The Death Of A Cultural Icon
by PSF
The Easter Bunny is dead. On Saint Patrick's Day a gluttonous brown of gigantic proportions mistook the darling for a rather bulbous mouse and swallowed him whole like a tasty hors d'oeuvre. In 30 years of flyrodding I've never seen a fish quite so blood-curdling scary--toothy and bad tempered, a most ferocious predator if there ever was one--it must have been five feet long and weighed at least one hundred pounds. One gulp, a blast of bubbles, and the rabbit disappeared. There'll be a lot of whiny little brats bawling the blues this year, no doubt. As for me, I sort of figure the lousy lagomorph got exactly what he deserved. Been a long while coming, I'd say.
Few people know the Easter Bunny had a proper name (Jack Rabbit) or realize he was a chain-smoking, beer-guzzling fisherman with a prescription drug habit. The holiday thing? Nothing more than a wildly successful hoax, a clever front to cover his real reason for breaking into your house in the middle of the night. Oh, certainly he'd leave enough confections to blacken your children's teeth before sundown, but he'd also steal a fistful of pills from your medicine cabinet on the way out. Even worse, the miserable crook possessed a sticky-pawed affection for classic bamboo.
I learned about Jack's nasty habits in 1979 when I was a sophomore at the Hillbilly Bible Institute in Roadkill, West Virginia. Amy and I lived on campus in a tin can trailer for the sake of convenience and maybe proximity to a beaver pond resting against the northern slope of HBI's wooded property. That Easter, according to custom, the school sponsored a special sunrise service to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. We woke up early, sleepy-walked over to the college chapel and took our seat amongst the worshipers. The preacher spoke of Christ: how he died in the stead of death-deserving sinners, and was buried, and how he rose from the grave on the third day, ascended to his Father in heaven and now lives forevermore to save all who come to him by faith. Afterwards, spiritually invigorated by the sermon, we skipped back to our dumpy mobile home and right into the shock of our lives.
As soon as the door swung open the stench of suffocating sweetness nearly overcame us: chocolate cottontails, thousands upon thousands of them, stood like melting zombies everywhere. Suddenly Amy screamed, "Perry, come to the bathroom. Quickly!" I ran down the hallway, skidded into the john and there, scrawled across the mirror, were these words: "Hope your kid likes the candy. Thanks for the cane, sucker. Signed, Jack D. Rabbit."
How do you tell anyone in a town terrorized by the twentieth century and flush toilets that you've been ripped off by the Easter Bunny? I phoned the cops but the response of a sardonic desk sergeant amounted to, "Mr. Fuller, we've got pluckier chickens to fry besides a basket toting hairball. A fishing pole? Get real."
"But it's a Winston."
"He stole a cigarette, Mr. Fuller?"
"No, no, no . . . a fly rod. He made off with a two thousand dollar fly rod."
"Mr. Fuller, you sound stupid and your speech is slurred. What kind of stuff are you snorting?"
"Nothing, absolutely nothing. But the bunny, he grabbed a ton of muscle relaxants also--medication for a back injury--spilled bunches on the floor."
"Mr. Fuller, let me understand the problem correctly. You're a student, but you lost a stinking stick worth two grand and you possessed more narcotics than Mr. Rabbit could possibly carry? Do you really want us to investigate your situation? I could send a cruiser."
"Uh, forget I ever called, ok?"
"Mr. Fuller, the police are extremely busy. We've got citizens yanking indoor plumbing out of public buildings, psychos bombing dental clinics, plus aliens performing unsolicited veterinary procedures on farm animals. Your local servants of law enforcement are terribly overworked, but not too much to make a friendly visit to your crime scene. I'm pretty positive the boys could find plenty of evidence to establish a conviction if necessary."
"Thanks anyway."
"Mr. Fuller, jailing Jack would be a phenomenally complicated procedure. Frankly, your complaint is a novelty. Without collaborating evidence from several other victims our hands are completely cuffed. Any further questions?"
"Yeah, why do you keep repeating my name?"
"Public relations, Mr. Fuller. New policy: be polite to everybody, even the kooks."
Obviously, justice had to be sought at a different level. I grew a small vegetable garden, fenced the plot with mint condition Grangers and sat in a tree with a shotgun every morning for weeks. Yet, the thief never showed his furry face. Eventually the whole episode faded into past tense and I moved on with life, assuming the Winston was permanently lost.
Fast forward twenty-two years: Amy and I currently reside in PeeCee, Massachusetts (we moved here in 1988) where being a pipe smoker with a passion for Protestant theology, pheasant hunting and trout fishing puts me high on the endangered species list. Embracing the danger, however, I continue unabashedly in the smoky pursuit of fin, feather and sound doctrine.
March 17th traditionally marks the beginning of my annual obsession with the Deerfield River. By contrast, vast hordes of the general populace commemorate the patron saint of parades by excessive consumption of alcohol. Such revelry is a tragic waste of good time and money better spent on the art of angling. No booze for me, if you don't mind. Irish tobacco and a box of olive Woolly Buggers are all I need to remember the hero of Ireland. Thus fortified with a tank full of gas and a bowlful of Erinmore, I drove up to Charlemont last month, consumed with the idea of hammering a particular pool known to harbor broodstock holdovers.
A certain dilapidated bridge must be crossed on the way to my destination. Traffic permitting, it's always worth stopping square in the middle to glance over the rail. If the light is decent you can see clear to the bottom of the hole below, perhaps catching a glimpse of whatever may be haunting the gentle flow. This I did, and the sight I saw shook my soul. There, staggering along the water's edge, was none other than Mr. Jack D. Rabbit himself. I hollered; he waved a single claw, motioning me to join him. Accepting his gracious invitation, I parked my car, pieced together a 5-weight and met him directly under the steel girders.
Piled beneath the rusting span were beer cans by the dozens covered with snow to keep them cool. "Want a drink?" Jack asked.
"Not really."
"More for me, wee, wee, wee."
"You're drunk."
"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Can't catch the fishies, gonna catch the fuzzy wuzzy buzzies. Ho, ho, ho."
"Where's your rod?"
"Dunno. Gimme da Jimmy," he said, referring to the Payne in my left hand.
"You already have a Winston, mine, remember?"
"Nope, nope, nope--traded for dope. Reminds moi. Piggy needs a ciggy. Think I'll light three, hee hee, hee."
"You're not a pig."
"Oh, but I am. Please don't allow me B-O-A-R you, though. Grunt, grunt, grunt."
High in the sky a red-tailed hawk screeched, momentarily interrupting our conversation. Instinctively, Jack thumped, then cowered. The symbiosis between man and animal immediately assumed practical significance; the raptor would become my fall guy. Who could nail me for destroying a cultural icon, especially if I didn't personally do it? When the rabbit quit his frightful shuddering, I softly whispered, "Swishy, swishy, let's go fishy, funny bunny." You might say he hopped at the chance.
"Yonder slab, flat, flat, flat, set me softly on top of that," he said, pointing to a huge level-surfaced boulder in the water. Despite his stuporous condition, the drunken Mr. Rabbit picked the perfect place for latching onto a wall hanger. The granite mound was immense, splitting the current in two, thereby forming an extraordinarily wide pocket in which a huge trout would find true happiness. I put the despicable critter on my shoulders and carefully conveyed him to his chosen spot, conveniently "forgetting" the fly rod.
"Jack, Jack, Jack, I must go back."
"Here, here, here, I'll stay right here."
Once on shore I hid behind a tree to wait for the inevitable. The hawk screeched again, louder, closer, as the soon-to-be victim of raptorial appetite fired expletives in my general direction. The red-tail caught Jack by the neck of his fishing vest and the gravity of the situation became readily apparent after the bird lifted the bunny from his stone plateau. The silly rabbit merely shot his front legs straight up in the air, a trick which allowed him to slip from his vest and drop straight into the river unharmed. I watched, totally aghast, as my nemesis floated towards escape. Perhaps hypothermia would seal his fate and so I prayed, but a better plan was already in progress. From the depths of the Deerfield materialized the biggest brown imaginable. I don't mean a twenty-incher or even a twenty-pounder; I'm talking enormous, as in the size of a small submarine. Large trout love to feed on rodents when the opportunity presents itself and the fish I saw must have thought the bunny was the mother of all mousies. The monster missiled through the surface, arched over and grabbed Jack on the splashdown. Its movements were fluid and flawless, characterized by the consummate finesse of a professional killer. Thoroughly shaken, I wandered around aimlessly until I was able to psychologically and emotionally process the providential drama which had taken place in my very presence. Finally the hilarity broke through and a relentless rush of guffaws flooded the valley. Inspiration, oh glorious inspiration! I had an idea, a brilliant flash of genius. Maybe, just maybe, if I tied a Hare's Ear on a tarpon hook . . .
�copyright 2001, Perry S. Fuller
