The Good Halloween Candy Is in the Freezer

My friend Marc Davis and I were fifteen and high from some fat, poorly rolled joints when we had the genius idea of going trick-or-treating to get some candy. It was around 8:30 and the streets in our Michigan suburb were cold, dark and empty.

One house still had their glowing Halloween decorations on. I rang the bell and the old guy who opened the door said, “It’s pretty late now, boys.” He looked at me and Marc up and down. “What are you two dressed as anyway?”

“Teenagers in hats,” I said, giggling. “And we’re both named Mark, but he spells his with a C instead of a K.” Marc was too stoned to speak but nodded along seriously, like this was an important negotiation.

“Aren’t you too old for this?”

“My little brother is sick, and I promised I’d get him some candy,” I said on the spot, taking my Detroit Tigers hat off to collect whatever he’d give us.

“Uh-huh. Well here then,” the man said, dropping a few bars into my cap. “I hope your brother feels better.” Marc and I sped off and inhaled our bounty, laughing.

“I can’t believe he bought it,” I said, my mouth filled with Snickers.

That was the last time I ever went trick-or-treating as a kid, though it shouldn’t count. You’re not a child when you’re stoned and fifteen. You’re just an idiot.

My own kids are grown and out of the house. No more helping them zip up their winter coats over their costumes because it started to snow. No following them around the neighborhood with a beer poured into my water bottle. Last year, I even forgot to buy candy until Halloween morning, when the selection was terrible. We had to give out second-rate treats, like mini Twizzlers and boxes of Jolly Ranchers.

“Take as many as you want,” I said cheerfully.

My freezer was stocked with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Snickers, and Milky Ways, but those are mine. I don’t know if my wife Trish knows I bury them below the frozen chicken, though sometimes they disappear faster than I expected.

Trish likes to stand on the front sidewalk and talk to the neighbors while I’m at the door. She knows the neighbors by name, and I’d just say, “hey neighbor.” I look at the trick-or-treaters at my door and have no idea what they’re dressed as. I asked two nine-year-olds, “And who are you supposed to be?” They rolled their eyes. “Steve? From Minecraft?”

We don’t put up as many decorations now, but we still have our old glowing witch and electric pumpkins. When we first put them up, fifteen years ago, both our five-year-old daughter Hannah and our floppy-eared puppy Max were spooked by the witch’s laugh. She cackled whenever you passed by. Max would bark like crazy.

Max died climbing the stairs five years ago, at 3 a.m. On Halloween.

The witch’s eyes still light up, but she doesn’t laugh anymore. She’s no scarier than the glowing pumpkin she’s squatting on.

After the doorbell stopped ringing last year, Trish and I sat down for a movie and a glass of wine. It was after 8 when the doorbell rang again.

I paused the movie and heard my knee pop when I stood up. I put my wine glass down on the hallway bench, opened the door, and there were a couple of teenagers, smelling like skunks.

“Trick or treat,” they said together. One kid was wearing a paper shopping bag with the word “Boo” scribbled across it. The other made a much more valiant effort, wearing what looked like an old green and white middle school football jersey, black eye paint, and shoulder pads. His belly crept out at the bottom.

I looked in my candy bowl. I only had mini bags of Twizzlers left.

“Hold on a sec,” I said, and went to the freezer, where I grabbed some of my stash. I gave them each one Reese’s, one Snickers, and one Milky Way.

“That’s it, go home,” I said.

I stood outside shivering, watching them run down the street, laughing. They didn’t stop anywhere else that I could see. Nobody was left on our cold and dark block. I unplugged the cord that lit up our decorations and went back inside.

I picked up my wine glass and took a sip as I stood in the dark hallway.

Trish called out. “You coming back?”

“Hang on,” I said.

I went back outside, bent over, and plugged the cord back into the wall.