Trolley and Steph

Thumbnail: Sushi platter
Thumbnail: Halloween hallway
Thumbnail: Halloween pirate
Thumbnail: Kitty
Thumbnail: Living room
Thumbnail: Me and Trolley
Thumbnail: Halloween pimp
Thumbnail: Pumpkin lights
Thumbnail: Gathering
Thumbnail: Raggedy drink
Thumbnail: Dog skull-and-crossbones cape
Thumbnail: Spooky drinks
Thumbnail: Taking shots
 

Last minute Halloween party means last minute costume.

I’m walk­ing down the con­sol­i­dated aisles of Walmart at 7:30 on Saturday night. The cos­tume pack­ages are all 50% off, and the mod­els on the labels are all pre-teen. I don’t think I’ll fit in the tights of this Batman cos­tume, and this vam­pire cape only goes down to my waist.

I’m sud­denly struck with a fit of nos­tal­gia. Remember that time when I was at that party with Becky, who was wear­ing a witches mask, try­ing to engage her in a con­ver­sa­tion after we met at the Honest Lawyer1? Remember when we went as Supertroopers to the party at the girls house? Remember when I got drunk off that bot­tle of Earnest and Julio Gallo?

I hur­riedly grab a black cowl and bloody knife, and walk to the check­out line. With my full-length leather trench coat, I’m hop­ing it’s enough to gain accep­tance to the party, but not too much to stand out.

As I leave, I won­der if Halloween still exists for those of us past our trick-or-treating days.

So the plan is to get there early. That way I don’t have every­one look­ing at me when I walk in the door. Bail when it gets too loud, or the peo­ple too drunk. But every­one invited through Facebook was told eight while I was told nine, and I’m almost last one there.

This is not going accord­ing to plan. I remind myself that I’m in con­trol, and can leave when I want. This is enough to get me through.

Greeting me at the door is Ramsey, Trolley’s six-month old pup, who already knows how to sit and play dead. Too shy to look around and make eye-contact, I pre­tend to play with him until Trolley picks me up in the hallway.

Princess Leia offers me an orange vodka Jello shooter. I take one, my first taste of alco­hol in over two years. It burns in my stom­ach within sec­onds, and I fight back my anx­i­ety. Successfully. For good mea­sure, I eat another California roll to absorb the vodka.

Downstairs, we watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning. Strange how hor­ror movies are…humourous when you’re sit­ting on the couch with a mafioso, a fairy god­mother, and Raggedy Anne and Andy, while a group of girls dance upstairs. Everyone’s pick­ing apart the plot holes, includ­ing Jordana Brewster’s anachro­nis­tic low-rise jeans.

It’s all cliques and cou­ples here. I’m the only one by myself.

To hide this fact, I walk around tak­ing pic­tures. A pirate offers to take a pic­ture of me with my cam­era, but only with the girls danc­ing in the cor­ner. I feign com­plex­ity of the cam­era so I don’t have to sidle up to a bunch of female strangers, and ran­domly break into their dance circle.

Before long, I notice that I’ve been there for longer than I planned. But I’m get­ting old, and nine is too late to start a party. I real­ize that Halloween still exists dur­ing the quiet drive home. It’s not about the candy, or the youth, or the trick-or-treating. It’s the spirit.

And if that spirit means dress­ing up, dec­o­rat­ing your house, and get­ting drunk if nec­es­sary, then that’s fine by me.

  1. If you ever read this Christine, I will deny every­thing. [↑]