This Halloween, I went as Passover
Halloween is a vastly changed experience when you’re single; I’m not single — happily, I haven’t been for two years — so my costume this Halloween reflected the company I kept, rather than the company I sought (i.e., a sexy kitten, or a sexy nurse, or a sexy, disease-free prostitute).
On Friday of that weekend, I was attending a grad school gathering with Lis; on Tuesday, Mumbo Jumbo, Inc. had to make an appearance at a client’s party. Now, neither Lis nor Gerard (my business partner) seemed particularly thrilled by the prospect of getting dressed-up: Lis disavows the isolation that a costume often imposes, while Gerry bellyached, “Ugh, there’s nothing worse than spending Halloween with artists. You’ve got to be ironic, and environmentally conscious, and professional. And all they have to drink is punch.”
Yeah, well, I didn’t see the big deal. To Lis, I proposed that we go as holidays; that way, it could be a joint effort, but there remained some room for creativity. (I much prefered my idea hers: dressing as characters from Clue. Boo.) And I informed Gerry that I’d be going as Passover — good luck being any more ironic than that.
Lis — somewhat predictably, I think — went as Valentine’s Day, even after I’d suggested Cinco de Mayo, or maybe Boxing Day. I had to explain what Passover was to a few of her peers, and I had a full beer spilled on me (as evidenced, bottom right), but I’d say the costume was an overall success. Easy access, the materials only cost a few bucks (plus a doorknob, but never you mind how I acquired that) — my only headache resulted from the repeated M. Night Shyamalan inquiries. C’mon, grad students — you’ve never heard of the Old Testament? Next you’ll tell me they took “god” out of the Pledge of Allegiance.
Gerard elected to dress as the guy who got stopped at O’Hare, and subsequently missed his flight. (This costume is easily accomplished by arriving late, drinking way too much punch, and snapping at anyone who asks what your costume is.) The client found me both ironic, and appropriately environmentally conscious, and was thrilled that Gerry so delighted in his homemade punch — so everyone was happy. That is, unless you too considered yourself entitled to punch. Uh-uh.
But my real only-on-Halloween moment (like, say, the time I slipped on some ice in Maine, and was later photographed as an angel bleeding profusely from the head) came while heading uptown. If ever in your life you have the opportunity to ride New York City public transit on October 31, you take it. I was just sitting there, happily listening to music and observing all the colorful, creative, and downright criminal costumes of my fellow commuters . . . when I happened to notice I was sitting next to a Hasid. Who was looking at me suspiciously.
Uh-oh. I hadn’t meant to offend anybody — or, well, I hadn’t really meant to offend anybody? Only, I was hoping everyone around me would start worrying I might offend somebody, and begin to act all cagey and aloof. And I didn’t — I don’t — consider my costume offensive . . . but I could see how maybe a Hasid might. Or, no, I couldn’t see that, but I could see a Hasid being offended, for reasons I considered trivial. It was really an exhausting few seconds for me.
I removed my headphones. He looked up, and said, “The blood’s kinda pink.”
I held my costume at an angle, so we could both see it. “Maybe in this light,” I conceded. “Think I pass?”
“Are you the first born?” he asked. When I nodded, he waited a moment before concluding, “I think you’re in the clear.”
So there you have it: not only was I Passover this Halloween — I was actually passed-over. Which, in the greater scheme of things, is probably sexier than a sexy kitten, even, or a sexy nurse. Though, if you’re single, and you went home that night with the sexy, disease-free prostitute? I don’t know if the same can be said of you.
