HARRY THE HARE

James B. Hemesath

Inside the dimly lit movie theater, there was a muffled sound, then one of the swinging doors from the outer lobby opened, and a short, fat man began walking down the aisle toward the stage. It was early in the day, before the show had started. The short, fat man strode the descending length of the aisle, climbed the steps to the stage, and walked up close to the great white rectangle of the movie screen.

"Hello, Bijou . . .I've returned," he said softly, almost reverently. He tentatively poked a finger at the screen, and chuckled. "Nothing but a sheet of perforated plastic? Ridiculous."

"Good afternoon." The voice came from the rear of the theater. "Do you have business here? We're not open yet." The short, fat man had turned at the first words. Now he stared up and back at the rear of the theater. It was too dim back there, but now he could barely see, barely make out, something. A gloved hand rested on the hinged window of the projection booth.

"I want to see Harry." The man hand-shaded his eyes and squinted.

"He's at lunch." The window hinges squeaked. "Should be back for the matinee."

"Good. I'll wait." The man sat cross-legged on the stage. Hand-cupped his chin. Rocked. "The matinee's at one. Isn't it?"

"Why do you want to see Harry?" Two gloved hands rested on the window sill. "Are you a friend?"

"Yes," the man replied. "I've always loved Harry the Hare cartoons." Smiled. "As a child I came every Saturday afternoon. Right here. To the Bijou."

"Really? A test." The gloved hands held a piece of string. "What am I making?"

"A cat's cradle?" The man stumbled to his feet. Squinted. "Yes! That's it. A cat's cradle." Paused. "But that trick belongs to Harry the Hare."

"Most certainly. But now." The string floated to the floor. "Look at my hands. What do you see?"

"Only four fingers!" The man rubbed his eyes. "And gloves. Brown gloves." He jumped from the stage. "So that means—"

"Most certainly. I'm Harry the Hare." The gloved hands waved. "Forgive me for lying." Silence. "You know. About being out to lunch." The gloved hands became two fists. "But I must be careful. They're after me."

"Who are they?"

"My creators. The people who drew me." The gloved hands clenched each other. "The studio stopped making cartoons. I was to be buried—"

"But you escaped." The man's eyes swelled with tears. "Why do they want you back?"

"Because I'm copyrighted." The gloved hands became limp. "They own me."

"But I need you. I love Harry the Hare."

"Many people do. And they come here. Just to see me."

My name is Jack Jackson and I am a lawyer for Blue Wing Films, the former producers of Harry the Hare animated shorts. Two months ago Harry the Hare escaped from the Blue Wing Museum of Motion Picture Classics. The ensuing manhunt ended yesterday during the Saturday Matinee at the Bijou. The theater was crowded with middle-aged people.

Harry the Hare stood on the stage and I shouted, "Blue Wing Films owns Harry the Hare." I sat next to a short, fat man. He started to cry. I handed him my handkerchief. "Harry the Hare must return to the museum."

"I shall never return. The people own me." Harry the Hare shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "The people—"

"But Blue Wing Films holds the copyright. I have called the police."

"The people need Harry the Hare. My cartoons are no longer exhibited. They only have me."

"I am sorry, but the law says . . ." Most of the people were crying. The siren on the police car became louder. I sat down.

Harry the Hare smiled and listened. He snapped his fingers and a scissors appeared. Then he said, "The people shall have me." And snipped off his right foot. Followed by his left foot. Both ears. And his left arm below the elbow.

I stood up and shouted, "Blue Wing Films owns Harry the Hare."

Then I sat down. The aisle was packed.

Afterword

The first half of Harry the Hare was written in Iowa City sometime during the winter of 1968. The second half—the Jack Jackson segment—I wrote the following summer at the University of Colorado Writers' Conference. The very first paragraph of Harry the Hare belongs to Harlan Ellison. The rest I can say is mine.

The era of the big studio cartoon is past. Within the United States, production of quality theatrical cartoons has virtually ceased.

What killed the cartoon? Rising production costs. Low box office potential. And public apathy.

But I—James B. Hemesath—miss Daffy Duck, Tweety & Sylvester, and the other cartoon characters of the 1950s. They were my friends. Need I say more?