Halloween just doesn’t seem to have the aura of mischief, vandalism, destruction of personal property and the chemical removal of body hair that it did when I was younger. The costumed revelers (or customers as Jack calls them) that rang our doorbell last night all seemed so polite, so pleasant, so …. I don’t know, within the boundaries of respectable conduct. Not so much as a single sing-song directive to breathe in the aromatic scent of they’re collective feet only to then be required to provide them with some form of pleasurable sustenance.
Was my generation the last to view Halloween as a night of acceptable social disobedience and moral insubordination? We took our responsibility as juvenile delinquents very seriously. Hell, we didn’t just carry cans of Barbasol Shaving Cream tricked out with aerosol caps swiped from our father’s cans of WD-40, we also carried hot towels and bottles of Old Spice.
We didn’t just carry water guns filled with diluted Nair, we carried waxing strips and even once performed a Brazilian with a glow stick, a Sugar Daddy and a shredded pillowcase.
We didn’t just carry eggs left out in the sun for a week; we carried omelet pans, cheese, scallions and even Egg Beaters for victims on a low cholesterol diet.
We didn’t just carry toilet paper soaked in food coloring and sour milk; we carried Handi-wipes, baby wipes, sanitary napkins, Pampers, Depends, and a portable bidet (the kind you find in a second hand store) for Jean-Luc the foreign exchange student from France.
We were artisans of anarchy and we reveled in the damage, trimmed sideburns, bikini lines, Moons Over My-Hammy and personal hygiene we left in our wake.
Trick or Treating with Captain Jack last night, watching him run respectfully from one doorway to the next with his friends I kept waiting for a horde of ne’er-do-wells to leap from behind a shrub and pelt me with brunch while they prepared me for bathing suit season; the way I would have when I was younger. The way kids used to act on Halloween, but the attack never came.
“That’s OK. If you want something done right….” I thought as I eyed an approaching group of fifth graders.
Somewhere my father held a useless can of spray lubricant. Somewhere a chill went down Jean-Luc’s spine. Somewhere a dog barked.
Breakfast is served.