Halloween is an undeniably ridiculous holiday, at least the way we celebrate it in the U.S. I am reminded of that fact when G and I walk down the main thoroughfare (the day before the 31st) on our way to a Sunday night out.
Minutes into our stroll, a ragged mob of rowdy teenagers roll by on bicycles, each wearing a 99- cent store mask. Disguised, they scream past like banshees on their way to rob a bank. Up ahead a cop car waits in an alley ready to pounce on the troublemakers.
In the gas station parking lot at the corner, two men decked out in Western gear kneel next to a brand new Harley. They’re carefully arranging a trio of vodka bottles in a harness hanging from the saddle of the bike. It’s not clear whether the leather fringe and pointy alligator boots are costumes or everyday dress. The passenger raises an open beer bottle to us as they roar past.
This is the kind of behavior that makes me want to lock my doors and pull down the window shades by sundown on the last day of every October. Give someone a mask and suddenly there’s a hidden identity, a possible alibi, a license for vandalism and mischief. Once the face is hidden, dormant desires however dark come to life, egged on by the gruesome atmosphere branded by Hollywood’s Halloween.
At T-Rex, over a plate of $1 oysters and a few glasses of red, we plan how to barricade the patio so as to avoid the packs of sugar-crazed children and nervous clusters of young parents that we know will be knee-deep on our street by 5 o’clock. We’ll make a sign, “Sorry, out of of candy,” hang it on a piece of string and tape it up across the entrance to the porch. That way we won’t be seen as neighborhood party-poopers; we were up for the fun for a little while, they’ll think.
But on the way home, a beautiful Indian-summer evening, we find a perfect 20-pound pumpkin perched atop a garbage bin, uncarved, blemish -free, just waiting for us. A treat put on our path by some pagan spirit campaigning for observance.
Gary hoists it on his shoulder and we carry it home.
We spend the evening carving and scooping and roasting, something I haven’t done in probably about twenty years. Hands full of pumpkin goop, smell of seeds cooking, candles lit, The Stones through the speakers, a perfectly blissful way to celebrate the night before All Hallows Eve. It all feels far removed from mini-Snickers and Pixy-Stix.
So now that we have this exquisitely carved pumpkin just waiting to adorn our front porch, it seems criminal not to entertain a few handfuls of trick-or-treaters, at least for an hour or two. The next morning we trudge to the nearest Walgreen’s and buy several bags of diabetes-inducing sweets (the ubiquitous mini-Snickers and Pixy-Stix included) and as soon as the afternoon light begins to fade, we seat ourselves down on the patio chairs waiting for the first band of young ones to stop by with their plastic buckets and shopping bags.
5pm, 5:30, 6pm… the cuticle-moon is now bright above and still not one child. Plenty of commuters talking into their cel phones, walking from the BART station to San Pablo, and bikers flying by on their way home from work. But no pint-sized witches or devils or pirates.
What were we thinking? What mother or father in their right mind would venture towards the end of our block for their Halloween fun? We’re four doors down from the intersection of Church’s Chicken and Bingo’s Liquor. And more than half of the doorsteps on our block are dark and uninviting. Everyone below the age of thirteen has been loaded into vehicles and driven to other neighborhoods where the houses are decked out with cotton cobwebs and eerie music blares from loudspeakers pointed out the open windows. That is certainly not our neighborhood.
Suddenly, a voice from across the street yelling, “Are you giving out candy?” In the dusk light we see a young mother pushing a stroller and a tiny figure standing beside her wearing a dark cape and a necklace of neon green.
“Yes!” we scream, simultaneously. “Come on over and get some candy. We have tons!”
They cross the street and the mother waits on the sidewalk while her son walks up the path to our patio steps. I kneel down in front of him, the over-brimming bowl of candy outstretched. He politely takes a few purple jawbreakers and puts them in his nearly empty plastic bag.
“Go ahead, take a few more handfuls,” I whisper. “And make sure to get some mini-Snickers.”
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