Spring became summer, one could tell, because the rain calmed and the top of the hill came to life. Gardens were watered, sheep were content, parties swiftly grew. Summer took hold as depicted by the rich and famous paying their respectful dues to the house on the hill. Summer fell to autumn’s wake, the gatherings slowed, the nights tempered. Fall grew windstruck and bold, a differing range of masses entered the realm. Autumn guests preferred to keep their dealings indoors, allowing them to burn the basement weeds. Harvested were the gardens as the season drained away, with it, the pot smokers washed away as well. Then, as they say, there was the calm before the storm. Only some minor rustlings of autumn’s laggards escaping before winter forced control. Winter, evidently brought along, what the lowlifes referred to as “the real parties” and the poets named “the moonshine nights.” These were always the largest and loudest of the year’s get-togethers. Winter’s moonshine nights were generally longer than the high class affairs of the summer, never having two separate parties in one weekend, the moonshine nights would often last two or three consecutive days while occasionally they would outlast the entire week. Around the time of year when most of the city folk could be described as distraught, winter slowly faded. The sheep became noticeable once again to any observer of the hill, though they were certainly less enthused than they were going to seem in a couple months’ time. Spring graciously overtook us, the town became itself as it had the previous year. The house in which he sat, sat atop that large hill and remained silent and perpetually working, just as the entrepreneur works in his dead garage. He works until the people notice him, the house works until its benefactors return. Then, as spring became summer, the cycle hit its peak again. Year after year this wheel spun as predictably as the prior annum.

I grew up, in plain view of this house on the hill, watching the wheel of misconduct spin. The only thing I really could tell back then was, atop that hill stood anything but a hill.

I spoke to him once, when I was merely thirteen. Not much was spoken. Nothing has been forgotten. Some of the neighbours’ children and myself climbed the hill one evening in the latter parts of August. We agreed on two goals for our excursion: try to buy some weed (everyone knew he had the best you could find), and stay long enough to catch a glimpse of some celebrities. We were prepared to steal to get the first feat done and even more prepared to hide in the bushes to watch famous people walk by. Our plan went to hell within a minute or two. Three of us escaped immediate extraction, we split up and ran aimlessly around the house. I ended up in the room where he was sitting and talking with two others. One man grabbed my arm before he advised the man to let me go and asking me to take a seat.

- What is your name?

o Victor

- Why are you here?

o We were hoping to buy weed

- We?

o The others got thrown out

- Hence the running around like a headless chicken

o Ya

I kept my head down for this beginning of a conversation. I was used to being in trouble, but somehow this was different. I was embarrassed of this atrocious first impression. The conversation continued calmly. My shame was lifted slowly from my stomach to my shoulders and finally over my head. When he was seemingly finished with our discussion he handed me a moderately sized and well rolled joint. Then he asked if I had a question for him.

o What do you do?

I questioned.

- I take shoelaces from rabbits.

He said, with an overly serious face. No one in the room blinked. They knew what he meant, or they were in on the joke.

Because that made sense. I understood just as a rabbit would understand the purpose of a shoelace.

Back then, I was in awe of what I must have perceived as a brilliance I couldn’t comprehend. Also, I was pretty pumped that I obtained a small amount of pot. I walked right out the front door. I payed no attention to the rooms and halls laden with celebrity figures.

Once I made it past the front flower gardens, my friends came running from the south bushes. They were terribly excited about our experience and were yelling off names of the kings and queens they saw. We all ran and tumbled down to the bottom of the hill. The senseless clamoring of who was the hottest in person, who showed up with who, and other nonsensical jaw-flapping continued immediately when we all reached the bottom and kept on right into town. A short while after we reached the city limits, one of the teenagers with us got the bright idea to ask me what I had done for all that time in the house. This was followed by a humorous remark about me walking out like I owned the place, then the whole group went silent and we simultaneously stopped walking. I pulled my cigarettes out of my pocket and carefully removed my cone-shaped trophy. I exclaimed,

o I got this!

My dramatic act was met with cheers and congratulations. I handed the joint to the one among us who had previously snagged his father’s lighter. We smoked and coughed, hollered and laughed, ran and sat until the sun rose on the day following our great triumph. We all got in trouble when we returned home but more importantly, I was a hero for the entire week following this adventure.

To this day, I have no idea what taking shoelaces from rabbits was meant to represent but often, I still dream about how much a couple shoes would slow down a rabbit.