when he grows up he'll be a chocolatier, he supposes. yes, a chocolatier. what dim light holds money compared with the brilliance of cocoa's richness? many times he traded a crisp dollar bill to the cashier, for a Hershey's bar — the cashier, he knew, had drawn the shorter straw. he could not understand big people in their big buildings with their big cups of coffee, aching with bitterness all day long. what they needed, after all, was a bar of chocolate. what do you like to do? they'd ask him, those big bitter people. sometimes he wondered the same thing — what did they like to do? did they like to sit at their big desks and hope for bigger checks, someday? he knew what he liked to do. “i like to make people happy,” he told them, “and i like to eat chocolate.” they laughed at him, sometimes. he didn't think it was funny, but he liked to see them smile. "would you like some chocolate?" he'd ask. they would look confused, almost like they weren't sure he was talking to them. they said sure, they wouldn't mind some chocolate, and he would give those big people a little piece of chocolate. but their eyes would ask him what their mouths would not: why? he was practicing, he said, to be a chocolatier.