Chronographia (chro-no-graph’-i-a): Vivid representation of a certain historical or recurring time (such as a season) to create an illusion of reality. A kind of enargia:[the] generic name for a group of figures aiming at vivid, lively description.
“The frost was on the pumpkin. The hay was in the barn.” It was time to start thinking about Halloween. As usual, I was anguishing over what to wear as a costume. Last year, I went trick or treating as Felix the Cat, a cartoon character from the 1930s. I make my own costumes, instead of wearing one of those fire traps from Spencer’s Gifts. I wore black leotards, my black turtleneck, my black wingtips, and a black balaclava. I carried a pillowcase. My tail was one of those things they sell in Vermont Country Store catalogue—you stuff it in the crack between your door and the floor to stop the draft from coming in. To emphasize that I was a cat, I carried a catnip mouse toy in addition to the pillowcase.
Even though it was Halloween, I was arrested and booked on suspicion of burglary. My pillowcase was empty, so they had nothing on me, except the fact that I was a 32 year old man trick or treating like I was a kid. I couldn’t help it. Halloween had its hold on me since I was 7 years old and made the rounds for the fist time holding my mother’s hand. I was dressed as a hobo, and it was the only time in my life that she afforded me a modicum of human affection. She took me out that Halloween on the condition we split the candy I collected 50-50. It was a small price to pay for my mother’s touch. That was the first and only Halloween we spent together. In subsequent years, my sister took me out and she, like my Mom, charged me half the candy I collected.
This year, I was taking no chances. After bourse of anguishing, I decided I was going out as a farmer wearing overhauls and a straw hat, a red plaid shirt, and big rubber boots. I was carrying a pillowcase and an old pitchfork I found in my garage.
The first house I went to was the last house I’ll ever go to. I rang the bell, the door opened and a huge growling dog came running at me. I lowered my pitchfork and impaled the dog. The dog squirmed around, whined a little, and died a cruel death. The owner grabbed my pitchfork and lunged at me yelling “Murderer!” I turned around to run and he stabbed me in the ass. I ran down the sidewalk with the pitchfork hanging out of my ass and passed out bleeding profusely. Somebody called an ambulance and I was transported to the hospital. It took 60 stitches to close my wounds.
I paid a $200 fine for “animal cruelty.” My assailant was not charged, and purchased a new giant dog to terrorize visitors with.
As sad as it is, I’m swearing off Halloween forever. Instead, I’m going to dress up like a turkey and march in the Thanksgiving Day parade.
