For me Halloween was more than impersonating an icon to get candy, it was a sacred escape from being me. A time out to fill the shoes of those I admired. Like clockwork, or predicting that the sun will rise and fall, every year I was a different superhero, because I was not one in real life. So when I pushed through the doors of the toy store, my usual unfocused awe was replaced by tunnel vision.
I ran to the exact spot where Superman’s plastic likeness stared at me through the cellophane covered box containing my costume. With the eyes hollowed out, the mask captured the look of the ‘Man of Steel’ but it was listless, almost creepy, until my true love of the character brought it to life. So absolute was my belief that I would leap tall buildings in a single bound that during my dress rehearsal, and subsequent climb to the top of the porch railing, I fully expected to defy gravity and streak across the sky in a blur of blue and crimson. Unfortunately, I was rudely interrupted by my mother’s incessant ranting about breaking my friggin neck.
On Halloween, with my pant legs bunched up around the plastic red boots, I slid the plastic mask over my face. Held in place by a thin elastic that slid just behind my ears, the instant buildup of humidity caused me to gasp for air through the tiny pre-made slit. The cape, arguably the most important aspect of the costume, hung loosely around my meager frame. Tied tightly around my neck, it conspired with my already stressed cardiovascular system, one miscalculated snag and I was a goner.
My mother, already on her fourth vodka Collins of the evening, showed only a slight interest in my well being and eventually gave up on following me from house to house.
“Now don’t go too far from the neighborhood.” she warned, but failed to mention which neighborhood.
Setting out on my own, I lifted the mask between houses for two deep breaths before hurrying to the next. I honed in on the conversations around me, extra keen on phrases like ‘no one’s home at the Smith house, they left candy outside,’ and ‘the Burns’ are giving out regular sized Snickers.’
I waded through the quiet suburban streets, sometimes latching onto large groups of kids to avoid the inquisition I received whenever I stood, the lone superhero, unescorted on someone’s doorstep. Eventually I reached the dreaded ‘Busy’ street, the end of the quiet middle class neighborhood and the beginning of the mean streets of the city. I stopped, contemplating and weighing the risks against the rewards—more candy, possible kidnapping--I went for the candy.
My haul was grand that year. Later, alone in my room, I surveyed the sea of colorfully wrapped magic. I ate the candy in a specific order. My least favorites were first. Chewing and swallowing the black licorice and Necco wafers that I detested rather than discarding them, or worse, giving them to someone who would actually enjoy them.
With my pancreas in hyper drive, I plotted a grander costume for next Halloween. I listened intently in school for what the other kids were dressing as refusing to have a cookie cutter version of what everyone else was wearing. My costume needed to be unique.
I had to be tactful about announcing my intentions. Mom’s moods were dependent on what time of month it was. PMS issues aside, caching her sober enough but not too deprived was always better at the beginning of the month, after the child support payment cleared and her stash was stocked with top notch booze. After the fifteenth she’d be relegated to drinking from the bargain bin, and consequently, it was not a good time to pester her.
So one night, at the rare occurrence of a sit down dinner, I blurted that I was going to celebrate All Hallows’ Eve as The Incredible Hulk, green skin and all. The idea was scoffed at by my brother and sister, going as a pirate and a ballerina respectively, but their ridicule failed to offend me. They lacked vision.
Mom’s fuse was short that night and instead of garnering her assistance the ensuing bickering made her snap and we were told to pipe down and eat our friggin dinners. But later, as I sat alone in the basement with the TV bathing the room in black and white flickers, she sat with me and watched the television show. The ice cubes in her drink occasionally clinked against the glass, lulling me into a false sense of security as she chain smoked through the episode.
It started as they all did, with the show’s main character, David Brenner, walking aimlessly down the beaten path. A drifter, he was forced to abandon his lifelong study of gamma radiation after exposure to it left him with the ability to grow freakishly huge muscles and turn a nasty shade of green at the slightest hint of anger. The concept tickled me pink as a regular target of bullies and miscreants. Watching David Brenner transform, tearing his shirts and pants until they were mere tattered rags hanging loosely from his chiseled body, made me long for a gamma radiation pool to dive into, head first.
Inspired and more than a little buzzed, Mom got to work on my costume. “Go to your closet and grab that button down you never wear to church, and those pants that don’t fit you anymore.” She commanded as she swilled her last sip from her glass and reached for another cigarette.
I stood, arms out to the sides, while a long ash formed from the cigarette that suctioned itself to the corner of her mouth. Periodically she would sit back, sip her drink with the cigarette still dangling, admiring her work. She cut lengthwise along the fabric of both the shirt and pants, emulating the torn clothing that was unable to keep the Hulk’s massiveness under wraps. It was a stretch since I looked as if some Catholic charity should have been sending me the eighty cents a day they were collecting to help feed and clothe some poor child whose name consisted of all consonants.
“But how are we going to make me green?” I asked as I looked in the large round mirror of her makeup table.
No, my mother didn’t have a makeup bag; she had an entire piece of furniture devoted to her beautification. It looked as if it were carved from a single block of wood plucked right out of Eden, and in the center was the largest, round mirror I had ever seen. The brackets resembled long fingernails that forced me to periodically peer behind it, hoping to catch a glimpse of the creature whose poor grooming habits were responsible for such a grand display of stability.
But what really enraptured me were the crystal knobs that adorned each of the four drawers. At dusk, as my mother was sitting down after her forty minute shower, the late afternoon sun would stream into the room. The knobs would saturate with light and redistribute it, speckling the walls and ceiling with tiny rainbows. A glass ashtray sat, clean and untarnished, while streaks and piles of ash discolored the rug just beneath the seat. Her glass, moist with condensation, branded the wood with yet another circle, eventually forming a pattern worthy of recognition by the Olympic Symbol Committee.
The transformation was almost magical. I would sit under the knobs so as not to interrupt a single rainbow. My mother used the tools at her disposal to convert her sodden, listless hair, into an architecturally sound beehive. She then decorated her high cheekbones, pronounced through malnutrition and stress, with layers and layers of makeup. In the end she rose looking like a new woman, fresh and alive. Ready for an evening on the town, an evening I would spend missing her terribly, wishing I could fly above her, ready to swoop down at the slightest hint of trouble.
“I’ll get some face paint from the costume store next time I’m out.” she told me.
Panic set in toward the end of the month when the booze stores began to dwindle, and no face paint appeared. My costume hung in the closet; the rest of my clothing was cast aside and mashed together to give it plenty of room. On October thirtieth, eleven thirty p.m., I snuck into my mother’s room, crawling on my belly so as not to rouse her. Johnny Carson told jokes from the tiny TV screen; Ed McMahon’s signature “Hey oh!” signified each punch line. It was part of a nightly routine of making sure she hadn’t drunk herself into a coma. But I was searching for evidence she had not let me down, that she had bought that integral part of the costume. Later, in the wee hours of the morning, I stood in front of my mirror wearing it, admiring the thought and care it took to create. But without the green I was just a skinny, pale, Caucasian, in torn clothes.
The next day I sat in class, sticking out more than usual as the only kid not wearing a costume. Lessons were light, wasted on unfocused, hyperactive minds dreaming of nightfall. When I got home I noticed the car of my mother’s drinking buddy in the driveway. Had they gone into town earlier and bought what I needed? I quickly scanned the countertops, nothing. Mom was in her room, sitting at her makeup table, primping, while her friend flipped through a magazine on her bed.
I stood in the doorway, my eyes surveyed every surface. They both leered at me quizzically. “What is it honey?”
“It’s Halloween.” I answered, trying to keep my emotions in check.
“It is. Are you excited?” Her friend asked.
My look shot imaginary daggers at her. “I have no costume.”
“What are you talking about? He’s joking,” mom told her friend, “he’s going as The Hulk.”
“No I’m not. I can’t.”
By now mom had swung herself around to face me; her concern feigned in the presence of her friend. “Stop being silly and go put it on so Jeannie can see it what it looks like.”
My frustration neared its peak; outbursts were not tolerated in my house and could very well have rendered me grounded. “I can’t go as The Hulk if I don’t have anything to make me green.” I annunciated each word for effect.
My mother’s eyes shifted wildly, searching for the excuse that would save face. “You were s’posedta pick it up for me.” My tone regressed a few years making my distress come off sounding cute.
“Oh sweetie,” trying to manipulate me with her own disarming tone, “I have been so busy I didn’t have time to get the face paint.” Her head tilted sympathetically to the side, “why don’t you just wear the costume. I’ll tease your hair; you’ll look just like The Hulk.”
Tears welled in my eyes as I filled with dread. I was staring in the eyes of a woman who just didn’t get it, and she was the one person in the world who should have. I was on the brink of imploding. The world as I knew it was in danger of being destroyed by Evil Mom Lady-destructor of kid’s dreams. I finally knew what it was like to be a superhero. So I did what any hero would do in the face of adversity, I initiated a power whine:
“HowamisupposedtobeTheHulkifI’mnotgreen.AllthekidsaregonnalaughatmeifIwearthatcostumeandI’mnotgreen.TheHulkisgreen,he’sgreen,andI’mnot!” Tears streamed down my face as my body convulsed, my chest heaved, and my feet stomped. I was having a full blown meltdown, and it wore down Evil Mom Lady until she was forced to revert back to her alter ego--super mom.
She gathered me in her arms. It was as close to being back in the safety of the womb as possible, and I strived to visit it every chance I got. “It’s alright,” she sputtered soothing hushes like water from a golf course sprinkler, “shh-shh-shh-shhhhhh. Don’t cry baby. We’ll make you green, I promise.”
Releasing me, she went to the kitchen. For the briefest of moments she looked like she knew exactly what she was looking for. Like she had a secret stash of Halloween face paint, but my jaded brain knew better, she was improvising.
I found myself enjoying the opposite side of her duality, pacified by her devotion to fixing my dilemma. Super mom needed an adhesive to mend a broken heart. She found part of it under the kitchen sink and the other in the cabinet that housed baking ingredients, all of which were untouched, except for the vanilla extract she turned to at month’s end.
She moved about the kitchen with hyper speed, reaching for a large plastic bowl on top of the fridge and slamming it on the table. Next to it she placed some green food coloring and the item she took from under the sink. I knew what it was as soon as I saw the one inch sponge that served as both cover and applicator.
“Shoe polish, you’re going to use shoe polish?” Jeannie asked.
“How else am I going to get the friggin green to stick? I can’t just cover the kid in food coloring.”
“The kid?” I thought to myself.
“Says here, ‘May cause skin irritation.’” Jeannie chimed in again, obviously the only one concerned for my safety.
“That’s a crock of shit, he’ll be fine.” Mom swiped the bottle from Jeannie’s hand.
She held it above the bowl and squeezed violently. White shoe polish filled the sponge then sprayed in all directions. With a few drops of food coloring and a quick stir, the polish turned green.
Mom took a huge swig of booze, draining her glass like a vampire over a fresh neck. Dabbing the sponge of the empty bottle into the green chemical concoction, she applied it to my forearm. Two things struck my senses simultaneously, the smell, and the burning. My eyes watered, my skin was on fire, but I was slowly becoming an ample shade of green.
Jeannie looked on as if watching a science experiment, keeping her distance, while keeping a watchful eye so as not to miss any possible reactions. By the time mom was sopping the last drops of polish from the bowl, I was completely covered in green. As it dried it had a hardening effect, pulling on my skin. I had to keep dabbing my eyes with a dishtowel so my tears wouldn’t cause the polish to streak down my face.
“Go put on your costume.” Mom ordered.
My haste granted me a momentary respite from the burning. I suited up and gazed at myself in the mirror. Except for the giant rippling muscles, I was The Hulk, or at least his smaller, weaker, cousin. I looked out the window, twilight, time to go.
Their reactions were instantaneous. By either assaulting their sense of smell or barraging their retinas with deep green, I stuck out like a sore gardener’s thumb. Flashlights shined on me from various directions. The rancorous laughter of adult chaperones echoed through the streets as homeowners ran for cameras before coughing up my treat. Disapproving housewives snickered; knowing full well the genius of my costume was generated out of neglect. But rather than act, they stayed put, sheltered by their own world, their own neglect.
After collecting an unprecedented amount of loot, I trekked over to my elementary school, temporarily transformed into Halloween central. Trick or Treaters congregated in the cafeteria, initiated small talk, and perused the adjacent hallway fashioned into a haunted house. It was all filler. We were all just waiting for the coveted costume contest, where first, second and third place finishers received a bounty of toys and snacks. My arch nemesis, Mikey Newhall, super-genius, won every year.
Mikey’s head was huge, chock full of gray matter capable of performing mass calculations, all of which rendered him a social mute. His jittery skittishness actually repelled bullies. He was the type who ended up cracking FBI databases in his spare time but couldn’t balance his checkbook. I felt a measure of camaraderie for him, knowing full well what it was like to live as the banished Omega of the pack.
His costumes were nothing short of spectacular. One year he presented himself as the entire solar system, with each planet in proper alignment according to their mathematically precise orbits and he, Mr. Heliocentric himself, poised in the center. He showed up late, the crowd parted like the Red Sea to pay homage. I stood alone, my own parting of the crowd caused by the smell I emitted. This year Mikey was a robot, decked out in metallic silver. A mirrored helmet concealed his face from the crowd, rigged with a microphone that distorted his voice. He even practiced and perfected the unnaturally smooth yet jerky robotic movements. The crowd was aghast. The best I could hope for was second.
We were lined up in single file behind the stage. I was next to a ghost, next to a cowboy, next to a vampire, ad nauseam. One girl was dressed as Little Bow Peep, I tumbled into third. In all, twenty of the best costumes were on deck to be judged by a panel of parents and teachers alike. When called, each contestant was to walk to center stage, pose, and walk off. Mikey managed once again to steal the show, and with it my thunder. My turn came and I halfheartedly shuffled before the crowd.
I pulled my shoulder blades back and brought my white knuckled fists together in front of me, attempting to emulate The Hulk’s signature pose. The crowd erupted. I traipsed offstage, a moment too soon, maybe, but I left them as all crowds should be left, wanting more.
My brother and sister helped me haul my first place loot home. Sibling rivalries aside, each of us basked in the limelight, a win for one was a win for us all.
