Wax lips, Pixie Stix & Zots
Even though my daughters stand over 5’9” they have both been Chunky Little Princesses more than once in their lives. They really had no choice in the matter. If they wanted the candy – they had to put on the snow suit. I don’t know whose idea it was to celebrate Halloween on the last day in October, but in the northern climes hypothermia sets in pretty quickly when you dress up as Michael Phelps and we tend to see more werewolves and Sasquatches than cheerleaders and belly dancers on All Hallows Eve.
Halloween always began with pleadings and tears and ended with our kids begging us not have to wear coats or snow suits with their costumes. But there was no way on this frozen planet that we were going to let the girls traipse through the streets in nothing but a Little Mermaid costume in the middle of winter begging for candy door to door. So every Halloween, starting when they were old enough to have an opinion, we would put them in their snow suits and then pour them, kicking and screaming, into their Littlest Princess dresses, instantly transforming them from cute little Disney princesses into Japanese nuclear accident versions that might date Ultraman.
People would open the door and my girls would yell trick-or-treat and the people would look at them and say, “Oh, what cute little sumo wrestlers.” The girls would quickly say “princesses!” and then turn their sour faces to Kelly and me as if to say, “I told you so,” and then try to stomp in exasperation, but not be able to because they couldn’t lift their legs high enough in their snow boots.
My boys fared no better when it came to Halloween. For three years in a row Kelly dressed them in the cutest little clown outfits you have ever seen (outfits big enough to fit over winter coats mind you), with little clown hats and little red noses. Of course, she had made these costumes and love, love, loved to see the boys all dressed up. She might even have pinched their cheeks more than once.
This mockery of all that is decent came to an early demise the moment Wesley, who was just at the age of cognitive reasoning, saw his best friend dressed as an Army man. Christian was too busy stuffing M&Ms and Tootsie Rolls into his face as fast as he could to care, but the indignation that lit Wesley’s face when he realized exactly what his mother had been putting him through all these years could have been cut with a Ka-Bar fighting knife. The rest of the evening he was the spitting image of the clown from IT.
The next year when she tried coax him into the clown costume, no amount of money or promises of a new puppy could get him into the clown spirit. He dug his heels in and flatly refused, going boneless as she tried to force his body into the suit. I finally had to step in with the camo face paint and a black headband to make things right.
I used to love Halloween when I was a kid and considered it the third high holy day of the year, with Christmas and my own birthday being the first and second. There was some debate amongst my friends as to whether Easter should be considered the third of the trivium, but only amongst those who got presents on Easter and weren’t required to eat a hard boiled egg (my mom used all kinds of tactics to get rid of the six dozen she had made and hid for me) each time you wanted to have a piece of candy.
Since my mom was an excellent seamstress she always made my costumes and they were always amazingly awesome and authentic. Being from Alaska, I’m not sure I should have liked getting dressed up so much, but I loved it and especially the accolades I received from my mom when I put her costumes on. Oh vanity, vanity. You played me false.
One special year she made me a cape out of black velvet and red silk (so my skin wouldn’t chafe) and bought me a pair of black knit pants. It was a phenomenal costume and made me feel more like Dracula probably than Dracula himself. I ran around the house, raising myself high on my toes and stretching my arms out like a gangly, oversized, slightly flaccid bat and then pretended to pounce on the unsuspecting living, making them the unsuspecting living dead. I slunk around with the cape pulled up to my eyes and darted furtively from corner to corner looking for my next victim. This is normal imagination for a boy of six. I was 13.
My mother was too busy pretending to be scared of her little “Dracula” to stop long enough to consider that maybe my actions weren’t appropriate for a boy my age. Why she didn’t slap me upside the head and give me the what-for is beyond me, but since she made the costume, I’m sure she didn’t want to see it go to waste.
Had my dad seen me he would have gone into an apoplectic fit, with the vein in his eye bursting again, giving him that deranged and demented look like the time my sister had used her curling iron to give my hair some bounce. “You look like a girl for God’s sake!” he bellowed as he made me wash out my greasy locks (I think I only showered once a week back then). I’m sure he would have been beside himself if he had seen me, but he was either at work or at one of the many different lodges (Moose, Elks, Masonic) or starting a fight with someone.
By the time it was dark I was dressed for action. My face was a pasty, powdery white, a slightly whiter shade than normal and I had lipstick blood dripping from both corners of my mouth. My hair was slicked back revealing a hairline that most adult men would have hidden underneath a comb-over and when the plastic vampire teeth were inserted, I was the spitting image of a 13 year old trying to pretend he was Dracula. Awesome or awful is probably a matter of opinion, but in my mind I was pretty awesome.
“Just one more house” had been my mantra with Butchie, my best friend at the time, all evening. We had been out for three hours and he had been pushing to head home for the last 30 minutes. But the lure of free candy and the mystery of what I would get next drove me on with a passion that only candy or caffeine can cause. Oh, that I would have listened to him, because that was the night fate decided that is was time for him and me to meet.
The take, up until the blue house, had been magnificent. I had already thrown the apples and popcorn balls deep into the woods (my dad wouldn’t have let me eat them anyway because the apples always had razor blades in them and all popcorn balls had been laced with dope by the hippies), but my bag was still crammed full with countless gigantic, medium and small sized candy bars and the sheer number of wax lips and wax straws I had in the bag would keep me busy for weeks. The sorting that evening was going to be epic.
I can remember with absolute clarity walking through the gate of the white picket fence and the feel of the wood on my knuckles as I knocked on the door of the blue house. It slid open silently; the soft yellow glow of shaded lamps and muffled chatter met me as it did.
It’s cliché to say that time seemed to slow down, but time seemed to slow down. It was like a small hole in the continuum of my happiness had been sliced open and my soul was slowly being sucked out of it. My voice sounded odd and distant and slow and vaguely not mine, like I was shouting through a pool of thick molasses as I delivered my standard line of “trick-or-treat” in my best Transylvanian accent. The word “treat” trailed away as if my lungs had just collapsed and didn’t have enough air to finish the word.
I stood, naked to the world, so to speak, as I realized that the room was full of my 8th grade classmates having an actual party. Every single one of their eyes locked onto mine and the room became still and silent. I realized in that moment that not one of them had a costume on, but I did. I knew without having to be told that they were “in” and I was the teenager, three years away from driving, five years away from being an adult, standing in the doorway dressed in a Dracula costume that my mom had made.
It was like the dawn of morning had found Dracula standing in a field and he and I were shriveling into dust and being blown away on the wind. The punch to my heart was palpable. I was drowning in an unfamiliar sea and had to run, but couldn’t. I was frozen. I saw the shock on their faces and then the joy, as if their lives had somehow just been made complete. The room erupted like a giant burp of laughter being belched simultaneously from every gaping mouth.
Mercifully, the hole in the time continuum chose to snap shut at that moment and my legs instantly came to life on their own. I bolted from the house (leaving Butchie to his own fate) with the roar of their laughter pulsating into the darkness as I ran.
As I sat on the beanbag in my closet late that night with waxed lips firmly clenched between my teeth, a candy bar in one hand, and a cherry Zot nestled into my cheek, I wondered if it was all worth it. I smiled a little and thought that it probably was, but I made a mental note to stay away from the blue house next year.