You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The day after Halloween.
I’m wearing a Rasta Wig and long black dreads. I am wearing sunglasses and it is dark.
The weather is warm and breezy. Our neighborhood is celebrating Halloween tonight, November 1st, because October 31st was a disaster.
Winds blew and limbs came down and electricity pulsed through a soggy sky. Kids walking in costumes carrying plastic pumpkins would have made as much sense as playing electric guitar in the shower.
Halloween is one of the Holy Trinity of holidays. To miss it is simply unimaginable. That would be like waking up Christmas morning and finding dog poo in your stocking. It’s just wrong. So when October 31st blew away, my neighborhood association implemented a mandatory candy dissemination notice for the day after.
And because it is an important date on the calendar, I have a cocktail glass full of Maker’s Mark.
My door bell is ringing with an onslaught of children dressed like fairy princesses and home made versions of death incarnate.
The streets are pulsing with parents holding red solo cups while Kids race around with pillow cases full of treats.
It’s Friday night. Staying home on a Friday night is usually the sign you’re a loser. To offset that thought, Tonight, I’ve decided to dress up.
A Hawaiian shirt and rasta dreads and Jamacian skull cap and dark glasses. Add a little booze to the mix and hold on to your ass everyone.
I consider chewing glass, but figure those days are long gone.
Each time the door bell rings, I pull open the door quickly for effect.
I am not scary, but I do look a little rough around the edges. I’m like sand paper on your tongue.
The older kids laugh.
“Cool costume Mr.”
But the little kids, they get a little nervous.
One tiny tyke turns to the sidewalk for reassurance.
She eye balls the figures in the darkness with concern as if to say “Is this long haired Rasta Man safe mommy?”
“Say Trick or Treat,” a maternal voice implores from the sidewalk.
The air is warm, the breeze is pleasant, my dreads are flowing slightly and I feel like a pirate without a peg leg. For a November 1st, you couldn’t ask for much more.
“Arrgh. anybody got a parrot?” I growl at a group of passer byes.
I’m armed to the teeth with whisky and 10 pounds of Skittles. I am mentally deranged, and hopped up on sugar. It is a bad combination that four out of five dentists would not recommend.
The door bell rings. I barely hear it. The reggae music is blaring through the house.
I dream of a moon over a calm ocean. All I see is an oven mitt and paper towels.
More Makers Mark I say to myself.
Ding Dong.
I pull open the door.
3 children stare at me.
Their eyes implore me to drop candy in their buckets.
I wait for them to say Trick or Treat.
Nothing.
It’s as if a trio of mute zombies is standing on the door step.
Do parents not coach their children how to beg anymore?
I drop candy in their mute little bags.
Suddenly, I am hungry. I have nothing in my fridge but eggs. I have nothing on my counter but a bucket of skittles.
I love eggs.
A skittles omelette?
I imagine if I set the heat high enough, skittles would melt into the egg in a rainbow-colored swirl.
I’d eat it. I will eat it.
Suddenly this bad idea is interrupted.
Ding Dong.
A tiny vampire apparently is begging for something tasty. Blood? Skittles? I no longer care.
I think about giving out shots of whisky.
Call the Department of Children Services. See if I care.
Ding Dong.
I take my time.
I take a swig of the sweet stuff.
I go to the door.
the beggers are gone.
I’ll get the next one. I promise.
The island fever has gripped me. My yellow walls are soothing like a banana coated sun set.
The Whisky is a warm breeze and the skittles are my rainbow on a Friday night full of unpredictable behavior.
I’m standing in my kitchen. Can I be cited for drinking while trick or treating. DWTOT?
Ding Dong.
“Candy’s on the stool,” I holler to the door.
I find myself aimlessly posting to Face Book. A picture of a cat on a toilet. Why is that so funny?
Ding Dong.
I rip open the door.
3 teenage boys are before me. 2 are wearing costumes. One is dressed like a teenager.
An Izod shirt is not a costume, I say.
“I’m a preppy,” he says in a teenage wise ass way.
“you’re a free loader” I respond in my best Rasta Pirate of death.
I eye ball the kid
Trick or treating in street clothes is punk. It shows me no effort and reminds me that this generation is soft.
I am wearing dark sunglasses. I can barely see these kids. I toss my Rasta dreads back. I try and give them attitude. I let the Reggae pouring out of my house spill over their sad demented minds.
“Happy Halloween Mon”
They laugh.
I feel like snarling at them and offering them imaginary joints in a gravely pirate voice.
Instead I push a bowl of candy at them.
I see parents walking by.
“Get a red solo cup old man,” I scream to a neighbor.
“And dress like something other than a guy with a geriatric issue,” I add for good measure.
The teenagers laugh.
“Trick or Treat” they say on a 30 second delay.
The IZOD teenager doesn’t even have a bag. I stuff a handful of candy into his pockets.
“Really. What are you suppose to be?” I ask.
He stares at me blankly. He is a deer being spot lighted by Ted Nugent in a Michigan forest.
“I’m a preppy teenager,” he says with straight face.
“Take your teenager ass and get off my lawn,” I say in a Jamaican accent so thick, I barely understand myself.
The boys laugh and leave.
All in all, about 50 kids come to the door.
I still have plenty of left over candy. I’ll bring it to work and try and kill all my co-workers.
I’ll keep the Makers for myself.
Happy Halloween Mon.
Life’s Crazy™