Lights illuminated our house, ten bags of candy brimmed a colossal bowl and my husband donned a Doctor Who costume. Since there are twelve doctors to date, I should specify he intended to be the fourth one, Tom Baker. We were ready for Halloween night in our new abode.
The doorbell rang. Our first trick-or-treaters had arrived. Cinderella, Buzz Lightyear and Superman stood before me holding pumpkin containers and— in unison— said, “Trick-or-Treat.”
Superman pointed at my husband and announced, “Look! He’s dressed as Harry Potter.”
The Doctor Who scarf shared a similar gold and maroon color scheme to the scarf of the famous Hogwarts wizard. It was an understandable error. Doctor Who is an obscure sci-fi television show while Harry Potter is a multi-million dollar franchise with an amusement park. For the next hour, an unremitting stream of eager children gathering candy appeared at our door and an interminable number of people identified my husband as Harry Potter.
And then I had a strange encounter.
The doorbell rang. A young couple stood before me. I searched for their child, but I was unable to locate one.
The young man said, “Trick-or-treat.”
I did a double-take. Neither the man nor woman wore a costume. At first, I believed their age to be in their twenties but then I reconsidered. Could they be in high school? The man had a beard, and the woman’s hair was swept up into a ponytail. They held their pillowcases in front of me, waiting for their treats.
After the shock and disbelief wore off, I felt slightly annoyed. I purchased the ten bags of candy for adorable kids dressed in costumes, not for teens in jeans and t-shirts. I considered offering my opinion by stating, “If you are old enough to grow a beard, drive a car, vote for the president, get a job, then surely you are old enough to drive yourself to the store and buy your own candy or, at the very least, a costume.”
The young man must have sensed my hesitation or possibly read my mind because a smirk appeared across his face. He was offering a subtle reminder that the first word he uttered was “trick.”
I thought to myself, “He is also old enough to procure a dozen eggs, a roll of toilet paper and a bottle of shaving cream.”
I didn’t want to be “that” house that the teens egged, TPed or decorated with shaving cream, so I begrudgingly dropped a Kit Kat, Milky Way and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup into each of their pillowcases. I was tempted to add, “Which Tony are you supposed to be? Soprano or Montana?”
The young man must have Tweeted or Snapchated or accessed whatever mode of teen communication is currently being used to send messages.
I’m guessing he said something along the lines of, “House #100 is giving out mad candy. And be sure to check out the weird dude dressed as Harry Potter.”
Because after the couple left, we received an influx of similar looking teens.
Our candy supply was running dangerously low. We panicked. What if we ran out? Our new house would be marked like Hester Prynne with a Scarlett A on her dress. It was almost 8pm, so we boldly decided to turn off all the lights and waited. Every sound we heard made us wonder if we were under attack. Finally, the noises died down, and we felt somewhat relieved.
“Well, that isn’t what I expected,” I said.
“Me neither,” said my husband. “I mean, Harry Potter doesn’t look anything like Doctor Who.”
“No, I meant the non-costumed teens invading and ‘asking’ for candy.”
“Yeah, they were a little old for that. When I was a teen, we just went around egging or spraying shaving cream at houses.”
Okay, I didn’t expect to hear that either.
Next year I’m going to try to prevent some of these adolescents from freeloading off my candy intended for fledgling children decked out in elaborate costumes. Near the doorbell there will be a sign declaring:
Please ONLY ring the doorbell if:
- You are dressed in a REAL costume. A sweatshirt, t-shirt and jeans do NOT count. If you are carrying a pillowcase to hold the candy, you probably shouldn’t bother ringing it either.
- Due to your age, you are unable to obtain a driver’s license or a job, and you can’t grow facial hair.
- Please read #1 and #2 again to make sure you fit ALL the requirements.
Don’t worry, I know what you are thinking. My intricate preparations will also include a fully stocked closet of cleaning supplies.
This article was originally published on YourTeenMag.com. Cheryl Maguire holds a Master of Counseling Psychology degree. She is married and is the mother of twins and a daughter. Her writing has been published in The New York Times, National Geographic, Parents Magazine, AARP, and many other publications. She is a professional member of ASJA. You can find her at Twitter @CherylMaguire05.