October, 1962. I think. Some buddies and I drove over toward Brewster, Tilly Foster maybe, and raided the local radio station and held the disc jockey hostage until he played – over and over and over – Bobby ‘Boris’ Pickett & The Cryptkickers’ big hit. A particular favorite of ours.
The old man used to love Halloween.
Loved it when he was little, then grown too big to trick-or-treat.
Flaming bags of dog poop on the front steps.
Exploding mailboxes. Tipping over cows.
Loved Halloween when he was single and could wear a disguise.
But now, Halloween seemed an ironic celebration of the dead. Not so amusing these days.
The old man noticed his neighbors emphasized the Autumn Harvest decor options.
Real life too ghoulish already. Cornucopia of fruits and vegetables they rarely consume. Faux fall foliage representing northern climes they fled in frigid fear.
The HOA strictly prohibits trick-or-treating.
No candy for anybody different.