The Halloween games began in September when I found a plastic rat hiding on the TV stand. Soon after came the discovery of a fake slug on the toilet seat. At least I think it was a slug.
We hadn’t even unpacked the rubber snakes yet. (A lot of things got left behind when we moved from Maui two years ago, but not the rubber snakes.)
The Oct. 31 holiday was always a big deal in my family, but not so much for my husband, Jim, when he was a lad. I suspect he’s making up for lost time with a never-ending series of Halloween pranks.
He once rigged a snake with fishing line so when you pulled open the door of the clothes dryer, it sprung out onto the floor. It also turned up under the bedcovers, in the shower and other unexpected places. The toilet seat lid was similarly booby-trapped with spiders.
Our daughter recalls the humiliation of being just a couple of months into her freshman year of high school and having her dad pick her up during Halloween week, honking the horn while wearing a clown wig. The next day it was a Rastafarian get-up with dreadlocks.
One Halloween a gorilla mask caught his fancy. I’d turn around and startle at seeing the furry face just inches from mine, or he would sneak outside at night and stand silently by a window waiting to be noticed.
Jim is also very good at creating scary characters by stuffing his denim overalls and long-sleeved T-shirt with rags, attaching work gloves and garden boots, and topping it with a mask or pumpkin head and straw hat. Using a mop handle and broom for a spine, he’d prop up his creature before leaving for his graveyard shift, knowing the kids and I would arrive home in the dark and round the corner to discover the menacing intruder. Sometimes it was Freddy Krueger or the guy in a hockey mask holding a machete.
But we got him back good one year. After a few days on display, his Freddy figure had become a fixture upstairs, to the point we hardly noticed it. So while my husband was out on an errand, I had my son change into Freddy’s clothes and mask. When Jim returned home and came up the stairs, the Nightmare on Elm Street jolted to life, brandishing his bladed glove.
Jim backpedaled in terror, nearly stumbling backward down the stairs like Martin Balsam’s detective in “Psycho.” That scared me for real. We called a truce, or at least agreed to a de-escalation of the fright factor.
This year we’ll be apart on Halloween; Jim is visiting his family. It’s a bit of a relief, frankly.
But I made sure he packed his wig collection. And the fake slug. I hear he’s knocking ’em dead.
“She Speaks” is a weekly column by the women writers of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. Reach Christie Wilson at cwilson@staradvertiser.com.
