My Favorite Holloween [repost]
Correspondent:: "nu-monet v7.0"
Date: Thu, 07 Oct 2004 13:26:47 -0700
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My favorite Holloween
Dr. Hieronymous Zinn
I find Holloween to be a marvelous American
custom.
But you do it all wrong.
When I look at Holloween, I see the quaint
tradition, like in other countries, of
ritually terrifying small children so that
they will obey their elders; and yet it has
somehow been subverted into just another
excuse for capitalist excess.
"Have a Happy Holloween!" to me contains
the glee of a random inebriated piss in
someone's back yard you just happen to now
discover was on the grave of a hated enemy
in a cemetery, and my, wasn't I drunk,
officer!
"Have a gut-wrenching, terrifying
life-or-death struggle!" is more to the point.
Take for example in some parts of Germany,
(where I'll admit it's a KrisKringle(tm), and
thus Christmas, rather than Holloween event),
we have the tradition of the Straw Men!, who
after the jolly old expression of pagan lust
goes by, showering petty treats to the little
children, and thus luring them forward like
some murderous schoolyard pedophile, they are
turned over to the monsters-dressed-in-straw
who offer to do truly HORRIBLE things to their
little bodies. And all the while, their own,
laughing parents shove the little tykes forward
as offerings to the unworldly deamons.
And thus the nightmarish fears are passed on
to yet another generation, as it has been for
a millennium.
Ahh, tradition.
Which brings me to mine own retchid excess...
A lovely, cool evening, when children go from
door-to-door, their little masked faces all
aglow with greed, with their greatest of fears
the receipt of a small cellophane packet of hard
candy rather than a big, gooey, Snickers(tm) bar.
And yet, something is amiss. From the end of
the block, in the distance, they can see a figure.
Perhaps it is by the third dwelling that their
vision has become clear, but they are still
confused by what they see.
For lying slumped in an old chair is something,
perhaps similar to a human being in appearance,
but oddly dressed. By the fifth home, in their
ordered progression down the street, they can see
it clearly now, illuminated as it is by a half-
melted K-Mart plastic pumpkin.
In truth, the thing slumped on the chair is
wearing a rubber tap suit, of the kind that
workers in chemical plants don, it's face is
covered by an odd-looking protective mask, it's
hair by a sleeping bag hood. It wears combat
boots and old yellow work gloves on it's hands.
By the time they have arrived at THAT HOUSE,
their confusion and fear are starting to mount,
BUT ONLY THEN do they notice that at the feet of
"the thing" lies a large bowl, perhaps containing
the goodies their avaricious little hearts crave.
And now it is a time for contemplation...
Standing on the sidewalk are four young boys
peering at me. Their brows are knit in rapt
attention, as if watching the chess game in Ingmar
Bergman's "The Seventh Seal." But instead of a
contest between some Swedish guy and Death, it is
a bitter duel between their very Potential Manhood
Itself and Death, in this case most likely quick,
painful, and with long pointy teeth.
Needless to say, while intensely looking for
signs of animation in the figure, they are in no
great hurry. But they see no movement.
Finally, one of the older boys, more experienced
in the ways of treachery, turns to the smallest of
the four, and berates him: Prove you're a man!
Go there and get us all some candy!
Of course the other two gladly join in, until the
smallest is browbeat into the dare.
Apprehensive, he approaches. Leaning away, his
toes pointed in the direction of the street, he
treads softly across the rock yard backwards, with
outstretched hand clutching again and again at the
object of his passionate desire. For in that bowl
is no longer candy, but his very self-esteem and
future. His eyes are fixated on the lenses of my
mask, for he cannot see my eyes.
Bravely, his friends man the sidewalk with baited
breath. And then, just when he has reached his goal,
for an instant his eyes dart downward.
My right hand twitches.
"AAAAIIIIEEEEGGGGHHHH!" scream his friends, as
they run in abject terror down the block. But the
small boy cannot get traction in the rocks of the
yard for a while. His heart pounding--every
milligram of adrenaline his pancreas can produce
rushing into his bloodstream--he makes a Herculean
effort and makes it to the sidewalk.
The little fella beats them to the end of the block.
***
Some time later, comes down the street a father with
his small son...
In due course, they too stand before me.
The father, concerned, but with too much reverence
for the tradition of the holiday, looks down and says
to the boy, "O.K., go get yourself some candy."
"NoooIdon'twantto!" whines the boy, his bag of candy
clutched protectively to his little face. He remains
fixed, despite further pleas from his father.
And then his father says the thing which is an
essential plot device to about half of the horror
movies ever made:
"O.K., you wait here, AND I'LL GO GET SOME."
Rarely have I seen such a look as was in the face of
the boy. Wide-eyed, trembling, almost indescribable.
"Noooooooooooooooooo!" he squeals, his face contorted.
Even father is apprehensive by this point--but feels
he must do the 'dad' thing, and carefully he advances.
(I will confess some feelings of guilt as he
approached, but they were quickly filed in my rather
overburdened "bad conscience" repository. Moderation
is for monks.)
And he, as before, glanced down at the bowl for a
second and I twitched my hand.
It is said that it is impossible for a person to do a
standing jump any higher than their own knees, but to my
experience this is no longer a rule, but more of a
guideline.
As for the shrieks of the boy, they faded out sometime
after the two had left the block, reverberating in the
distance. But such become the happy reminiscences of
childhood.
***
The following day, I received a call from a man, who I
would like to believe was the boys' father. Rather
aggrieved, he demanded to know who or what was in front
of the house the previous night.
To this I responded with curiousity, and I said that I
had been far away, and had only returned this very morning
on an early flight. Otherwise, the house had been empty.
The phone went silent for about 10 seconds before he
wordlessly hung up.
HAPPY HOLLOWEEN!
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