The Misunderstood Monster

I am what goes Bump! in the night.

I am the shiver that starts in the hairs on your neck and quivers to the base of your spine.

I am fear; I am dread and darkness.

And I am so, so lonely.

It all began in 1946 when a Hollywood studio was looking for a new face for an upcoming project. I met the physical requirements but somehow wasn't scary "enough" for the role.

Instead of casting me aside, though, the studio decided I'd be a good villain in a different setting. Thus, the blockbuster, Hair-Raising Hare.

Warner Bros. didn't pay their second bananas much back then. But when the bit took off, my life changed forever. No more gloomy castle to live in; I was pulled into the Hollywood scene.

Naturally, my own performance and career couldn't compare to that of the illustrious lead actor. He even looked like a star, gleaming gray coat with sparkling white markings and the ever-present carrot.

Yes, a rabbit. And yes, that rabbit.

I wish I could say my brush with the star was as thrilling as one would expect.

It wasn't.

Granted, his fame was earned. He'd started from a warren in the ground and hopped his way up the ladder.

There were tales about that journey—but nothing could ever be proved, just murky questions that lingered like a bad smell.

But I did Hair-Raising Hare in '46, an unnamed part but, I think, a key one for the picture. Still, I was new, just above an extra. I cherished my one mention, a nod to my 'potential for growth'.

The story was set in the castle, with just me, Bugs and a new actress in town—a flirtatious rabbit robot.

The first few days of production weren't bad. The usual sharpened pencils, storyboards and painted cels. Just Bugs and me, and not a word from him that wasn't required by the script.

Typical 'big star' type, I told myself. But it stung.

I'd noticed the new actress almost immediately, of course. It would have been difficult not to. She had the most extraordinary eyelashes, a dainty little nose and a way of turning her head that made my heart do things I hadn't previously known it could do.

She was a mechanical rabbit, but Hollywood had always been full of artificial people. I saw no reason to hold that against her.

We'd exchanged a few words near the makeup department. She'd smiled at me. I was fairly certain she'd smiled at me twice.

It was enough.

I began finding excuses to pass through the corridors where she worked. I even considered asking her to lunch, but my courage failed me whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Then Bugs approached me.

"Say, Doc," he said, leaning against my dressing room door. "Hear you've got your eye on the new gal."

I could feel myself turning a deeper shade of orange.

"Well, I wouldn't say—"

"Relax, pal. I put in a good word for ya. She's interested."

I stared at him.

"Interested?"

"Sure. Matter of fact, I fixed you two up. Dinner tonight. Just the two of ya."

I could scarcely believe my good fortune. Here was the biggest star on the lot, taking a personal interest in the romantic prospects of an unnamed monster.

There was, however, a small matter to attend to.

"She's a classy dame," Bugs explained, looking me up and down. "You might wanna get yourself cleaned up a little."

He offered to help.

I was touched.

The next afternoon, Bugs arrived with a collection of beauty supplies that would have equipped a respectable salon. There were brushes and combs, powders and lotions, curling irons, hair rollers and a large assortment of things whose purposes I couldn't begin to imagine.

I sat obediently in the chair.

He began with my hair. I had always considered my thick orange coat one of my better features, but Bugs assured me that modern ladies preferred a more sophisticated appearance.

He twisted my hair into curlers, tugging so vigorously that my scalp tingled.

"Beauty is pain, Doc."

I nodded. There seemed to be a great deal of truth in that.

Next came the manicure.

I had never given much thought to my fingernails. They were long and rather formidable, certainly, but they had served me faithfully for years.

Bugs examined them with an expression of professional dismay.

"Can't take a lady out with those mitts."

He produced a small device and positioned my fingers carefully.

I trusted him.

The mousetrap snapped shut.

My scream brought tears to my eyes.

"Cut!" someone shouted.

I turned toward the sound.

Cameras. Lights. The entire crew.

They'd been filming.

Bugs was doubled over laughing. The director was delighted. Someone called for another take.

I tried to explain that there had been a misunderstanding, but Bugs clapped me on the shoulder.

"You're a natural, Doc! That's comedy gold!"

We did the scene again.

And again.

By the time the director was satisfied, I could barely bend my fingers.

Then I saw her.

She stood just beyond the lights, watching the playback. Her delicate shoulders shook with laughter. She pointed at the screen, where I sat in curlers, howling with pain, and laughed harder.

I had imagined those beautiful eyes looking at me across a candlelit table.

Instead, they were watching me make a fool of myself.

Bugs sauntered over and offered her his arm.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's get outta here."

She took it.

They left together.

I remained in the chair, the curlers still in my hair, my injured hands resting uselessly in my lap.

No one mentioned dinner.

I didn't see either of them again for six years.

There were other jobs, naturally. A monster has to eat. But Hollywood is a small town when you're famous and an enormous one when you're not.

My fingers never properly recovered. The joints stiffened, and eventually arthritis settled into them. Even now, on damp evenings, they ache.

I sometimes wondered what became of her. Whether she was happy. Whether she remembered the foolish orange creature who had believed she might love him.

In 1952, Warner Bros. called again.

There was another cartoon, Water, Water Every Hare, and this time my character had a name.

Rudolph.

I was told that Bugs Bunny himself had recommended me.

I considered declining. But work was scarce, and six years is a long time to hold a grudge against a man who probably never realized he'd done anything wrong.

Besides, I was an actor.

I wanted to act.

The production was uneventful. Bugs was as charming as ever, the crew treated me well enough, and I performed my scenes to the best of my ability.

There was no sign of her.

I never asked.

Afterward, I returned to my castle. I had no reason to stay in Hollywood.

Occasionally, someone recognizes me. Children point and laugh. Adults remember the orange hair and the enormous sneakers. They ask whether I know Bugs Bunny.

I tell them we worked together once.

Sometimes, late at night, I sit by the window and watch the shadows gather around the castle walls. My fingers ache, and I remember a pair of extraordinary eyelashes and a smile I once believed was meant for me.

People say monsters aren't capable of love.

They don't know much about monsters.

I am what goes Bump! in the night.

And I am so, so lonely.