For other kids, Halloween was that special time when you could be something you're not. You could be Satan himself and still be considered a lovely little child (instead of being acknowledged as the borderline retarded little quiff that you are). I, on the other hand, never had any interest in being the saviour of the planet or the harbinger of its destruction. Halloween was the one day I just wanted to be myself, I wanted to get away from the masks, not put another one on. Trouble was I wasn't allowed to be 'me' for Halloween, that wasn't normal. If I didn't wear a costume I was not allowed to go out. I tried to articulate why I didn't want to dress up as something else but failed. Me being a child paired with the fact that explaining things was synonymous with 'talking back' in my parents' eyes, I never could clarify my desire.
And so, I was forced to be a dinosaur, or a vampire, but I was never allowed to be the thing that terrified me the most: myself.
I remember Halloween when I was six years old. I was living in a new town, and didn't have friends yet, so I needed a parent to accompany me on my quest for toothaches and gut-rot. My father worked a lot and I didn't get to see him much, so I asked him to come along. He had very little time to himself as it was, but he agreed. I was ready to shoot out the door and start amassing a saccharine empire, but my father made me wait. He fixed himself a large drink of rye, and we began our trip through the suburbs. After a few houses, I was so excited that I couldn't think straight. My father stopped me and asked "Did you remember to say thank you?". It sounded like he was interrogating a murderer. I guess dad always kept murderers and rude people side by side in his mind. I told him that I had forgotten and I went back to the house to say thanks. Dad sipped his rye. He always had the ability to seem like a moral paragon while breaking open container laws.
"You ready to empty that pillowcase? Looks like it's getting heavy!" It wasn't. He needed to refill his drink. We repeated this process a few times, finally ending with him insisting that I looked really tired and should go to bed.
In my adult life I finally granted my own wish, like some manner of genie autofellatio. I drank rye all night and was completely myself, not stifling my most inner thoughts. I was feared and adored by the locals, like any good ... uh, Halloween guy.
Years later my brothers and I still refer to Halloween as 'rye night' and one of my brothers takes his kids out Trick or Treating with a large glass of rye in hand. Sound like bad parenting to you? Perhaps, perhaps not. What I do remember is that my dad spent what little free time he had making sure his son was happy and well behaved. It doesn't matter to me that he needed alcohol to do it.
