Halloween is Hell

Halloween is here again, and I pray for a swarm of locusts to keep us indoors. I dread this day, remembering the evils Halloween visited upon me as a child. Once I became an adult, I thought I could ignore it, but as a parent, I realize Halloween is relentless, spreading its misery around like a sugar-crazed trick-or-treater flinging razor-filled apples into the crowd.

I’ve warned my kids about the horrors of Halloween, but they’ve had none of it. “Kids will beat you up!” I’d say as my son pried JuJu Bees from his molars. “They’ll all laugh and point at you,” I’d scream as my daughter lobbed Sweet Tarts into her brother’s mouth. “You’ll wet your pants, and they’ll make you dress like a savage,” I’d cry, and that’s when they’d walk out to check on the status of their outfits.

My earliest memory of Halloween didn’t have much to do with the actual holiday – it had more to do with the costume. From the first day of preschool, I learned to fear costumes. For tucked away in a back room sat the Costume Box! My classmates and I dreaded fingerpainting days and mudpie meetings, knowing the slightest spill or smudge meant a teacher-supervised trip to the back room for a set of clean clothes. Instead of the standard fare of Toughskins, jumpers and hand-me-down tee shirts, we’d be dressed in a selection from the Costume Box. It was filled with princesses, knights, sailors, nurses, pilots, dancers and cowboys. Every day an unlucky classmate would make a mess and be dragged into the back room, only to emerge minutes later, transformed into a mini member of the Village People.

My day of reckoning came one morning after spending so much time worrying about staying clean that I forgot to make it to the bathroom. I burst into tears, not so much from poor bladder control – more from the truth awaiting me in the Costume Box. As my teachers hustled me off, I lobbied hard for the construction worker outfit, thinking the tool belt would distract the kids from noticing I wasn’t wearing any underpants. But no! They had crueler designs – buckskin Indian chaps and an elk-bone chest plate, and I’m sure they contemplated war paint but figured my tears would make it run. I spent the rest of the day alternating between making a wigwam out of crayons and hiding from the kid in the General Custer outfit. I knew then I didn’t want any costumes in my future.

My first real Halloween experience took place in kindergarten. My mom coaxed me into wearing a dime-store devil costume, a non-breathable vinyl coat and a mask of the Lord of Darkness himself, complete with two tiny red horns that lit up at the press of a button. As I approached the school bus on Halloween morning, the entire busload of kids ran to the windows and laughed. I panicked, pressing the button and lighting up my horns again and again and again, prompting louder laughs, making me cry and run back home, a pint-sized Lucifer humbled in front of his minions.

So traumatized was I by the wholesale Rejection of Satan that I avoided Halloween completely until sixth grade when my friends and I fixated on the laziest Halloween costume next to the “eyes-cut-out-of-a-sheet-ghost” look – the Bum. The Bum, or Classic American Hobo consisted of a ratty sweatshirt, tattered pants, and an old bowler or stained sunbonnet. We’d take a cork, burn the end and smear our faces, just enough for a cartoonish five o’clock shadow. We were aiming for the rail yard tramp of yesteryear look but ended up like a squad of midget Emmett Kellys, wandering from door to door in search of the perfect popcorn ball.

Armed only with our charcoal-smudged faces and pillowcases, we spent the night bartering and cajoling for candy from every house in town. After a few hours, we struggled down the street, our bags bulging with booty. If there’s an easier mark out there than a pack of pre-teen bums wandering down the poorly lit street, lugging pounds of candy and fruit, I’d like to see it. With three blocks to go before home, a pack of kids jumped us. I don’t remember much except getting hit and tossed to the ground. As I rolled over, a girl a few years older than me was on top, slapping me back and forth across the head, knocking my derby aside, screaming, “Give it up, little boy! Give it up!” I did what any pudgy twelve-year old holding $35 worth of stale sweets would do – I took my lumps and held onto that bag for dear life. My assailant eventually grew tired of thumping me and gave up, running off with her cohorts into the night. I sat up and smiled, thinking we’d won, only to find that my fellow bums had surrendered their loot at the first sign of trouble. Despite being the last tramp standing, I couldn’t decide which was more painful – getting my butt thoroughly kicked by an 8th grade girl or having to share my candy.

As a parent, I’ve confronted Halloween head-on in hopes that my distaste would discourage my kids from participating. But I’ve had no luck. Many times my wife and I have listened to our son’s sermons on the curative powers of nougat, and there’s nothing like finding Kit Kat wrappers under your daughter’s pillows in early February.

But I’ve refuse to share in their love of Halloween. The sad truth is that I resent Halloween – the happy faces, the confident choosing of costumes, the careless disregard for dental hygiene. And I have a way to go before I can put this nightmare to rest. I see no end to the costume parades, the endless stream of wrappers, and the ringing doorbells. But one day, who knows when, I’ll be rid of Halloween, and my world will be a better place. And at that point, I’ll buy my own candy.