Two weeks ago I went shopping with my son for a Halloween costume. For him, not me; in terms of net ghoul gain, it makes no sense to buy one for myself. Tony is 12 and still has a few good years of Trick or Treating left, apparently. His sweet tooth compares to the canine of ancient tigers. And he knows how to stalk and attack sugar-blooded prey, especially chocolate.
For example, when I worked at Microsoft, on Halloween the workers would leave a bowl of candy on a chair outside their office. In the late afternoon, kids of employees went from office to office putting a candy or two into Windows XP tote bags. One year Karina and I found ourselves in my office as evening came and all the kids except ours had left. Tony was off roaming, which was and still is his nature. Then he appeared with a guarded smile, dragging his two-foot-deep tote bag behind him, filled almost to the top with candy. He had made a Sherman-like march through the halls, emptying all remaining candy into his bag. The bag weighed at least 20 pounds and I had trouble carrying it to the car for him. Looking back on the four months that followed, I still ask myself why I did.
Anyway, two weeks ago we went shopping at a store called Spirit of Halloween. This is one of those places that magically sprout in an empty storefront every September and have a lifespan of two months. The store is like a wax museum of famous and legendary faces sprayed with fake blood and cobwebs. If he had a charge card, Tony would shop there all day.
But let me stop a moment here and confess something that never fails to elicit horror: I don’t like Halloween. In fact, I hate it. Yes, oh yes indeed: I hate Halloween. It’s my least favorite holiday of the year by several powers of 10.
I have good reasons. When I was 7 years old half my house burned down on Halloween night. My mother awakened me about 2 a.m. and by then the smoke filled the house almost down to the floor. I had to crawl through two rooms and out the front door boot-camp style. It was a chilly night and I sat shivering in my father’s car as the back of our house went up in a spectacular torch of flame. That was one Halloween.
I lived in a fairly tough blue-collar neighborhood. On Halloween there was always a posse of punks out to get the non-punks, who included me. Their arsenal included eggs and black shoe polish. One year my mother made me a ridiculous pumpkin costume out of hangers and crepe paper. I looked like an orange Michelin Man and had trouble walking, the hangers strafing my thighs. I had no chance at all against the punks; My friends got away but I got pelted. I ran home crying, egg and black streaks on my clothes and face and my costume in shreds. That was another Halloween.
My brother Mike’s birthday was on Halloween. We always could fill the piñata. In 2000 Mike contracted a rare disease and died two weeks later. I think of him the most on Halloween. That’s every Halloween.
Then there’s my deafness. Before I learned sign language I relied almost exclusively on lip-reading to understand what people said. It’s hard to lip-read a mask. Masks don’t sign, either. They just quiver a bit when the wearer yells “Trick or Treat!” and then stare vacantly at you, waiting.
But when our kids came along, I had to get with the program. My kids—like every other kid in the history of the world except me—love Halloween. So I dutifully went around with them when they were small, nodding approval when I wasn’t looking at my watch, smiling and expressing gratitude to the cheery folks who gave treats but doing a silent thumbs-up when a house we passed was dark. Without kids, that house would be mine.
My kids can be quite cute in their costumes, the only part of Halloween I like. Once my daughter was a giant mustard dispenser—voted second-best costume in her class--and last year she was a sexy pirate, which got my vote. My son has been, among other things, a jester, a ghost (for the Microsoft heist), and a vampire without $25 fangs because he lost them before he put on the rest of the costume.
This year my daughter, again living large, will be a giant crayon. She chose green as her color, a clear shot across the bow at global warming, but maybe I’m projecting. My son, meanwhile, exited Spirit of Halloween with a long blond wig and plans to go treatin’ as Lady Gaga. I gave tacit approval--Tony is characteristically brazen and headstrong, and often risqué—but, um, we’ll see.
Where I grew up, a giant green crayon and Lady Gaga on the street at Halloween would constitute open season for punks. But I live in the suburbs now, wholesome, somnolent, and safe. I could probably wear my crepe-paper pumpkin costume here and not raise any eyebrows. Well, maybe not: That costume really sucked.
