Matt Greene

For a majority of our childhoods, my sister and I were raised by a single mother (despite our mother’s shortcomings, being a parent with help is an almost insurmountable task—at least for me—I can’t imagine doing everything all on my own).

We were fed, clothed, housed. While all our material needs were certainly met, there was an unspoken undertone of scarcity in our home (at least, from what I remember…which is, admittedly, somewhat patchy). For an interesting bit of trivia, I remember getting winter coats from the same fire department charity that I later ended up assisting. This assumption of paucity is one I have carried with me through my life. It’s something I desperately wish not to pass on to my own children.

Our mother remarried when I was around thirteen. He was a nice man, and he made our mom happier (perhaps just ‘happy’ would suffice, as ‘happier’ implies a preexisting condition of happiness of which I can not confirm).

Interestingly, he came from a significantly different tax bracket. One thanksgiving, we had qualified for a free turkey for the local grocery store. A little over a year later, we were putting a thirty-foot Christmas tree in front of the fireplace in the living room (not to be confused with the fireplace in the library, or the one in the master bedroom).

Between these two landmarks fell Easter. We were not really religious in any sort of organized sense, but we did seem to celebrate all the sort of socially acceptable holidays. What initially felt like an attempt to curry favor with his new stepchildren eventually revealed itself to be a core feature of my stepfather’s character. He loved to give gifts. It brought him joy.

Easter was no different. The biggest baskets my sister or I had ever seen, without a plastic egg in sight. They were filled with gifts. I think there were books and a video game in mine. And jelly beans. And chocolate, of course. What felt like ‘fancy’ chocolate from the chocolatier in town. 

And, there was a chocolate rabbit. A giant chocolate rabbit, at least a foot tall.

Later in the day, I found myself in my room (my sister and I no longer shared a room, but merely a bathroom…our own, designated just for us). I began to eat the chocolate rabbit.

I started, as is my way, from the ears. The ears and the head, as you no doubt know, are the parts of a standard chocolate rabbit that are solid. The thickest cuts of chocolate, if you will. Once you get to the shoulders, the hollow body can be broken apart to eat as one wishes, shattered into pieces or taken, bite-by-bite.

When I got to the shoulders, already feeling quite sick from what was probably more chocolate than I had ever eaten in my life, I realized that this was no standard chocolate rabbit.

It was solid. The entire thing, from ears to sculpted fluffy toes. I couldn’t imagine what something like that would cost, or how it could be obtained. Even now, decades later, I marvel at it. The thing had to be several pounds of chocolate.

A standard child’s reaction would have been one of glee, I suppose. Overwhelming abundance and excitement. Joy, even.

But I was no more a standard child than this was a standard chocolate rabbit.

I was filled with dread and fear and anxiety. 

I couldn’t eat any more. I couldn’t imagine ever eating chocolate again in that moment. I was terrified. I couldn’t finish it…and I certainly couldn’t throw it out. Someone would surely notice three pounds of bunny-shaped chocolate in the trash, and then what? My new stepfather would be hurt, or offended, or angry that I had so callously discarded this amazing gift (N.b. for some strange psychological reason, it never once occurred to me to save the rest of the rabbit. Not once. Not even a little bit). 

I had to get rid of it.

I can’t explain, even now, why this beheaded chocolate rabbit filled me with such intense dread and fear, but it was the emotional equivalent of a kilo of cocaine for me.

And the DEA was approaching the door.

I thought about hiding it in the woods behind our new house, but the parents were always walking and gardening and spending time out there. Also, we had a lovable and tolerant golden retriever that would certainly find it anywhere on our property; even in my panic, I didn’t want to commit criminally negligent caninicide. 

Dear reader…I am an intelligent and resourceful problem solver. I’m great in emergencies. I give spectacular advice and solid and reliable counsel to other people. I am creative and thoughtful and measured and wise. Unless it comes to myself.

When tasked with solving my own problems? I am a muttonheaded imbecile.

We had amazing water pressure in our new home.

I flushed the rest of the rabbit down the toilet.

It went down without any coaxing or manipulation. It was amazing. At least two pounds of chocolate (probably closer to three) gone in an instant.

I felt immediate and overwhelming relief and immediately thought no more on the matter, save for a brief and arrogant congratulatory moment aimed at my own superior intellect.

Until a week later, when the septic system backed up.

I will never forget hiding in the wood storage next to the fireplace (it was a built-in alcove of brick in the chimney) and watching the backyard as the septic guy and my stepfather struggled to find and unearth the offending clog in our lines.

Likewise frozen in my mind is the sight of the man, waders and elbow gloves, holding aloft the feces-covered headless chocolate corpse. Through the glass, across the distance, I distinctly heard him say the words “chocolate rabbit” in wallowfied incredulity. 

In what was, perhaps, a revealing statement about our new family, there was no investigation or accusation, though the suspect list for this confectionary crime could reasonably be narrowed down to two, at the very least. There was simply a general and heavily subtexted conversation about not flushing anything strange down the toilet.

There were no more chocolate rabbits.