A Halloween Party of My Own

Halloween has arrived in my neighborhood (try to read it in as dispassionate a voice as possible). I was approached by two short guys in masks — could be kids or not — and with their first “trick or treat” I was reminded of how the government forces you to pay taxes. Maybe Halloween is just a tribute to the global redistribution of wealth and, thus, poverty. 

Further down the street, I passed an ex-girlfriend in costume. She told me she was dressed as a witch, but she seemed the same as usual. At my local bar, I was met by a million pumpkins and that spider web sh*t that I always end up losing my contact lenses in. I ordered a beer, and it tasted like death.

Further down, in the pub area, I went to one of my favorites. Instead of the usual beautiful waitresses, I found bloody zombies offering me cocktails of death. Out of the speakers sounded a Michael Jackson remix so terrible that if I harbored any doubts, they were instantly dispelled — this could only be the work of Satan.

I tried to calm down and went to another pub, usually frequented by older people. We often assume that after 40 you don’t make such an ass of yourself — then you see Joe Biden and the theory falls apart. Inside this pub, people who were on their fifth and sixth divorce were taking advantage of being able to hide their faces behind masks to go all out, and on my first attempt at flirting with some girl wearing a Freddy Krueger mask, I came to the conclusion that I would rather flirt with the toilet flusher. 

A guy who only yesterday had my fullest respects, a well-known accountant in town, walked up to me waving his arms in the air and told me off: “Itxu, you’re incredibly boring. How come you didn’t dress up for this horror party?” “Because when I want to see something terrible,” I replied, “I just turn on the damn news.” I must have scared him because he turned and scurried off, allowing me to see that his very strange outfit was an attempt at a minotaur. Although, if you had told me he was supposed to be a cockroach I would have believed it too.

I took my drink outside to smoke, breaking the municipal laws that say that you can not drink on the street because I guess that on a day when no one is doing what they should be doing with decency and respect for the civil code, the police will not go to the bother of fining me; besides, it was the second time today — I already had my particular Halloween when I woke up face to face with a repugnant traffic fine, starting my day off feeling like a gremlin in the rain. 

I was smoking my cigarette, contemplating the sky when the doorman, disguised as a second-hand demon, informed me that I couldn’t drink outside the bar. So I asked him if he preferred me to smoke inside the bar. He tried his most threatening face but, painted red and wearing those tights, he looked like an M&M just fallen from the packet and run over by what might have been a herd of tigers.

Then I saw a Moroccan-looking boy dressed in a blue jumpsuit and wielding a chainsaw, which he would activate with a deafening roar every time a group of girls walked by — a strange and original way of flirting with, I don’t know, street lamps, I guess. Looking at him I realized that today’s youngsters either don’t watch the news or don’t value their lives, because, in the middle of a worldwide anti-terrorist alert, I wouldn’t even dream of walking around the city waving a chainsaw, no matter how Halloweeny it might be — even less so if I looked Arabic. But I guess everyone has the right to choose how they want to die shot down by the police in the middle of a night out. 

At last, I returned to the bar, roaring like a grumpy old codger, ordered something to drink, and raised my glass to toast to all the saints, which, to my surprise, instigated a flood of cheers and ovations, including from those grown-ups who had appeared at the bar disguised as murderous nuns. I suppose the thing is that there is nothing worse than seeking social acceptance by acting the fool only to have someone recognize you and, by their mere presence, remind you that you are being a fool. 

Happy All Saints’ Day, and don’t forget to honor your Faithful Departed!

Translated by Joel Dalmau.

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