Halloween Panic

I don’t know how or why. I chose not to question the decision of the gods. All I knew is that I had been invited to the Halloween party of this or any millennium. Kitty, the Cute/Gorgeous/Luscious Little Mama from Accounting had invited me! Me! the kinda geeky dweeb from Human Resources! And I do mean she was a Cute/Gorgeous/Luscious Little Mama. She was stop-traffic-in-Times-Square good looking! She was little (just under 5′) and she was a mama. Her 4 year old daughter Katie was one of those cute-as-a-button kids that you always hated when growing up. What a golden chance! This could be my ticket out of singleness. I could be an item. I could be seen as an up and comer (even though I had passed 30 back along). Kitty had never, and I mean never spoken to me except for absolute necessity.

Kitty was like my Holy Grail. She was my fantasy, I admit it. Hers was the face to whom I compared all others. Sounds a little stalker-ish, doesn’t it? Not really. If we all look into our souls, there is someone at the office we’d like to spend time with. I doubted that she even knew of my existence. But, she invited me!!! And, for those of us that don’t have the guts to attend Comic-Con, Trek conventions or Star Wars gatherings, Halloween is our chance to step up, step out and be the creature that lurks in our hearts and minds.

Throughout the next two weeks, I would spend at least a few minutes daily planning my assault on the Halloween Scene. Costume is of primary importance, of course. However, equally vital was an invitation to an “A” list party. There aren’t that many parties that you strive to attend. Although you are in costume and your features are either distorted or covered, attendance is both sought after and required to be up for next year’s invitation list. You can’t get invited to the parties you crave and you don’t want to attend the parties that condescend to invite you.

Face it, going to a Halloween party sponsored by a singles club or your church just won’t cut it in today’s competitive social networking scene. Everyone immediately knows that you’ve either scored THE invitation or not. Trust me, when I got Kitty’s invite, I hit Facebook and Twitter and sent notes to everyone I knew. I even proposed friendship to every name I could think of. Who doesn’t need 2,586 friends named Jane Doe?

For costume, I first examined and then rejected the classics. Frankenstein wouldn’t work, With my portly frame, I’d only look more foolish than usual in high platform shoes, ill-fitting suit and squared off cranium. Neither would Dracula. You need a certain elegance to pull off the prince of the Un-Dead. I lack that level of sophistication. Wolfman? Nope. With my make up skills, I’d look like a St. Bernard standing on his hind legs. Zombie? Too cliché. Cop? Riverboat Gambler? Escaped Convict? All possible, all wrong for many reasons. How about an historical figure? Julius Caesar? Nope (I had an embarrassing experience at a Toga Party many, many years ago. It took me months to feel comfy just lying on sheets in my own bed. Plus, my legs aren’t as good now as they were then.) Winston Churchill? Possible. I was the correct stocky build. Finding a 3 piece suit and a bowler shouldn’t pose a problem. But, the cigar….Not politically correct these days. And, as any cigar fan knows, it isn’t much fun to puff on a dead, soggy stogie.

How about a ghoul? That’d work! Not much to it, actually…a frazzled suit, appropriate make up, blank stare, grunting and drooling. This I can do! Go out, buy a cheap lined suit, cut off the sleeves to show just a little too much wrist (ditto the legs), drag it behind the car (I found rutted country roads to have the best affect. Not too many rocks, no fresh tar and the gravel has already lost that limestone dust. Just good old fashioned crud. Perfect! Don’t forget to drag shoes too. they should be old fashioned, high topped black leather. The procession looks like a demented wedding), dampen it, wad it up and let sit in a corner to add the necessary wrinkles (not too long and not too wet. You want to be a ghoul, not Mildew Man) and Presto! You have a ghoul suit!!

Make up could cause a small problem. For those of us who lack the aforementioned guts, going into the cosmetics department of a local establishment is likely to be a harrowing experience. I knew on line purchases just wouldn’t work. The colors on the screen are always just a little bit off. You’ve got to feel the base, toner, eyeliner, blush, lip gunk and other stuff with your own fingers. Sniff it, rub it between your thumb and forefinger. In short, fondle it like some perverted monster. After all, it is the tactile sensation that sells! But where to go? Your friendly neighborhood emporium? They know you, so it could be bad. they could tell your costume competition what you have planned. Bribery isn’t unknown in the Halloween world. Worse, they could just laugh at you and look at your strangely every time you go in there to buy a tube of toothpaste. Imagine! Embarrassment not only now, but for the rest of your life! A store where you are unknown? Better. They wouldn’t know who to tell about your costume. Better still since you could contrive to never see them again! That’s it! A store outside of my normal path. In fact, outside my home County.

OK, Checklist: Suit bought, frazzled and wrinkled. Check!
Make up…Here we go!

I diligently researched cosmetics on line and on TV for weeks. I even decided that it was imperative that I devote some of my working hours to my research. I decided on the Sensual Line by TouchMeFeelMeTakeMe. Bold, even garish, with just a touch of sleaze. Pasty white base (Goth Base #3), battleship gray toner (“Zone Tone“), flat black highlights (“Darker Than A Moonless Night”), rotted flesh green eyeliner (“Dead Cat Eyes”), yellow dye number 3 for the teeth (“Yellow Pages”), corpse pink lip gloss (“Kiss of Death“), dust and dirt combed through my hair! Success! I am the ghoul of my dreams! What self respecting Zombie could resist me?

I marched in, legs quivering, hoping that I looked not at all threatening or weird. The young (to me anyway) sales person (it was a girl, OK? I don’t know how to say “Sales Girl” in political-correct-ise), and boldly said, “I need some make up.” She looked at me like I had just offered her candy and a ride in my car. At this point, I was hoping she just wouldn’t call Security (“There’s a pervert is Aisle 8. Clean up please.”).

“Waddya want?” she mumbled through a wad of gum and braces (I didn’t think you were supposed to chew gum and have braces at the same time. I certainly didn’t, not that I didn’t want to. ). I stated my needs clearly: “I need TouchMeFeelMeTakeMe Goth Base #3, Zone Tone, Darker Than a Moonless Night, Dead Cat Eyes, Kiss of Death and Yellow Pages.” At least I thought I said them clearly and distinctly. All she said was “Huh?” I repeated my requests in a somewhat louder voice, noticing an older lady sharply looking up from her perusal of more traditional gels, creams and glosses. All I got for my trouble was “Saywa?”. I nearly screamed my needs. Just before I began to sound like the PA system, I noticed the thin black (of course) wires leading under her multi-colored hair (frankly it looked like a messed up color palette for an abstract artist).

Leaning over, I tugged out one of her ear buds. She looked at me with loathing. She wasn’t afraid of me, just really, really angry because I had interrupted some screeching sound that reminded me of a cross between gears grinding and cars crashing. Slowly, clearly, distinctly and with fingers pointing at various displays, I again told her what I needed. She looked blank, snapped her gum, frowned at only hearing one half of her “music” and slurred “K”.

20 minutes later, $83.68 poorer, clutching my purchase in a plain brown paper bag, I nervously, yet triumphantly, skulked out to the parking lot. I felt like a fugitive and breathed a huge sigh of relief when I got out of the parking lot without seeing numerous flashing lights and hearing sirens.

Back to the Checklist: Suit? Check! Appropriate make up? Check! All that’s left is to show up at the premier party of the season!

Y’know, there’s a good reason I didn’t follow my dream to be a ski instructor. Not only couldn’t I ski, but I have really sensitive skin. I don’t tan. I mean never. I burn, blister and peel. Pretty disgusting actually. I also tend to skim documents. Perhaps that is why I have never risen to great heights in Human Resources. Once in awhile, I miss a tiny little insignificant detail, like a due date for a project. Nothing major. I haven’t cost the Company millions in law suits or fines or anything, just the occasional little mistake on the Union Contracts and Unemployment Claims. Is it my fault the Company agreed to a 3 hour lunch? 30 minutes/3 hours. A mistake anyone could make. And I’m not the one to blame that we pay more in Unemployment than anyone in our industry. We just hire bad people.

Hives are ugly. They burn, itch and cause things to swell. So as I stood in Kitty’s doorway, feeling my head, face, hands and hair begin to itch and burn, I could almost make out the sign over the punch bowl stating proudly “Welcome Company Kids to Our Halloween Party!” Through now swollen eyelids I barely see well-dressed fellow employees and their cute-as-a-button kids in cute little pirate and princess costumes as the bobbed for apples. The quarter fell into the slot and I saw the small print on the invitation I had only skimmed. “Your Kids will have the time of their lives!!!” Not good.

There I stood. A white, gray, black, green, yellow and pink guy in a badly torn up wrinkled suit with dirt in his hair. And a face that was visibly swelling, fingers turning into white, gray, black, green, yellow and pink sausages. Hair that was going from just dirty blond (Really. I mean dirty blond) to dirty brown with scalding red scalp.

Through swollen lips and with a tongue that felt like I had a hot fish slithering around in my mouth, I said, with great confidence “Hi, Kitty! Am I on time? Thanks for inviting me! Where’s the bar?” Of course it came out as a wet, gurgling sound that was indistinguishable from the armpit farts we made when I was a kid.

Children screamed. Parents assumed positions between the hideous apparition and their offspring. More than one grabbed for their handy can of pepper spray or looked like suburban Jackie Chans, ready to rip me limb from swollen limb.

I mumbled “Sorry, wrong party.” It really did sound like an armpit fart. But, eventually I was allowed to leave without being sprayed or flayed. In the corridor, I managed to find my phone and dial 911. It took 7 attempts before I managed to just dial 3 digits. I talked (after a fashion, you understand) with a pizza joint in Tampa, an escort service in Minneapolis, two little old ladies in different time zones and some guy in Australia. At least he sounded just as messed up as I was. In his case it was an accent, not hives.

The emergency operator listened to me for a few minutes and decided that I was a gagged hostage being held by some kidnapper. She was really happy. Within moments, I was informed that this was her first day, she had done poorly on her training and had always dreamed of being the savior of a hostage, she had a little boy, was s single parent and loved blue. Her favorite food was spaghetti, she liked strong men and hated liars. As you might guess, we spent a few minutes on the phone together. Finally, she came upon the imaginative idea of having me text her the details of my situation. Texting was just as difficult as dialing. I’m not sure, but I think I asked her to marry me under a lamppost in Geneva. That, or I begged her to walk, hand in hand, on an active runway. Take your pick.

GPS chips are pretty cool little bugs. The police finally found me sitting on Kitty’s Apartment building steps. Still having trouble breathing, not being able to see clearly and not talking. I did manage to discern drawn guns, Kevlar shields, helmets and shotguns. I could hear just fine and what they said was really unkind. My parents would surely object to being called those things.

A visit to the ER and an anti-histamine shot later and I was headed home in a cab. Since I am not in charge of insurance at the Company, my card was accepted without question and I moved through the system with ease. At least I did after I waited for 17 other people who were even more screwed up than I was to move through.

The cab driver thought I was a great fare! I didn’t talk and I didn’t get mad when he drove to my apartment by way of the next state. I just wanted the night to be over. And then it was. I was in my apartment, safe, swelling going down, able to see, speak and dial. So, I took a shower, ordered pizza (A Caribbean Pizza like they featured in Tampa sounded really good for some reason), popped a top and slouched in a chair, dreading the morning when I would face all those angry and bewildered parents. I might as well just text my resignation now. I thought I could claim that I was suffering a temporary lapse in judgment, I was possessed or maybe just hammered. None of them sounded the least bit credible to me. If I couldn’t sell me, I knew I couldn’t sell them.

Morning came, as it tends to. I was sleepless and nervous. I hadn’t been this nervous when I went out and bought over $86.00 in TouchMeFeelMeTakeMe. I waited for the dime to drop as I walked past my Supervisor’s door. Nothing. I knew I was dead as I walked down the hall to retrieve my coffee cup and saw the Chief of Security. Nada. No calls from the Department Head. No emails demanding my immediate presence in the President’s Office. Just routine drudgery.

I began to hope against hope that somehow I had managed to dodge the big, bad bullet that had my name on it. But, I knew it was all over when Kitty came striding into my cubicle. I began to stammer apologies when she said quickly and quietly, “Stop mumbling, Steve. I need to know if our insurance covers party disasters.” I had to ask her precisely what she meant. Seems that some ogre (her term) battered his way into her apartment (I swear. She opened the door for me). Kids became hysterical and all the parents gathered their kids up and left her with a $200.00 cake, a bushel of apples, 15 pounds of candy, a jumpy-thing for the parking lot and a fee for a clown to perform. She figured she was out about $1,000.00 and wanted to know if she could send it in.

I told her to prepare a statement. But, she’d have to be responsible for the $975.00 deductible (seemed like a nice, round figure) herself. She visibly deflated and wandered disconsolately from my cubbie.

Seems that the gods smiled after all.


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