Every Day is Halloween

Halloween night is my favorite night of the year. Last year and the year before, I spent Halloween night at Starry’s. Drinking Starry’s world famous apple cider margaritas with a good friend makes me feel alive. Last Halloween, my best friend Jackson and I drank. We spoke about our fears for the future. Jackson told me a story about how his roommate brandished his rifle at him two days ago. He didn’t verbally make a threat, but Jackson said was in the air. I told him, “If you’re really worried about it, you can always just come live with me.” Jackson didn’t want to impose. I let it go, but maybe I shouldn’t have. We continued partying and a year passed.

When November 1st comes, I don’t know what to do with myself, but that doesn’t matter right now. It’s Halloween. For me, Halloween is Chucky and Tiffany killing everyone who tries to stop them from killing. It’s Shorty from Killer Klowns putting a cherry on top of a human ice cream sundae. Halloween is a niche costume that your friends at the house party are incapable of grasping. What are you even supposed to be?

Sometimes I ask myself this very question. At this point, I don’t know the answer. If it’s possible to find out, I will today. Jackson is meeting me at the local dive bar, Starry’s. Our small college town is expanding dramatically, since they have offered tuition reimbursement programs for working on campus jobs. With expansion, came the destruction of many small businesses that have been around for decades. Starry’s is just one scheduled to be removed within two weeks. 

Pumpkin spice and warm, stale beer meet my nostrils as soon as I enter the bar. It is humid inside, which makes me feel like I’m trying to navigate the Florida Everglades on busy Saturday nights. A witch’s broom was hung up on the mantle of the red brick fireplace that has started to crumble, not unlike the building within two weeks. I meet the gaze of my best friend, Jackson and wave dramatically. Jackson is embarrassed, but he should be used to it by now. I have known him for 3 years. The first year we met, we spent every day together. It was easier freshman year in the dorms. With only a month until graduation, we spend less and less time together. However, we knew it was important to come together on Halloween, our last Halloween. 

Sitting at the bar with Jackson, I spotted two baseball bats on the wall. I am not sure how I never noticed them before; Starry’s isn’t a sport’s bar by any means. 

I mention casually to Jackson, “You know, we could use these to get rid of him once and for all”. He doesn’t say a word but instead gives me a look. I know that look. We are best friends after all.

Jackson said there isn’t a day better suited for it than Halloween. My heartbeat sounded like a drum thumping. I’m not sure how Jackson didn’t hear it. It was time and honestly had been for a while now. 

I wonder how we would do it. Where would we put him? What should he be wearing? Should we leave his wedding ring on or take it off? I don’t want to make these crucial decisions. I should just see what Jackson thinks. He was his roommate after all, so he should know him best. All those sleepless nights due to him screaming at the TV, while playing Call of Duty. Threatening to beat Jackson up if he confronted him in the slightest. Yelling at the top of his lungs when Jackson had too much to drink freshman year and threw up in their trash can. I understand why he wants to do it. He deserves it.

We walk outside letting the crisp autumn breeze flow through our hair. It smells like apple cider donuts with the farmer’s market in town. Jackson asks if I want him to drive, which is not a difficult decision for me. I despise driving. Too many people die in car accidents, and I certainly do not want to be the cause of that. Jackson is the one who has to take the big risks in our friendship because I won’t. Uncertainties tend to make me nervous, at least to a certain extent.

Moving my seat back a bit further, I catch a glimpse of a truck with a big, red shotgun in the bed of it. Uncomfortably, I ask Jackson, “What do you think about guns?” Guns scare me. Frankly, I don’t trust people who own them.

He replies, “They make people act stupid. I should know. He has one.”

“Honestly, I always thought they were stupid,” I laugh.

“We won’t use one then,” Jackson says.

Passing through Perilton, I realize we are getting close. I pick at my fingernails, while Jackson complains about me doing that. There aren’t many radio stations available out here. Jackson clicks it to 99.3 and old-timey bluegrass starts up. It feels fitting based on our setting, but I hate it. God, when will this car ride end? The AC is broken, and sweat is beginning to pool on my palms. I see a sign for a rest stop, so I ask Jackson to stop. I really need to stretch my legs. Might as well grab a Witch’s Brew Alani, even though that surely won’t help my already debilitating anxiety. When I hop back into the passenger seat, I slam it. I know I’ll have to pee within 10 minutes, but we don’t have time for that. I’m an adult. I can hold it until we get done.

We’re finally pulling into the neighborhood. Attempting to hop out of the car silently, we make our way down his road free of any and all potholes. Can’t have the rich folks demolishing their Jags. I worry if people will become suspicious of Jackson’s car. I can feel my palms beginning to sweat profusely and the air smells like cinnamon and money, which I don’t find comforting.

I ask Jackson if he’s nervous, he says “Nah.” Of course, he isn’t. 

The house is large. Actually, calling it a house at all is a bit misleading. It’s a white, colonial style mansion. It makes me hate him even more. The mansion is a far cry from the squalor I live in with paint-chipped walls and no AC. There are lion statues at the entrance with their family name displayed in golden cursive writing. Money exudes from the front door. At this point, I just want to get it over with.

Walking into the foyer sporting baseball bats and a backup pistol, the floorboards creak dramatically underneath our feet. The noise is making me nervous, but I have no reason to be scared of myself. His family keep their doors unlocked because, of course, they could never fathom a crime taking place in their precious neighborhood. 

Walking into the kitchen, we are immediately faced with his grandmother. She’s wearing a royal blue blouse and a pencil skirt two sizes too small. I always imagined how she looked in real life. He always spoke of her as a woman of mystery and power. Now, she just wants to defend her family. She’s pointing a big, red shotgun right at us. I’m certain she smells my fear.