[The recent Easter holiday and collection of haunting family pictures with the Easter bunny that are inevitably posted on social media always reminds me of a time when I was deeply connected to the annual ritual. I was a mall Easter bunny (Yes, the bunny in the picture is ME). For all the joy that we brought, consider that we were sitting in a petri dish (thank goodness this was before COVID) of a costume for hours at a time while managing a variety of guests from scared children to smart-mouthed teens. All for this essay that I now present to you. That’s right. I am but a slave to my audience as I was to those damn mall visitors.]
It’s not very often you see a Jewish kid portraying the symbol for the holiest of Catholic holidays. But that’s what you would have seen had you stopped by the Hanover Mall one Easter season. I couldn’t even tell you anything about the holiday. At one point in my life, I was under the impression that the Biblical story had Jesus coming back as a rabbit.
In my 20s, I had briefly moved back to my parents’ house outside Boston while working as a stand-up comedian. As I was between road trips (my stand-up tours were getting shorter and shorter and spaced longer apart as I realized what a grind it was), I was not earning much income. A substitute teaching gig was all I had sustaining me. And I needed some repairs done to my car -- formerly my grandfather’s Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra (a.k.a. “The Babe Magnet”).
Outside the red line “T” station in Braintree, I picked up a free circular and looked at the job ads. I didn’t want anything too taxing nor anything long term. Lo and behold, there was an ad for an Easter bunny, which was not only seasonal, but part time. Perfect! I’d already stuffed myself into big mascot costumes to amuse the children at a few of my goddaughter’s birthday parties.
On occasions past, I had boldly offered to portray “Blue” from “Blue’s Clues” and Mickey Mouse. And let me tell you, those kids were not kind. I was getting pulled at, poked, examined, a few kids even threw punches; it was all I could do to keep my phony hands on, as I held them for dear life, while their derelict parents just looked on with disinterest. I began to formulate the thought that when I became a parent, I would not allow my children to torture anyone -- except, of course, those parents that allowed it to happen to me.
So being the Easter bunny was going to be a cinch. Aside from the smell of the rabbit’s head and the fact that if one “bunny” got sick, we’d all be getting sick, the job wasn’t that painful (relative to, say, jumping in an octagon to engage in a mixed martial arts tournament). Of course, I felt a little awkward being the only one to get inside the bunny not either in high school or a senior citizen. It caused me to take a serious look at my life up to that point.
My job was simple. Wave to the kids, then when they came to sit with me on my throne atop my lap, just sit there and be quiet. I was already “smiling” so I didn’t have to fake it. It was like being in a bubble where you could zone out for a few hours at a time.
It got pretty boring for the most part. One kid after another, after another, after another. The only excitement came when the parents struggled to put their kids on my lap. I was a GIANT BUNNY, fer crissakes. If I were still a kid, I’d be skeptical too. So there was a lot of squirming, and not only from me underneath the wet children.
I couldn’t see out of my periphery, but only right in front of me. And when parents carried an infant over to me, only to have the infant try to run away once the parents turned their backs, it was clear these children were unable to understand why these people who had been caring for them during their lives up to that point would be sacrificing them to this mutant creature in front of them. It baffled me how I could be the only one realizing the kid was not going to like it. Parents didn’t care.
I had to have my fun to keep myself sane. I am ashamed to admit this (not really), but I would take my pleasure at the hands of the infants. As I was not allowed to speak, I figured that if I spoke and no one told on me, I’d be okay. So I only spoke when infants that were too young to speak themselves were placed upon my lap.
Parents would bring over their very amicable kids, kids who didn’t mind being abandoned on a giant bunny, and they would walk out of earshot. I never saw the kids’ faces, though, one time, I remember hearing one child’s parents describe the scene for me. “Oh, look at Timmy. He’s so happy... That’s a great smile, Timmy. Just keep smiling while we take the picture.”
That’s when I would start yapping. “Hey, how’s it going?... Pretty freaky, a rabbit that talks, huh?... So, what do you want for Christmas, little boy?”
Timmy would turn toward me, and I’d hear his parents say, “No, Timmy, don’t look at him. Look up here.... Where’s that smile you just had?” And I’d laugh and laugh. But Timmy wouldn’t tell on me. No, Timmy was a good accomplice.
I imagine that once he grew up and could speak, Easter would summon up latent memories of the giant talking bunny that continues to haunt him. Though I’m sure his parents were more traumatized by the perplexed child in the picture as opposed to their joyously happy one from a moment earlier.
There was one time I actually thought I was going to be in big trouble. One set of parents brought their panic-stricken infant up to my lap and placed him there, against his will. Now, remember, I could not see in any direction but straight. So what I saw were his parents turning their backs to walk back to behind the camera. At this point, the child, unable to walk or crawl yet, made his best attempt at a prison break. He squirmed as much as he could. I saw none of this (again, a very limited field of vision) and could only reach for the child, grabbing what clothing I could to keep him on my lap.
Well, I grabbed enough to keep him from jackknifing off my lap. But with his efforts and my restrictions, the best I could do was ease him gently onto the floor. (Yeah, I kinda saved his life, thank you very much.) At this point, his parents turned back towards us and saw their child on the floor, crying hysterically.
These irresponsible parents who left their child unattended, atop the lap of a giant rabbit with no peripheral vision and no fingers now thought that their child had fallen, or worse, been pushed. (How would that sound in court?) They were looking to complain to the photographer, my boss, instead of looking at their own mistakes. [LESSON #1: Do not leave squirmy infants on the lap of a giant bunny, unsupervised. LESSON #2: Don’t be a moron. LESSON #3: See Lesson #2.]
Fortunately for me, everyone who was in line or walking by saw the child’s maneuver and I was off the hook. Unfortunately, I was not allowed to speak so I could not tell child services on the parents.
And so what I learned during my time as resurrected Jesus most was that this experience (for the kids) was really only for the parents. Very few kids actually cared to be on my lap. (This may sound a little creepy, but the most fun was when teenagers came to sit on my lap... Okay, that sounds really creepy but I say it because they actually wanted to be there and you could, without speaking, at least have some rapport with them that didn’t include waving mind-numbingly.)
Easter is coming up (within one and 365 days, depending on when you’re reading this essay) and I just want to talk to the parents on this -- “This is NOT for your kids. This is for you. Do you think your one-year old will look back fondly on the day he was thrown onto a man who has willfully shoved himself into a furry suit that has never been dry cleaned and wreaks of a cocktail of body odors smack down in the middle of flu season and be nostalgic? And when he sees the picture (God forbid you’ve put it in a visible spot in the house! The Easter bunny photo should be on the cork board next to the fridge, the one where things tacked to it end up falling between the fridge and oven next to years worth of grapes and noodles), do you expect him to respect you? If he’s not too scarred to start tearing up your marriage photos every time he goes to a petting zoo, then be grateful.
[If you enjoyed this story and would like more, please click HERE to check out my book “Will Beg for Dignity.”]