I don't know whether or not fourteen is the drop-off age. My brother stopped when he was about eleven, being far too mature (practically an adult!) for such childish folly.
I've always said that I'd trick-or-treat until I fell over dead, because any day that promotes banging on front doors, demanding your neighbors for candy and them being expected to actually meet those demands is a day I fervently support.
Yes, those "friends" and strangers whose houses you descend upon like wraiths from the dark must grant your sugary desires lest unspecified Tricks rain in a poisonous torrent upon their households.
Ahh, Halloween.
How we adore those nights with our gummy-coated teeth, chocolate-filled stomachs and a nice fire to wash over our bodies so sore from a long evening's haul.
I want to participate, but there comes a point when the old ladies no longer compliment on how cute you look. A time arrives where even the most innocent of teenagers is assumed delinquent purely on the pretense of age. And when you travel in a group, you're most likely a gang of hardened criminals prowling the streets and looking for something-or-other to ambush. It's as though after twelve years of age, a passionate thirst for wrong-doing takes such complete control of your consciousness that, in fact, one can think of nothing else until some felony has been committed. It's like an itch.
The closest thing to criminal action I've ever come to is stealing a Chinese fortune taped onto an old
cash register in the attic of a junky antique store.
Maybe I'll just go to the Wall of Mart and buy a huge pack of mixed chocolate bars and invite a friend or two over for cheesy old horror movies. I can think of worse fates. And anyway, with each of my compadres dropping out of the Trick-or-Treaters Guild like leaves in fall, I may not have any other choice. (Of course, I could always "chauffeur" my little brothers around the neighborhood and collect candy in an extra pumpkin pail for some unspecified bedridden child at home...)
Of course, not every experience I ever had involving Halloween has been positive. There was this haunted corn maze once that traumatized me for months afterwards. In Disneyland, on the trolley leading to the park, there was a child with a wolf mask on that almost sent me into a relapse.
Allow me to clarify.
It was several years ago, and I was a young sapling with nary an anxiety to prick at my swelling balloon of happiness. My friend Cat and I, as every year, were getting together for that glorious day which legalizes blackmail on massive proportion. This year, we somewhat-mutually agreed, we would participate in the haunted corn maze that her school friends were going to. So we donned our matching ponchos in case any fraction of our best-friendship was to be doubted by onlookers and hopped into the car.
When we arrived, and the group of adolescents looked up from their highly-cool conversation in the dark alleyway to glance our direction, my optimism dwindled just a tiny bit. Public schoolers TERRIFIED me. I was educated in their ways. Entirely inerrant sources, too: I'd seen enough television and read as many novels to know not ONE of these children could be trusted.
But no matter. I couldn't be deterred this quickly. I would just cling to Cat like a leech.
We made our way to the corn maze. Wind drifted through the towering labyrinth and shook the dry stalks. Piercing screams rose up from its center, and the rumble of chainsaws whirred from somewhere within its depths.
I was somewhat terrified at this point, but not wishing to admit the extent of my petrification, I bit my lip. To admit fear was the ultimate show of weakness, and I would not be struck down with such ease.
We rode the hay ride to the maze itself, as deathly solemn as if in a hearse. We hopped off, and when we reached the front of the line a bubbly woman dressed as a green witch greeted us and gave us the rundown. She informed us with a tilt of the head and a chipper smile that even though it might seem otherwise, we had to keep in mind the people in the maze were not allowed to touch us.
Any hope I had left shriveled like a raisin. I hardly realized that I was moving as we shuffled on through the Gates of H3ll. (sorry- if I don't spell it that way our accursed web filter bleeps it.)
They would be getting close enough to touch us.
That close.
We walked through, whipping our heads around and hearts throbbing as though rabbits in a trap. Mist curled and slithered. A figure emerged from the fog and limped toward us, back leg dragged pitifully through the trailing dust. Fear held my breaths in a choke hold. It passed us without even granting us notice, the sloppy face paint clearly visible, and I resumed tentative air flow. Maybe I would make it through here alive after all.
The silence that followed was too long, too complete. Twigs snapped and dirt shifted under our trembling steps, but nothing horrible assaulted us.
Until a wolf jumped out from the corn and charged toward us with all intent of mauling our faces and hellflame reeling in its terrible eyes.
I screamed until my throat scraped like sandpaper and it jumped all around us, twisting its awful back and brandishing its awful claws and dancing inches from our skin so we clung to each other as if for our lives. Two more emerged in the distance and loped with predatory grace. Or like highschoolers lumbering clumsily toward us and enjoying their jobs thoroughly too much. At any rate, one of them chased Cat's mother into the corn and didn't even stop the act when she fell over into it, just twisting and writhing and growling in her face as she struggled to stand up.
She got up. We wailed. She strode over to one of those horrible things and demanded it let us go back. It shook its monstrous head, that wretched thing much taller than any of us.
Now, I don't know precisely what that woman said to that wolf, but the profound respect and appreciation I felt at that moment cannot be documented.
We went back. Cat and I pretended we weren't horrified out of our wits.
At the campfire outside I skirted away from a guy in a wolf costume and made sure to keep at least a ten yard distance at all times.
To this day wolf masks unsettle me a bit.
~Elizabeth
P.S.
That fortune cookie mentioned prior granted me a sprinkling of all-elusive inspiration, so here's a short blurb I wrote about it.
Enjoy.Or don't.
I don't care.
#CullmanLiquidation
The Cashier
Brenna, Cashier of the Month for two years running, pushed her overlarge sweater sleeve to the crook of her thin elbow for the twelfth time in five minutes and glided the crackers across the scanner
with a beep. She slid the other items through checkout with the graceful speed of a pianist and the bar codes smoothly ran one after the other. Beep. Beep. Beep. Every night she lay awake, staring at the ceiling with tortured eyes, to that noise resounding against her temple. It was like some kind of horrible tune engraved in her memory.
She sighed and rapped her fingernails against the counter. She grimaced at their chipped paint. She didn’t know why she even bothered painting them. Maybe the romanticism of the name on the tiny glass jar had appealed to her, comparing the speckled dirt shade to "Distant Sands".
“Forty-two dollars and fifteen cents,” she said, smacking her pumpkin pie-flavored gum and flicking her gaze up to meet the customer’s for the first time. The old woman stared at her with watery, incomprehensive eyes for a full ten seconds before slowly reaching for her pocketbook with trembling arms. Brenna breathed a sigh and glanced down at the register, running two fingers tenderly over the Chinese fortune she’d stuck there some year ago now (with clear tape nicked from the office). The ghost of a wistful smile tweaked the corner of her mouth into a halfhearted dimple.
“:) You will be traveling and coming into a fortune. :)”
The old woman finally managed to secure a crumpled fifty-dollar bill between her fingers and lifted it slowly toward the counter. She moved as sluggishly as if a stray breath could collapse her like a set of bowling pins. Brenna shifted her weight to the other foot and bit the inside of her cheek in impatience, but she couldn’t stand it any longer and stretched over the register to grab the bill from her.
She gave the woman her change and bagged the groceries, placing them in a grocery cart and forcing a plastered smile over her face as she repeated the mandatory “Have a nice day” for the twenty-third time that hour. As soon as the woman hobbled away, sputtering along like a dilapidated old car, Brenna sunk back onto the stool and closed her eyes. Someday she’d get out of here.
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