Bright Lights, Big Ass

by Jen Lancaster

The Holiday Drinking Season

  For me the best day of the year and the kickoff to the whole holiday season is November 5. Known as Guy Fawkes Day1 in the United Kingdom, it’s marked by villages building bonfires to burn Guy Fawkes in effigy and everyone eating a variety of toffee-based treats and watching fireworks displays. It’s a huge annual celebration, second only to the other celebration that occurs simultaneously across the pond—my birthday. Unfortunately, today’s October 31, which means not only do I have to wait five more days before I can start rejoicing again about my own birth, but I also have to get through my least favorite holiday first.

  Fletch and I are on our way into the house from the garage when our neighbor Dan walks out his back door, dressed in a stethoscope and surgical scrubs, complete with bloodstains.

  Since he works in information technology, I assume it’s a costume or else someone at IBM had a terrible afternoon.

  “Jen, Fletch, hello!” Dan calls. “Big night, huh? You guys ready for it?”

  “Yeah,” I halfheartedly reply.

  “What do you think?” He points at himself and does a little twirl. “Got the blood from my friend who’s a butcher so I’d look realistic. Nice, huh?”

  “I admire your authenticity,” says Fletch.

  Dan adjusts his surgical mask. “So, what are you guys going to dress as for Halloween?”

  I field this one. “We’re going to be dressed as two fat people hiding inside a dark house not giving out candy.”

  “Ha! You guys are a riot—have fun tonight!” He loads a case of beer into his Jeep and pulls away, blissfully unaware that I’m totally serious. As a matter of fact, the bag I’m carrying contains a box of garbage bags and thick masking tape that I plan to use to cover all the windows as soon as we get inside. If we had any money, we’d do what other grown-ups do—go out to dinner during trick-or-treat hours. Unfortunately, we’re low on cash; Fletch doesn’t get paid until the fifth, and what money he has had better be earmarked for something pretty.

  To say I hate Halloween would be an understatement, although I’ll admit I loved it as a child. Thirty years after the fact, I can still recall who gave out the full-sized candy bars2 and who passed out apples, which were subsequently thrown back at their houses the second they shut their doors. Yes, I admit that was bratty, but have you any idea how long it takes to do Ace Frehley’s makeup properly? And then find a way to make your boots silver without spray paint because your mom says you can probably wear them another winter?3 And rat your hair so much that even Johnson’s No More Tangles can’t get all the knots out and you have to use scissors? Surely that deserves a Milky Way! I’d have preferred if people had simply gone to the movies than waste my time with a stupid piece of fruit. The kid universe does not continue to spin on its axis in anticipation of being given the kind of “treat” that can already be found in a big wooden bowl in the middle of the kitchen table, and—

  Ahem.

  Anyway, enjoy Halloween as an adult? Not so much. It’s a holiday that serves no purpose in my opinion. Personally, I like my pumpkins uncarved and my doorbell unrung. And if I’m lucky enough to have a big bag of candy? The last thing I want to do is share it. The whole concept annoys me and smacks of extortion and general thuggery—“Trick or Treat. Give me something good to eat, or I will mess your shit up.” Is this a lesson we want to teach our children? Plus, I was hurling apples thirty years ago and I was a sweet little girl from the suburbs. So opening the door for those scary city kids today? Who would so cut me given the chance? Nope, not happening.

  Most of all, I would rather quaff a cat litter colada than have to wear a costume. I despise seeing adults duded up for Halloween, especially when they’re supposed to be working professional jobs; regardless of what you might think, I assure you, it is not cute, charming, or kitschy. For example, every year I seem to have to do banking on October 31. And every freaking year I wind up conducting my transaction with a teller in a gorilla suit.

  And really?

  Nothing builds confidence in one’s financial institution more than handing over one’s paycheck to a creature not wearing pants, especially at my crappy bank, which is not only located in a grocery store but is entirely staffed by gang-bangers.

  I envision going into my bank after I get my first book royalty check, and I expect to have this conversation…

  “Hi. I have a sizable4 check here and I’m not sure what to do with it. Since you’re my banker, I’m hoping you can advise me on how to utilize these funds to the best advantage,” I’ll say.

  “Chure, man,” he’ll reply.

  “Should I invest in a money-market fund? Pay off debts? Use it as a down payment on a home to build equity? Do a bit of each?”

  “Dunno. Lemme see da check first.” He’ll hold out a giant, furry paw and will walk my check over to the manager, who apparently chose not to wear a costume. Although, when your neck is covered in gang tats, who needs additional adornment?

  “Well, what do you think?” I’ll ask them both.

  In unison, “Man, we think you should buy some rims!”

  Fletch unlocks our back door and the dogs rocket off their respective ends of the couch and hurtle in to greet us. They station themselves in the front window and bark each time a blade of grass waves or a leaf falls off a tree. The activity exhausts them, their looming presence in the windows scares off would-be intruders, and our walls are thick and no one can hear them, so we’ve yet to come up with a compelling reason to discourage this behavior because tired dogs equal dogs less likely to eat delicious shoes. I go to the front door and get the mail, shrieking and dropping to my belly to army-crawl back to the kitchen, when I spot a little girl in a Princess Jasmine costume walk by with her mother.

  Fletch, by the way, does not share my fear and hatred of Halloween. He rolls his eyes and sorts through the envelopes I’ve just delivered. He asks, “So you were scared by a registered trademark of the Walt Disney Corporation?”

  “How was I supposed to know they were getting into a car? They could have been coming here. And then what, huh?”

  “Then you would have answered the door, told her you liked her costume, and given her one of the mini Snickers bars we bought specifically for those kids who show up here before we finish ‘securing the perimeter.’”

  As a graduate of the School of Snappy Retorts and Clever Rejoinders, I respond by telling him, “Shut up.”

  “If being home without the protection of our garbage-bag shutters is going to elevate your base level of crazy, why don’t you run to the bank and deposit this while I put them up?” He hands me a rebate check from a recent hardware purchase.

  “Thank you. I will do just that.” I grab my raincoat and keys and drive over to the grocery store–bank, bumping into no fewer than three Napoleon Dynamites5 on my way from the parking lot. I stand in line behind someone in disco clothing with an enormous Afro and platform shoes, and can’t for the life of me tell if it’s a costume.6 I shuffle through the line, and when a normal girl in regular clothes calls me to her window, I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Oh, thank God,” I say. “It’s always my luck that—” But before I can finish, the girl is called away by another employee. A moment later, a different banker comes up to my window.

  Of course he’s dressed in a gorilla suit.

  I tell him I have a deposit and he holds out a giant, furry paw.

  Happy fucking Halloween.

  We’ve managed to avoid the deluge of trick-or-treaters, Fletch by working on his laptop in the back of the house, and me by watching TV with lights off and headphones on in the front. At eleven p.m., I think it’s probably safe to tear down the plastic, so I tackle the first floor and Fletch takes care of the second. When we’re done we get ready for bed. After I’ve washed my face and put on my nightgown, I move the dogs off my side of the bed and lie down. When I look up I notice one of our ornate, very heavy, and exceptionally stabby-looking curtain rods has come loose.

  “Fl
etch? Fletch! Come here!” He strolls out of the bathroom holding a book, walking at a pace that makes me glad I wasn’t choking.

  “You rang, madam?”

  “Yes! Look at that—the curtain rod is barely hanging on by a screw. It’s about to come out of the wall.”

  “How about that.” He gets into bed and opens his book.

  “I bet it came loose when we were either hanging or removing those plastic bags.”

  “Probably.”

  I watch him as his eyes travel down the page, making no movement to get up. “Well?” I ask.

  “Well, what?”

  “Aren’t you going to fix it?”

  “No, I’m not going to fix it. It’s midnight. I’ll get to it tomorrow.”

  “But it looks like it will fall right now.”

  He flips a page. “It’ll be fine.”

  “No, I don’t think it will. Look how loose it is.” I demonstrate by yanking on it so that the sharply curlicued end dips even more precariously down toward my pillow.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Of course I’m going to worry about it. That’s how I roll. I worry. About everything. Do I need to remind you of my head-in-the-toilet phobia?”

  “I forgot about that.”

  “Well, what if this thing falls down during the night? It might stab me in the eye!”

  He yawns and stretches. The bad thing about being a drama queen is when something potentially big finally does happen, no one takes you seriously. “It won’t fall.”

  “But what if it does? I’ll be blinded! I can’t be blind. How would I put on eye makeup? And how would I get around? Last week I saw a blind guy get off the bus and his pointy-stick-dealie didn’t alert him to the solid sheet of Plexiglas one foot up because you know those bus shelters are open at the bottom and splat! He totally bit it! And I laughed! I mean, not until I helped him maneuver around it. But the second he was out of earshot I practically wet my pants. Christ, one second he’s tooling along all blind but happy and the next, wham! His face got all smushed up against the plastic and then he bounced off. A week later and it’s still funny!” I stand and begin to pace, and the dogs, frightened by the tone of my voice, slink off to cower in the guest bathroom.

  I catch my breath and continue. “Shit, I’m not good at navigating public transportation fully sighted—there’s no way I could do it as a blind person. And if some random commuter laughed at my disability like I did Mr. Smashy O’Plexiglas, I’d swing my pointy white stick at the sound of their voice like they were a piñata! Then I’d get arrested and I cannot be blind and in jail! And even if the rod only stabbed me in one eye, I couldn’t wear an eye patch because not only would it totally ruin my birthday but it would also mess up my hair.”

  I stand on top of the mattress, hands on my hips, glowering down at Fletch. He turns another page. “You present a compelling argument.”

  “So you’ll fix it?”

  “Yes.”

  I smirk. “Good.”

  “Tomorrow.” He flips off the light on his nightstand.

  “Arrggh! Why are you so willing to dick around with my vision? How is this a chance you’re okay with taking? I mean, if I go blind because you’re too lazy to go downstairs and get the stuff to fix this—which would take all of five minutes, by the way—how will you live with yourself? I think this pointy bastard’s coming down tonight and you know how often I’m right. What if I’m right right now and I get blinded because you couldn’t lift a finger to take the slightest effort to prevent it? So, what would you do then, huh? What? Tell me, fat boy, What would you do?” I begin to nudge him with my foot.

  Fletch sits back up and turns his light on again and I can see him processing the various scenarios. He scratches his head and finally he says, “That is a dilemma, but I guess…I guess…I guess I’d owe you a Coke.”

  “Fine!” I shout, taking my pillow and putting it down at the other end of the bed. I figure I can probably live with being stabbed in the toe, and don’t think for a minute I wouldn’t make him carry me around. “You know what? I’d better get the best birthday present ever after this.”

  He rubs my calf. “No worries. You’ll get what you deserve.”

  I receive a carpet shampooer for my birthday.

  But the joke’s on him, because it’s exactly what I wanted.

  Not content to celebrate the big day in one state, I go to my parents’ house in Indiana for the weekend. As a gesture to Fletch, I don’t force him to come with me this time. He loves my family, but sometimes they’re a bit of a handful. I mean, I didn’t get this way on my own, you know? Plus my parents are moving closer to my brother’s family soon, so I want to get another visit or two in at the old homestead before the house sells.

  Fresh from reading The Da Vinci Code, my parents and I spend a great deal of time chatting about Sir Isaac Newton. Big Daddy marvels how the bulk of Newton’s accomplishments took place over an eighteen-month span. Can you imagine? Shoot, I’ve gone eighteen months without returning a library book. We wonder if minds that great exist today, and if so, would they have been able to break away from their BlackBerrys and IMs and TiVos long enough to come up with the concept of gravity and the advancement of heliocentrism. Speaking from purely personal experience with said devices, I’d say no. I mean, TiVo? I can record Lost and Veronica Mars at the same time. We are on the other side of the looking-glass here, people.

  We also talk about this “family planning” clinic I always pass when I take Fletch to work. A lot of times when I drive by, I see a bunch of Catholic clergy lined up next to the door. We discuss the efficacy of this strategy, wondering if in fact their presence stops women from seeking birth control, and thus spurs more unwanted pregnancies. We don’t come up with any answers (which really wasn’t our goal anyway); rather, my point here is it’s kind of nice to have been spawned from people who can use “efficacy” in a sentence.

  Our conversation wraps up with an examination of modern literature versus the classics. My mother has recently become addicted to Jane Austen and talks about how dark the Brontë sisters are in comparison. My father prattles on about the genius of Arthur Conan Doyle, and even though our tastes in reading material vary greatly, we all agree Thomas Hardy (brilliant though he may be) bores us silly with his three-page descriptions of brocaded upholstery.

  Please keep the above in mind as I detail what happens next.

  “Jen, come here, I need your help,” my mother calls down the stairs, where I’m having coffee with my dad.

  “What’s up, Mom?” I join my mother in the guest room, which she calls the Heritage Room because (a) it’s filled with family photos, and (b) she can be incredibly queer like that. Fortunately, I did finally convince her to pack away Sandy, the previous inhabitant of this room. Sandy was the doll my mom made me in fourth grade. She was life-sized and wore my Brownie uniform and was one of the best Christmas presents I ever got. Unfortunately, Fletch found her flat-out creepy and never slept well in the room because he was afraid Sandy was going to come to life and strangle him with her long, cotton-stuffed panty-hose arms.

  “I’d like you to help me move this piece of furniture downstairs. The neighborhood is having a garage sale and I want to sell it.” She points to the one thing in their house I desperately want. (Many a time I’ve been tempted to put a “Jen” sticker on it, like in that episode of Frasier when he thinks he’s dying and Niles claims all his stuff.)7 Anyway, this gorgeous Shaker-style buffet would be perfect in my house, and it’s decided that I’m going to take it because my parents can be that kind of cool.

  While readying the piece for the big trip down the stairs, we determine the cabinet doors need to be taped shut. “Mom? These are going to fly open when we put it on an angle. Can you please find some tape so we can keep them closed?”

  My mother returns promptly. “Um, are you trying to be funny? Because I’m pretty sure Scotch tape isn’t going to work on two heavy maple doors.” However, when she r
eturns with duct tape, we realize it really makes no difference because someone has just polished the entire thing and it is slick with lemon oil.

  Oh, yes, I think you know where this is going.

  A different yet equally clueless member of the family helps me maneuver this piece to the staircase. (At this point I’m going anonymous about who’s who due to my desire to get those damn bulldogs.) In a nod to said member’s love of all things Sir Isaac Newton, this person thinks we’d be better flipping it over and allowing gravity to propel it down the stairs, instead of the more controlled method of carrying it down step, pause, step, pause. I’m to stand in front and navigate and he’s going to follow, supporting his half of the weight in back as we do a controlled freefall.

  About halfway down the stairs, someone loses his grip and suddenly my body is the only thing standing between the wall and two hundred pounds of freshly oiled maple, careening toward the landing at approximately the speed of light.