November 1 , 2001

Halloween was a bust. My evil candy plan failed miserably. First off, I didn't foresee the level of stress that on-the-spot costume appraisal would induce. Second, only about dozen kids came by all night. And they all had on costumes, completely negating the whole point of my plot.

The first kid was dressed as a mermaid; the second, a turtle: pretty good. Neither was standout, but I had nothing to compare, so I gave them both good candy. After all, what if they were the best costumes all night?

As soon as I closed the door, I started to berate myself. The whole point was to reward only the crème de la crème, and here I was giving boxes of Tiny Tarts and Gobstoppers to a mermaid and a turtle. The mermaid was obliviously young, but the bespectacled turtle's appreciative "Wow! That's really big!" justified the use of good candy. Still, I began to get a creeping feeling that my plan was flawed.

The next two trick-or-treaters were a bumblebee and cat: both got good candy, but I felt awful about it. I was weak; I had caved. The bumblebee was most likely a hand-me-down and a cat is one of those 5-minute costumes anyone with eyeliner and a leotard can whip up. By the time the next batch rolled around, I was determined to be strong, calculating and judicious.

But I hadn't anticipated what large group it would be. Faced with so many, I panicked and stuffed a fistful of crap into each bag, avoiding eye contact and backing away into the house. It reminded me of when my mom and I got mobbed in Russia because we had candy and balloons. Suddenly we were claustrophobically surrounded by a greedy rabble of tiny hands and faces. My mom had started laughing nervously, and before I knew it, she was throwing handfuls of balloons and sprinting back to the boat.

There were 8 or 10 of them altogether, each nicely costumed, and each punished for their unlucky timing.

To make matters worse, this group was accompanied by enthusiastic parents who greeted them with an excited "Whadja get?!" when they scuttled back down the sidewalk. Why hadn't I given them the good candy? They were all in the spirit. They all had good costumes.

One little boy was wearing something I couldn't quite identify--it looked like pajamas with a tool belt and a funny hat--perplexing, to be sure--but inventive. Otherwise, all the costumes were classics: vampire, gypsy, cheerleader, Superman, another bumblebee and another cat (both better than the first lot), and so on.

They were all old enough to appreciate the magnanimity of my excellent candy, but not so old they had to act blasé. In addition to plenty of wows and enthusiastic thanks, I would have been doubly rewarded by their gleeful reports to their parents. I could have expected a friendly wave and a cheerful "Happy Halloween!" shouted from an approving mom in the street. Instead, the only response I heard was "I don't know. It's gum, I think. More gum."

I could have been a hero, but instead I was some disheveled, barefoot old maid with a ratty, lopsided ponytail and rotten candy, nervously cramming her stale, ugly goodies into their hopeful pillowcases and pumpkin-shaped bags.

I toyed with the idea of running after them with the hidden bowl of good candy, shouting "Just kidding! It was a trick! Wait! I've got great candy! See? Come back! Come back!" I envisioned the parents shielding their kids from the lunatic, shouting "Run!" over their shoulders to the kids as they stood their ground, brandishing flashlights.

Those were the last trick-or-treaters I got.

Anyway, I'm cured of my Halloween bah-humbugism. But maybe I'll hang on to the crappy stuff as well, just in case. I'm certainly not going to eat it, but it seemed to ward off the uncostumed delinquents. Maybe they can smell out year-old taffy like a vampire smells garlic.

The whole thing was way too stressful. Next year, I'm back to Kit-Kats and Crunch bars.

10.12.01