By the time you read this, the party will be over, or almost. That said, once a year, each year for the past six, I receive an invitation to attend a private Halloween party in our community room. Sent forth by two gentlemen who live in a glorious unit with a lake view, the invite always causes me to sweat.
What to wear? What to wear?
The invite practically demands that you come in costume, though I never checked to see if those who decline to dress like fools are turned away by one of the costumed hosts who welcome partiers in.
Last year, in an unending effort to fool folks, I went as a gorilla. I thought the mask was a hit, until my host chirped, “Hi Judith.” Made of latex, it was so unbearably hot that I ripped it off once the gathering got rolling, though I must say, the hosts serve the best drinks and food in town. Not many folks from the building receive invitations, so the packed room is filled with friends of the two gentlemen: lawyers, cops, and assorted persons trying to fool others with frippery.
This can be deceiving. A few years back I stood next to a devastatingly handsome dude dressed as a cop. “I really like your costume,” said I. “It’s not a costume,” he snapped. “I really am a cop.”
It wasn’t Ed Flynn.
At a previous party, a black chap came dressed as Aunt Jemima, complete with a skillet filled with real pancakes. White folks weren’t sure if they should laugh. Anyway, the community room, under the expert decorating skills of the aforementioned gentlemen, comes alive with strobe lights, wild decorations, great music and creepy videos played on the giant teevee. During “normal” use, it’s boringly staid and beige. Nothing much happens, and there are no sounds except the clunk clunk of the ice-making machine. On party night the space morphs into a disco for dancing ghouls, and the ice-making machine clunks overtime in an effort to quench dry throats.
I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone famous (or infamous) at the soiree, as the costumes disguise all distinguishing features, except those hidden under a gorilla mask. This year I’m hiding myself in an opaque plastic drop-cloth from the hardware store, accessorized with rubber gloves. But what to wear on my feet? Oh well, the end point of my “Ghost of Halloween Past” disguise, is to get with the party mood, you know, have fun and still be able to breathe and eat a few pounds of stuff that I shouldn’t be eating. This year I’m taking my own bottle, which means I’ll need to cut a mouth-hole in my plastic drop-cloth. I noticed when I tried it on prior to the party, that the inside steamed-over in mere seconds, giving the effect of being trapped in a car wash.
But do I dare dance?
