It was cold--unseasonably cold--that Halloween. But when you're six, cold, rain, sleet, hail, tsunamis--nothing hinders your quest for candy. And so, I--as Batman--was going to brave the elements and tackle the Clover Hill. Now, it's important to preface this: I did not have a good Batman costume. I had the costume that clearly indicates Mom or Dad forgot about Halloween, rushed to the store, and picked up whatever they could find at McCrory's (like Wal-Mart with more bare wall space and less mart). It was the plastic apron style costume, replete with permanent folds caused by years--yes, years--of waiting on a store rack to be gobbled up by parents who forgot about Halloween and didn't have the time to find their six-year old a decent Halloween costume. Yes, this is the same costume whose mask combines the elements of a razor sharp perimeter edge, dime-sized mouth hole, and a surface area to snugly fit an infant. Well-designed.
But candy distribution has never been dependent on costume quality. So Batman was going to find tricks and treats on this cold--and let me reiterate, cold--night. This detail remains clear. My dad asked if I needed help putting on my costume. Perhaps it was because I thought if this hideous costume was my dad's idea of help, I didn't want any more or perhaps it was because Robin never helped the real Batman with his own costume, I refused Dad's assistance. I put on the discount costume, even though that meant a challenging behind the back knot tie, found a pillowcase, and began my quest. Because my dad was not (and is still not, I'm sure) a fan of frostbite, he chose to drive me (and my non-trick-or treating brothers) around the neighborhood. (My brothers either were too cool to trick or treat or knew that, by force, they would have my candy--so they were spectators.) We started up Penn Avenue in the old (a redundant descriptor if you know my dad's cars) white Dodge, where I found treats from the kind sixty-something neighbors. By the time we were at the Spears's house, the car was rocking with laughter--not giggling, but full-belly laughter. "What, what are you guys laughing at," I squeaked through the dime-sized mouth-hole. No response, just laughter. Another house; same laughter on the return. After another plea for explanation, it was this point that my brother Mike told me this very important lesson that stays with me to this day: When you have one of those cheap plastic-apron costumes that are open in back, you are supposed to wear pants. That's right. I was pants-less.
My dad is a good dad, a sensible man. But to this day, I cannot understand the ensuing action: we kept trick-or-treating. Candy trumps humiliation apparently. I would have thought--and think--the sensible course of action would be to go back home (a quarter of a mile away) and get the poor kid some pants. No, press on, sugar-seeking lad, press on. So the routine continued. I walked the sidewalk, rang the bell, received a treat, turned, walked back to the laughter-filled car while giving back a bit of a treat to my neighbors: a view of my size 6, Fruit of the Loom tightie-whities. A thin layer of cotton and a cheap, plastic apron were my only lines of defense on that cold Halloween night.
The memory still brings back chills.
