My older sister could be difficult, indeed physically violent at times, but she was well-read and generally knowledgeable about world affairs. 

“Listen, you BLOCKHEAD! If you want to meddle with black magic and raise the forces of darkness, it ain’t gonna happen after school in a pumpkin patch!”

She was also practical-minded. 

“No, you’ll need to operate out of a consecrated CATHOLIC graveyard at the stroke of midnight …”

Chilled to the very bone at the thought of Holy Sepulchre Cemetery in the middle of the night, I whimpered, “Would a pet cemetery do?”

She slugged me in the arm. “How can my own flesh and blood be so STUPID? NO! And you’ve got to be totally naked and have a living sacrifice ready.”

“A living sacrifice? Normally I just offer up some kandy korn to the Great Pumpkin.” Which was technically a fib because usually I ate it all myself.

“No, dear brother. A living sacrifice! Made of flesh and blood … and GORE!”

I considered sneaking up from behind and hitting her over the head with a baseball bat and dragging her unconscious body to Holy Sepulchre and dumping it into an open grave, but then dismissed the idea as entirely too ambitious. “Would an anthropomorphic beagle do?”

She scratched her chin. I wondered when she would notice that I noticed the single black hair growing there and what the repercussions might be. “I don’t see why not … just as long as there’s enough blood in the stupid dog to begin with.”

*

DEAR GREAT PUMPKIN, DUE TO THE IRREGULARITY OF YOUR VISITATIONS  I HAVE TAKEN INDEPENDENT PROFESSIONAL ADVICE THIS YEAR AND WILL BE AWAITING ON YOU TO RISE IN THE LOCAL PROTESTANT (NOT CATHOLIC I HOPE YOU DON’T MIND EVEN THOUGH MY SISTER SAID THIS WAS NON-NEGOTIABLE) CEMETERY (VS THE PUMPKIN PATCH) ON HALLOWEEN NIGHT (AS SINCERITY IS MORE A STATE OF MIND THAN A GEOGRAPHIC COORDINATE). AT THIS POINT I STAND PRETTY MUCH ALONE IN MY FAITH IN YOU BUT REFER THOSE INTERESTED TO HEBREWS 11:1. I.E. THE ASSURANCE OF THINGS HOPED FOR, THE CONVICTION OF THINGS NOT SEEN. AS PER USUAL, I LOOK FORWARD TO RECEIVING LOTS OF PRESENTS. P.S. AND OF COURSE BY PRESENTS I DO NOT MEAN HAND-KNITTED CASUAL WEAR BUT TOYS. PLEASE REFER TO THE TOY SECTION OF THE CURRENT EDITION OF THE SEARS CHRISTMAS WISH BOOK CATALOG.

*

Before I left that night, my older sister handed me a kitchen knife dripping with pumpkin flesh.

“You better take this … in case an outlaw motorcycle gang picked the same location for their rumble.”

*

I shined my flashlight on the gravestones. They were awfully small and most simply had the inhabitants’ initials or their Christian names. The only encomium I could make out was ‘WIFE’. I settled down next to this marker and began my vigil. I did not expect Sweet Sally Brown to make even a cursory visit this year, emotionally scarred as she was by last year’s no-show. I couldn’t find an appropriate sincerity prayer in my research at the library, so instead I used the Serenity Prayer composed by the American theologian Reinhold Niebhur in 1932–33 and still favored by contemporary alcoholics.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” What could possibly be more sincere?

*

I was sitting there for about an hour, my extremities getting colder and colder, my joints stiffer and stiffer, when an old beat-up Buick pulled up in front of the cemetery gates. Smoke was pouring out of the exhaust pipe and “Yummy, Yummy, Yummy” by the Ohio Express was blaring from the radio. A hippie with long hair and a beard got out of the passenger side leaving the door open. He bounded up the stone steps and proceeded to take a long leak against the side of the half-ruined mausoleum. He sighed and sang along to the song filling the Autumn night.

“Love, you’re such a sweet thing, good enough to eat thing, and that’s a-what I’m gonna do …” He eventually finished (even my father after a beer bust didn’t take that long!) and zipped up his jeans and was headed out when he saw my flashlight, which I forget to switch off.

He advanced towards me. “Whoah. What’s going on in here?” Panicking, I shone the flashlight in his face. He was wearing a fringed buckskin jacket and no shirt and moccasin boots, exactly the kind (Minnetonka) I wanted but my mother said were too expensive. He held up his arms to block the light. “Hey, man. I come in peace …” I switched the light off and he moved closer. Adjusting his eyes to the darkness, he stood over me and smiled as I gathered my security blanket to my chest. It took every ounce of what little courage and self-discipline I had not to stick my thumb into my mouth as well. “What are you doing in the boneyard this time of night, little brother?”

I swallowed hard. “I’m waiting for the Great Pumpkin to land.” The hippie looked perplexed so I elaborated. “The Great Pumpkin. Who will descend from the heavens and bring lots of toys … and tidings of great joy.”

He nodded his head. “Oh yeah, the Great Pumpkin. That’s some Native American thing, right? You Mojave? Sioux?”

I shook my head. “No, but I know Indian sign language.” I made the gesture for “Go, go away!” and then immediately realized my mistake.

But the hippie had obviously never been a Boy Scout and just mirrored the gesture. “Very impressive.” He scratched his beard and then crouched down so he was directly looking into my eyes. “Yeah, for such a small person you obviously can take care of yourself. But it’s Halloween. Won’t you miss out on Trick-or-Treating?” 

It was as if his crazed eyes glowed in the dark. I edged backwards, afraid of being hypnotized. In my calmest, most rational voice I said, “Even if I didn’t have a prior engagement, probably not. I’d like to break the vicious circle of consumption which is wreaking havoc on our planet.” Waiting with an empty pillowcase to fill with manna (or preferably toys) from heaven, I wondered if he would catch the inherent hypocrisy in this statement.

But he didn’t. “You are wise beyond your years. Just like me!” He nodded towards the idling car. “Well, now me and my pal was just going to do some creepy-crawling. We forgot it was Mischief Night last night so we’re celebrating today.” He pulled at his beard some more and stared down at me. For a hideously long time. “You wanna tag along?”

            I could no longer swallow. “Me?” I felt for the kitchen knife on the ground but only came up with dead leaves.

“Yeah, we’d be your babysitters.” He laughed. “Make sure you don’t stay up too late!”

“Won’t I need a costume … to ‘creep’ along with you fellows?”

He laughed. “No, man. Just as you are.” He glanced at my yellow windbreaker and blue Buster Brown shoes. “I mean, the get-up’s kinda square, even for a kid … but that’s OK. We’d get you lots of toys …” He laughed again. “You’d be the Artful Dodger. And I’d be Fagin!” He  stood up, began to jump around and sing and dance. “You’ve got to pick a pocket or two, boys! You’ve got to pick a pocket or two …” 

I realized that he meant me no harm. But wanted me to join his obviously criminal enterprise, which was even more frightening. I decided to keep up the pretense of an intelligent countercultural conversation as a survival tactic. I cleared my throat and changed the subject. “Have you ever partaken of any psychedelic substances?”

He laughed. “Acid? Mushrooms? Peyote? Many, many times …”

“And do you feel as a result your consciousness was expanded?”

“Oh, for sure. I went right through the looking glass and have never looked back. And you should turn on as soon as you can …”

“But from my reading of Dr Leary, in the right setting and with proper guidance …”

“First day of Kindergarten all the kiddies should get a dose with their milk! I wish I could lay some on you right now but the cupboard’s bare.”

Though harmless (I hoped) he was certainly (certifiably?) insane. A sustained honk came from the idling Buick. I jumped at the sound. The hippie looked over his shoulder at the street and made the Indian hand signal for ‘cool it!’ “You sure you don’t want to come with us on our midnight ramble?” He hunched over into character as Fagin and started singing again. “Consider yourself one of the family …”

I wish I could say I was tempted for a moment to follow this Pied Piper out of the dull suburban confines of Hamelin, into a life more Dickensian, full of japes and misadventure and mild mayhem. But I immediately saw that life with this maniac would be more like one of those TV Movies of the Week where an outlaw motorcycle gang (similar to the one invoked by my older sister) or bunch of juvenile delinquents terrorize a small town or nuclear family until the forces of law and order inevitably intervene and send them directly to jail. Suddenly the air-conditioned nightmare seemed preferable to juvenile hall.

“Thanks a lot, but it’s getting close to my bedtime.”

The hippie shrugged. “Yeah, I know the feeling. Don’t let anything come between a man and his bed.” He began to play his thighs as though they were bongos, as if this were his sign for farewell. “Anyway, peace and love, little brother.” He flashed the two-fingered sign and bounded down the steps and back into the Buick. I waited until I was sure they were gone for good and ran home with my teeth chattering.

*

Early the next morning, my older sister stood at the foot of my bed, more jarring than any alarm clock, shouting. “SO, HOW DID IT GO, BLOCKHEAD?”

I raised my head and wondered if my wooziness and shivering was psychosomatic. “I’m afraid it was a no-show again …”

“You did go to Holy Sepulchre as instructed?”

“Actually, I decided on the Quaker Burial Ground instead …”

She threw up her arms. “The QUAKERS?! Oh, GOOD GRIEF! I’m not sure they even believe in GOD! How the hell do you expect the Great Satanic Pumpkin Majesty to show up there? He’d have to be pretty desperate.”

“I think he might just be …” I turned over in my bed and said a prayer, this time impromptu, asking God for a temperature above 96.8º F that would last until Thanksgiving (though of course nine out of ten doctors are now arguing for 97.5º F).