Nightmare on Brian's street

Southern Living, Oct 1997 by Bender, Steve

October 31. All Hallow's Eve. One of the most significant days of autumn. Standard time has returned us to dinnertime darkness. Cornfields lie fallow, tree leaves flame, frost lays waste to mosquitoes and mums, and innocent babes nursed in the burbs learn the value of organized extortion-otherwise known as trick or treat.

Tonight will be the first Halloween for 2-year-old Brian. As I prepare him for his great adventure, I think back to my own trick or treating. For my friends and me, Halloween supplied a prime opportunity for adolescent revenge. Sure, we wanted boatloads of candy. But our main objective was annoying grown-ups who had wielded authority over us so insufferably the entire year.

We avoided obvious felony, but mischief was this night's religion and soap the symbol of our faith. Any adult foolish enough to skimp on candy or pretend not to be home had his windshield autographed with Ivory. We also deployed water balloons, and we let the air out of very important tires.

Fortunately, Brian has signed an affidavit stating that he will never engage in such juvenile behavior. Reassured, I take him to purchase an appropriate mask and costume.

Let's see-whom should he portray? Bill Clinton? Negative. Not in Alabama. Rush Limbaugh? Don't think so. Head is too big. Michael Jackson? Nope. Too ghoulish, even for Halloween. John F. Kennedy, Jr.? Uh-uh. Looks too much like me.

Suddenly Brian screams and points at something purple and green with huge jaws and shiny teeth, something absolutely horrible. "BARNEY!!!"

Evidently American toy manufacturers have identified the elusive "I want" gene on our children's 23rd chromosome. Thus armed, they can make toddlers demand anything, even a grape-faced dinosaur goofball. But Brian has his costume, and Barney's better than Bill, so it's time to go home and check on Mom.

A disciple of Martha Stewart, Judy has been industriously carving a scary face onto our pumpkin. But her artwork pales beside that of our neighbors. They've all bought carving kits that turn swollen squash into dynamic sculptures that look like they came from the Louvre. The Cooks boast an orange Rodin on their porch. And that jack-o'-lantern at the McDaniels'? Obviously, a Henry Moore.

Judy's other embellishments prove far more successful. Witches and skeletons snarl from our windows. A gross, ugly spider twitches in a silken snare above our door.

Brian and I foray out about 6:30 p.m. In his mind, the illuminated spooks and vampires glaring balefully from porches are absolutely real. When one moves and then speaks, Brian shrieks in terror and I say to myself, "Wow, he's really getting into the spirit of things." I immediately feel guilty and reassure him, recalling many nights cowering in bed as a child, certain that monsters lurked in the closet.

Brian quickly discovers that if he looks cute and makes even the slightest attempt to say "trick or treat," folks will fill his bag faster than the Atlanta Braves raise ticket prices. Meanwhile at home, Judy attempts to placate the approximately 300,000 kids who show up at our door with palms outstretched, like future bellhops of America. It's okay with her if they're neighborhood kids. But when a station wagon bearing Utah plates disgorges a famished horde, she gets a little steamed.

By 8:30, Brian is safely back home, admiring his take, ready for bed. Before we carry him upstairs, he does a startling thing. Reaching into his bag, he retrieves his two most prized pieces, miniature Milky Way bars, and gives one to each of us. He wants to share. At that moment I see beyond the outward cynicism of this day to what Halloween is truly about. It isn't about greed, mischief, or occult. It's about sharing a special night with your kids and the neighbors, in which every knock on the door is more than just welcome. It's a treat. Steve Bender