Halloween '85: The Periwinkle Paintbrush of the Zombie Housepainter

For Halloween 1982, I was Lumberjack E.T.

I had a plastic mask, Dad’s purple and black flannel shirt,

Grandpa’s red suspenders and construction boots. Mom’s

contribution was the rejection of my request to carry a

dulled axe. After devoting my kindergarten years to the

daily consumption of paste, she would no longer tolerate,

nor would her weak, weak heart endure, any more soberly

admonitory and perfectly creased notes of concern from

my teachers. Grandma suggested I carry a whisk. I went to

school with the E.T. mask, the shirt, the suspenders, the boots,

and the whisk, prepared to change into my costume after lunch

for the Halloween Parade. I couldn’t stop thinking about the

whisk, how inappropriate it seemed. Then this thought would

be scolded by the Other Powerful, More Powerful Thought:

Mom’s Weak, Weak Heart. Shame, shame, shame on me.

After lunch, I changed into my costume and discovered the

eyeholes on the mask were too small. I used the classroom

scissors to enlarge the holes, but a classmate startled me,

resulting in a jagged line in the mask, running two inches

from the right eye to the mask’s side. During the parade,

I kept my eyes closed, wishing I could do the same with

my ears. At the class party, I ate my english muffin pizza

and my brownie in silence. I remember placing the whisk

in my bookbag, but somehow it never came home with me.

Mom wasn’t upset; she said whisks were cheap. The damage

to the mask caused more grief, as there wasn’t time to go

to K-Mart for a new costume before Mom took me and my

brother around the neighborhood. The mask was scotch-taped,

but I returned the shirt to Dad and the suspenders and boots to

Grandpa. I borrowed Dad’s New York Mets cap and told anyone

who asked me I was now M.E.T. This was met with general smiling

approval. After I gave away my Halloween candy to my brother

(retaining my tiny boxes of raisins), and before I went to bed,

I remembered a word my Grandpa said that day and decided to

look it up. Halloween 1982 concluded with my comprehension of

the word, ‘defeatist’. I would say this was the only victory of that day,

but that M.E.T. thing was actually pretty nifty.

For Halloween 1983, I was Blackjack Mulligan.

The man born Robert Windham was a villainous pro wrestler,

a “heel”, whose son, Barry, was starting to earn his reputation

in the business. Blackjack was a big guy, tough and intimidating,

who used an “iron claw” to squeeze his opponent’s face until he

gave up. He also had a mean, thick, black mustache, a feature

previously decorating my Dad’s face that disappeared on Labor Day

weekend. Dad told me it simply had to go. “You can’t get far in life

with a mustache”. I remember thinking about the U.S. Presidents of

the later half of 19th century: Hayes, Garfield, Arthur, Cleveland,

Benjamin Henry Harrison. Perhaps he was right. I still wanted to grow

that mustache. Mom wondered why I had chosen this particular guy to

emulate, and I told her about my need to be a giant for fifteen minutes.

Grandpa mentioned Andy Warhol, and I didn’t know what he was talking

about. I purchased a black cowboy hat and an Indiana Jones “bullwhip”

(plastic replica) at the Great American Party Store. I would paint a handlebar

mustache on my upper lip with shoe polish. At school, the outfit revealed me

as an outlaw, but no one knew who Blackjack Mulligan was. My teacher,

Ms. Curving, thought I was Black Bart and advised me not to use the bullwhip

on anyone (I didn’t). The art teacher, Mr. Panarotto, said I looked like Doc Holliday

and gave me a high-five. His hairpiece shifted as I slapped his hand. I knew the

name Doc Holliday because I had seen a black-and-white TV show where an

actor had that role, but I couldn’t remember the title. Later that day, Grandpa

told me I had watched “The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp”. After school,

I went trick-or-treating with my brother, who was dressed as a hobo. I thanked

everyone who gave me candy, tipping the brim of my hat with a declaration

of mostly “Ma’am” or occasionally “Sir”. The next day, Mom and I saw

Mrs. Kyritz at the Shop-Rite, who told us that I was the most polite outlaw

she’d ever seen in these parts. I remained an outlaw for a few more days, as

I had complemented the shoe polish with black Sharpie marker. Polite, yes.

Bright, no. For the record, I didn’t use the “iron claw” on anyone, either.

Perhaps I should’ve been Wyatt Earp.

For Halloween 1984, I was Robot Cowboy.

I was directly inspired by “Outlaws of Orion”, an episode of the superhero

cartoon “Superfriends”, in which intergalactic bounty hunters try to cash in

on Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, Batman and Robin. Dad complimented

me on my ingenuity and also stated if I ever wanted to be The Boy Who Always

Combed His Hair, Mom would likely faint. Being a Robot Cowboy meant I

had to work on perfecting what I called “The Cold Dead Stare”. I had to look

like I meant business with that stare, that’d I’d make your Daddy move to Brooklyn,

your Mommy run away screaming, and your Grandma spontaneously combust.

I spent an hour in front of the bedroom mirror, scowling, growling, sneering, leering.

I had to put the absolute fear of extinction in anyone who crossed my path. The first

person to cross my path (the carpet in my room) was my brother. However, he proved

immune to the scowl, as he merely chuckled and told me I looked like I needed to

have a BM. That night, he wrapped himself in aluminum foil and invited me to a

showdown at 8:00 PM. “Too bad,” Dad said, “8:00 PM is Bedtime for Robot Cowboys”.

Mom was displeased that my brother wasted the aluminum foil on his outfit; she wasn’t

assuaged by my exclamation, “He’s puttin’ on the foil, coach!”, a reference to the

Paul Newman hockey movie, “Slap Shot” (which Dad acknowledged). At school,

my costume consisted of last year’s cowboy hat, overindulgence of silver body paint,

stiff body movements, and various clicks, whirs, and tics. I ate three english muffin pizzas

that year, using a knife and fork so my make-up wouldn’t smear. “Robot Cowboy

was hungry,” said Mrs. Pellegrino, the class mother. A cheap toy pistol completed

the outfit for trick-or-treating. I must’ve been intimidating since my candy collection

was especially high. I tried a fun-sized Snickers bar, but the caramel didn’t agree with me,

and I spat it into the garbage can. “Does-not-compute, does-not-compute, does-not-compute”

was added for dramatic measure, before I “shut down” (went to bed) after a good bath.

Robot Cowboy never returned – I missed a few spots of body paint and ruined my

“Return of the Jedi” bed spread…C-3PO’s Revenge.