Christmas, you get presents. Thanksgiving, you get to indulge yourself. Halloween is that day when you get to be someone else, and that made it my favorite. I’ve been Optimus Prime, John “Hannibal” Smith from the A-Team, and a Ghostbuster named Murphy.
The coolest Halloween experience I ever had was generic Jedi for my seventh Halloween. (“Bow, or whatever, to the adequate might of Jedi Master Temu!”) On the other side of the barrier that separated the older kids was a generic Sith, carrying a red lightsaber to match my yellow one. He came over, and we talked over the fence for a long time. about Star Wars, we talked about what the fifth grade was like, and he wanted to get a better look at my lightsaber. After recess, I never saw him again, but I looked everywhere.
Years later, I wore the world’s worst Halloween costume and drank vodka in lieu of eating something and went to a rock concert and drank a lot of beer and had another jack and coke and said something to That Moby so bad it got me thrown out of the bar and soaked my friend’s couch with vomit.
Once upon a time, when I was much thinner, I’d shave my mustache, throw on a green T-shirt and go as Norville Rogers, with the nom de guerre of Shaggy. I pulled off an amazing Crow, thanks to the incredible makeup skills of my friend M.
Last year, I enjoyed the holiday with M in Colorado, walking the neighborhood and scoping out the decorations.
I’ve been doing it solo so far this year.
For pagans like Kate, Halloween, or Samhain (pronounced SOW-win; don’t say it like it’s spelled or a witch will laugh at you), is the most sacred day of the year. It’s Christmas and Easter rolled up into one, with all the celebration and feasts and prayers. It’s when the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest, and you can commune with those that have gone before. It is here I lost the true meaning of Halloween (candy and costumes).
I had a very, very nudge-nudge, wink-wink, say no more, say no more Halloween night in the East Village while the parade went by. On my own, I liked to stop in the neighborhood for a drink and watch Bleeker Street lit up with people having a good time.
Two years ago, I was recruited for the Pumpkin Task Force at work. We wanted to kill at the First Annual Pumpkin Carving Contest, so I said, sure, I’ll help. There were five of us. I bring this up because 20 percent of the group did all the work. I designed the pumpkin:
It was based on the mascot for the American Society of Hematology, Red.
I went to the art store that knows me by name and bought acrylic pens (on the company card). And I said, “You guys do the rest.” My boss offered to carve the pumpkin if someone would draw the face based on my design, but no one did. To say I was disappointed would understate it.
Imagine my surprise when someone asked if I was helping with his year’s contest, closing in two hours. I said no, not after last time. Later, I came across the pumpkin, and someone had written “CARVED” in large letters on it. I hauled it over to the break room and attempted to hose the Sharpie off. I had brought my art markers with me, so I applied them to the pumpkin, using my old design.
It was then that Sera, a work acquaintance, swept in with tubes of acrylic paint, and I was able to work in style. She used to paint, with oils, but she moved into a smaller apartment and can’t fit her easel. While I applied cadmium red to the face, she made hands out of paper plates.
We took it to contest, where it was clear we were not going to win.
Sera and I agreed that we would be more prepared next year.
The party was loud, as parties tended to be. There was an open bar, and I had a doctor’s appointment, so I didn’t stick around.
I was there long enough to puzzle over the group of people who all knew each other, dressed in yellow shirts and overalls. but this Every one of them was wearing glasses, but that’s not that weird. It was weird that they had all had nametags. At first, I thought they were the caterers, but they were all wearing different types of yellow tops.
The only nametag I paid attention to was the cute blonde, named “Lou.” I thought Lou was the best name for a pixie woman, but I also had to remember was that this was a costume. She probably didn’t even need glasses.
Someone dressed like Wednesday, someone dressed like Janet Jackson, Rhythm Nation. There was an axolotl. There was a woman riding “a goose,” “no, an ostrich,” “maybe a swan,” “that is an ostrich,” “that is definitely a goose,” “hey, what’s that you’re riding? I told you it was an ostrich.”
I went to the work party to see me win fifth place, and they announced that the pumpkins were going to be judged in twenty-four by a panel of the building superintendent’s Instagram contacts. So I left.
Then it hit me. They were Minions. They were fucking Minions.
Jeremiah Murphy 