I could be perfectly happy spending the rest of my Halloweens with a gay man at a fancy joint. I don’t know if that means I’m doomed to spend the other 364 days a year letting my cats shit all over my home as I write West Wing fan fiction by hand, but if that’s the case, so be it. I had fun!
Before we hit Le Club, Brock came over to my house to get ready, bringing with him candy which we planned to pass out to the little children in my hood. I threw on a wig and a dress and painted Brock’s face for his “Deconstructed: Ghost.” We took an offensive amount of photos of ourselves and listened at the window for the pitter patter of tiny costumed feet. Each time Brock would hear a child, he’d race out the front door with a big bowl of candy. And every single time he did, the children would walk right past him. Brock was literally shoving candy in their faces and they rejected him.
Okay, the rejected us.
Those kids had no problem stopping next door, no problem hopping from house to house taking candy from everyone else. They simply had a problem with us. We ended up giving our candy to my neighbors who graciously accepted and implied that we were being rejected because the kids didn’t know us.
“Most people giving out candy on this block are old families that have been here for a long time.”
So basically, we’re snubbed by children on Halloween because we’re gentrifying the neighborhood. Fair enough, but it’s still free candy. We weren’t making (loud) razor blade jokes or anything. Don’t kids love candy? If yuppies were passing out free burrata on rustic bruscetta or salted caramel anything, I’d be all over it.
But Brock trying to give a 6-year old a Butterfinger? No thanks, enthusiastic man in a weird white outfit. We’ll pass…