Trick-or-treating stopped once junior high began. My sister and I got wise to our father’s game.
“You know, Halloween is a dangerous time,” he said after dinner while zipping up his jacket and putting on his shoes. My sister and I looked at each other in our ridiculous costumes, pillowcases in hand.
“A few years back, a couple kids ate some razor blades hidden in some candy.”
He opened the door for us.
“They died painful, screaming deaths. So before we let you kids en- joy your candy, I’m going to have to check to make sure everything’s safe.”
“How great is Dad? So thoughtful, so caring,” I thought to myself.
We walked around the neighborhood, avoiding houses without any lights on. When people answered their doors, they complimented our costumes and told my father how well behaved we were. “Who were these monsters?” I asked myself. Sure, the Smiths and Greens seemed nice enough every other day of the year, but maybe it was all just a clever ruse, a means to secure our trust. Then, after I swallowed all those sharp objects, slowly dying in the hospital, they could mercilessly watch and laugh at my pain.
“Remember when you dented my car with your baseball? This is payback, kid!” They’d give each other high-fives, the only way to celebrate children’s pain in the ‘90s.
When we got home, I locked the door behind us, dumped the candy out on the floor and paced around the living room while my parents “checked for poison.” Of course, all they actually did was choose their favorite candies and pocket them.
“Yup, these M&M’s look suspicious. And someone’s definitely tampered with this Snickers bar. Anyway kids, enjoy your pennies and pretzel sticks. I know the cat likes those lime suckers they give at the doctor’s office, if you’re not interested in them.”
At the age of 10, I was more than ready to quit the trick-or-treat game for good. Eventually, a young man finds the whole, ‘everyone give me attention for no good reason’ thing tiring. I’ve found that girls don’t
have this gene. They still dress up for Halloween (no complaints) and give everyone they know real-time updates on the status of their upcoming birth- days. I’ve never once heard a man say, “Just 12 more days until my birth- day!” He’d get jumped by his friends and then thank them for it. There’s nothing special about your birthday. Every single person ever also has a birthday. It’s literally the most com- mon aspect of living beings on this planet and therefore nothing worth celebrating.
Halloween’s the worst because it’s like celebrating a bunch of birthdays on the same night. I’m expected to give everyone’s kid a gift because they walked to my door in an unusual out- fit. Any other day of the year and I’d be arrested for doing so.
Nowadays, I live in a neighborhood with a decent trick-or-treater popula- tion. But as a single guy with little income, I think I should be allowed to opt out. I really don’t care what your adorable child decided to dress as or their looks of disappointment when I give them a single Jolly Rancher. It’s not my job to disappoint your children. That’s your job, and you’ll do it well when they become teenagers.
So what do I do to avoid the crip- pling shame brought about by our interaction? Put out an empty bowl on the porch with a sign that reads, “Please take ONE” in large, black print to indicate how serious I am about the policy. Of course, the bowl starts out empty from the very begin- ning because I never fill it. What’s the use? Some kid will end up taking all of it. Why not disappoint that kid as well?
Occasionally I get the brave tod- dler who rings the bell, either igno- rant to the bowl’s intended message or terrifyingly aware and suspicious of my inability to fulfill my side of our society’s agreed-upon bargain.
I do what any self-respecting, mid- twenties bachelor does: skillfully duck behind the couch after muting the television. Eventually, the kid leaves and I go back to my solitude, waiting for my microwave TV dinner to cool down while congratulating myself for duping a 3-year-old out of a piece of candy.
Don’t worry, I’m fully aware of karma. That’s why—before eating the brownie tucked-into the black plastic tray, I check for blades or fingers. You never know what kind of cynical weirdos are out there. It’s scary to think about who that person is. Probably someone who justifies his misinterpretations of the world to an audience forced to read his opin- ion in a public forum, say in a col- umn on the back of some newspaper. Poor guy. Whatever you do, don’t knock on his door. He won’t answer.
