Mr. Good Luck Grasshopper

WRITTEN BY LIZ FARIAS

ART BY LIZ FARIAS

A groundhog and rabbit say their goodbyes, noses nuzzled for a fleeting moment. Tears glisten on their cheeks, catching the streaks of sunlight that spill across the field. Blades of grass quiver in the breeze, and the white wildflowers shy away from watching. Monarch butterflies flutter lazily near the edges of the meadow, their wings basking in the sun’s orange glow. A pair of nosy voles peek cautiously, and the fireflies hang low to listen. Hushed beneath the weight of goodbyes, the meadow seems to sense that autumn is near. The rabbit turns to hop away, while the groundhog slips into his burrow, watching her tail puff shrink in the distance. 

The rabbit finally reaches a quaint wooden fixture, red paint chipping all around. She slips in through the crack of the wooden door, returning to her human’s odd collection of items — bags of soil, metal tools, plastic toys, and various non-native plant seeds. It is her home away from home, above the ground and generally safe from most predators. 

A blob appears in the rabbit’s peripheral. Whipping around to face the door, she blurts, “Mr. Good Luck Grasshopper, is that you?” The neon green fellow nods approvingly. He removes his top hat and sets it to the side. “Gosh, have you been here this whole time?” inquires the rabbit. 

“I have not been waiting in here for you if that’s what you’re pondering,” Mr. Good assures. “But I did hitch a ride back here, cozied up in that marvelous fur of yours.”

“Goodness gracious!” shouts the rabbit. Her ears collapse flat behind her head, “How horribly awkward!”

Mr. Good gestures to a corner stacked with foraged treasures — berries, roots, and tender greens piled high. “What a mighty effort!” he points out. “It’s unfortunate that groundhogs remain dormant for so long. Your treats will rot before springtime.” Poppy remains hunched and silent. “Well if it’s any consolation… It’s certainly not about the fact that he’s a groundhog and you’re a rabbit. He didn’t invite you in to burrow,” Mr. Good lectures, “The same way a vampire cannot enter a home without being invited in. That would be deadly.”

The rabbit sighs and fiddles with the hay inside of her sunflower pocketbook. “I’m saddened by my inability to have caught this from the start. He was a groundhog, and I am a rabbit,” she admits defeatedly. 

Mr. Good springs up to a window ledge to glance at the last bit of peeking sun. “But you are so much more than carrots and hops, Poppy. When we meet one another in the wild, we project all kinds of potential onto others. Some see dinner, others see mates. And as unlikely of a pairing it may be, you are more than a rabbit, and to you he is more than a groundhog.”

“And yet it still ended the way it did, and I’m receiving the same strange looks from strangers as I did in the beginning even though it is now the end.” Poppy plops into the ground.

“Shall we brew tea?” Mr. Good proposes. Poppy twitches as he glides and disappears into the velvet hollow of her ear. Nestled there, he laughs. “I could get comfortable and spend all winter reading here.”

“Oh no, you couldn’t,” fights back Poppy, “My ears are far too sensitive for your chirping. Hold still, before I send you flying into a dark corner.”

Hopping over to the kettle, Poppy trips over a stray wire. Her right ear swiftly sways back, launching Mr. Good onto a tall oak table. Mr. Good lightly bounces off the cold wall, rubs his head, and chuckles. Poppy sneezes, stumbling forward. 

“Easy there, rabbit,” laughs Mr. Good. 

“Whew, sorry about that. Something in that corner is tickling my sniffer.” Poppy’s face contorts like a jazz performance. 

Mr. Good peers over the side of the table and down the dark, doomful corridor to the floor. “Well, at the very least, I am up here and can start the tea.” He gulps. “If you can brave the spider webs down there, plug in that cord that ignites this machinery.” 

Poppy smiles and hops with the cord, “Can do!” The kettle sings a low hum. There is a silence as Mr. Good prepares the mugs and teabags. “How are you so wise?” Poppy asks.

“I have four seasons to live if I am lucky. I would hope to be so wise at my mature age.” Mr. Good opens his satchel to reveal an assortment of tiny cutlery tools. 

“Well, yes, I think you are very wise, and I am lucky to run into you again in your brief lifetime.” Poppy circles the table.  “Have you ever known love?” pries Poppy. 

“Yes, once before.” The kettle steams. 

“Another grasshopper I presume?” 

“Oh, you’re too polite. I’ve mingled with other grasshoppers, of course.” Mr. Good leaps onto the kettle handle. “I can dredge up the past to tell you this tale if it’s of interest to you, but frankly, I try not to think about it.”

“Why is that?” Poppy asks. 

Mr. Good pauses as the thought escapes him. “Poppy, how would you like to take your tea? Is classic Irish Breakfast alright or would you prefer something more calming?”

“Well, I love sugar! Something best for foraging after.” With the shove of her nose, Poppy sends a metal water bowl skittering across the cement. It clanks and spins in widening circles before collapsing into stillness. To begin his concoction, Mr. Good pours a long stream down from over the table, the heated water softly crackling in the bowl.

“Let me tell you the story,” Mr. Good begins. “It was June. I was youthful, springy, and out for a bite. I noticed a few eggs resting on some milkweed, entangled with the plant I was munching on. I normally would not have returned to that spot, but something in the air piqued my curiosity. Two days later, a larvae hatched, and before I knew it, she was feasting on the milkweed. It was quite a sight. She was tiny, and striped like human candy. I marveled at her beauty, and asked myself how I had gotten so lucky to come across an endangered species.”

Poppy laps up her tea. “Was that it? Love at first sight?”

Mr. Good pulls a cigarette and lights it, letting his tea rest. “Of course not. I had to prove my worth! I requested to take her out for a meal, on my find, but she smugly reminded me that she and her milkweed were very exclusive. To profess my commitment to a very picky eater, I did what most grasshoppers would not do, and I took a bite of her milkweed.”

Startled, Poppy’s eyes widen, and she jolts backward. “Isn’t that poisonous?”

“I would have thought so too, but some grasshoppers have a special gene.”

“How did you know you had it?”

“I didn’t know, but I took a chance. I’d like to think she was very impressed.”

“Why would you risk your life?” 

Mr. Good takes a long drag. “My life is so silly and small in the grand scheme; I knew I would be lucky to feel something so big. Besides, she could have shied away from me for being a predator, but she completely ignored the chain of command. It wasn’t direct but a bold initiative nonetheless.” Poppy winces at the smoke. “We fell madly in love, but I won’t recount the days. Just know, we eventually reached a crossroads.”

The two take big gulps of tea. 

“What happened?” Poppy asks. 

“Well I was undergoing my final molt and beginning to settle into my adult wings, and it was time for her to cocoon.”

“Did it end there?”

“No, we made a promise. We were both very excited to have wings, so we parted ways temporarily. I tended to her cocoon, and watched her from a close distance, warding off potential predators with riddles and obscenities. For several days, I could feel life stirring inside the cocoon.”

Poppy dips her paw into the bowl, swirling around the light brown liquid. She licks it clean, then she buries her nose in her sunflower pocketbook and tugs out a few stubborn strands of hay. She nibbles and crunches. 

“You have a lot of patience.”

“Let’s not rush, rabbit. One day, I faltered. Upon hearing my fellow grasshoppers put out their first mating calls, I began to feel very disconnected from the cocoon. I grew exceptionally worried. Plagued by thoughts of death, the stress began to weigh on me of ensuring she was well-fed, watched, and cared for. I lost sight of the other side. What if our wings looked too different? I fixated on many things.” 

Mr. Good taps his cigarette before taking another drag. “It’s strange reflecting upon it now because from the start, as you mentioned, I always knew we were different. But at this moment, it really bothered me. I panicked. Paralyzed by my apprehension, I began to eat less, move less, until I ultimately gave up. I knew her metamorphosis would likely push us apart if I sought it through to the end.” Mr. Good hangs his head. “I chatted to her outside the cocoon, informing her of my decision to go. Her chrysalis dropped to the ground in the following moment, but I couldn’t bear to watch. I couldn’t bear to pick her up. I couldn’t bear to let her beg. I had to go.” 

Poppy holds very still.

“We didn’t speak afterwards,” Mr. Good quietly admits. “And I didn’t know if she would ever become a monarch.” His countenance softens. “Until I saw her that July soar past my humble leaf.”

“Did you chirp out to her? Did you show her your wings?” Poppy quizzes.

“No.”

“Do you regret it?”

“I think we both lived in regret over my decision. It’s something I only know now. She was very beautiful.” Mr. Good ashes out his cigarette on the kettle. 

Poppy hops excitedly, “So are you telling me to find my groundhog?”

Mr. Good hops down from the table, gracefully landing in the soil of a nearby potted plant until he’s level with Poppy. He tilts his head. “What would you wish to say?”

“I would think up anything just to see him again. Help me do so!”

Mr. Good shakes his head. “As the days pass, the more you will have to say. It will never feel like the last word.”

“Sometimes I worry I will wonder about him for the rest of my life.”

Frowning with indignation, Mr. Good snaps, “Nonsense! He will be in a peaceful slumber and will likely not be returning your sentiments.”

“Mr. Good, I just need you to tell me what’s right,” Poppy pleads.

“There is no wrong or right. But one of you made the decision to burrow and not invite the other.”

“I don’t understand.” Poppy finishes her tea.

Mr. Good fishes a tiny leather book from his satchel, the cover sparkling with a glittery tree illustration. Plopped beside Poppy, it swells to three times its size. “Poppy, I would love to give you this journal as a parting gift. Rage like a rabbit; weep under willows. In five months time, it can be for you to decide if your ramblings are water under the bridge or truly unfinished business. Sadly I’ll be long gone by then but on the edge of my leaf somewhere extraordinary.” Mr. Good conjures a new hat seemingly out of thin air, a burgundy beret, before securing his satchel with practiced hands.

“Please, before you go, why didn’t you tell the monarch you loved her?”

“I didn’t know it at the time. Perhaps I was incapable for a while. Perhaps I didn’t love her the way she deserved. But grasshoppers live moving forward.”

“Well, that’s rather sad.” Poppy sinks into the floor, pawing through the fresh journal pages. 

Mr. Good rubs his hind legs together. “I suppose I may not have done the best job in telling this tale.”

“It’s a fine tale, but what I have gathered is that we don’t think what we feel, and we don’t say what we do.” Poppy storms off in three hops. “I’m all mixed up these days!” She eventually bounds back. “Mr. Good, do you see a rabbit and a groundhog making it work?”

“Poppy, let my presence assure you that you are highly favored. Your life is long, lucky, and groundhogs only do so well in enclosures,” Mr. Good says earnestly.

Poppy gazes into the empty tea bowl, catching a distorted glimpse of herself. “Thank you, Mr. Good. I find you awfully confusing, but I feel a bit better now.” 

She lifts her gaze, but Mr. Good has vanished into drifting dandelion seeds, wistful as they float. In complete darkness now, Poppy lets out a thin cry. In that quiet, she is swallowed by both the ache of goodbye and the inevitable certainty that change is near.