He had never celebrated Halloween before. That was, of course, understandable since he had been created on a damp Tuesday in Prague in 1601. He’d spent most of the intervening centuries in cellars.
His creator had consulted two primary texts in forming him: Yarmolinsky’s History of the Ashkenazy and Rabbi Eleazar’s Commentary on the Sefer Yetzirah. The procedure had been complicated by both fragmentary documentation and, in places, inexpert translation. Neither text mentioned anything about the lure of seasonal consumption of candy.
Nevertheless, he was very interested in Halloween. Particularly the candy.
He had learned about trick-or-treating from a television he found in the house where his maker’s descendants now lived. The concept was, even to him, absurdly simple. Children dressed in elaborate costumes, knocked on doors, and were given candy – sometimes lots of candy – for their efforts.
The costume wasn’t a problem. He put on an old woolen coat, a battered hat, and a pair of shoes that were just a bit too big. He looked at himself in a mirror. The clothes didn’t drape right and thus gave him an even more misshapen appearance than he already possessed. Still, given the occasion, he was quite satisfied.
At the first house, a woman opened the door. “Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “That is an awesome costume!”
He nodded solemnly. “Thank you,” he muttered.
The woman laughed and dropped three miniature chocolate bars into the old burlap bag he carried. “Happy Halloween,” she said as he descended the front porch steps.
He stopped on the sidewalk and examined the candy. He had never tasted chocolate. He ate all three of the bars before he reached the next house. Along the way, something quite remarkable happened. He discovered joy.
By the fourth house, he had perfected a system. “Trick or treat,” he’d say with as much intonation as he could manage. There followed the inevitable, “Wow, great costume” and the bestowal of candy. It was flawless … and just as seemingly automatic.
At one place, a young girl stared at him. “How did you make your skin look like that,” she asked with genuine interest. “Did you, like, use a 3D printer or something?”
“It’s clay,” he responded.
At another, a man complimented him on the detail on his forehead. “That’s an incredible tattoo. It almost looks like a real language.”
He reached up and touched his forehead. “It’s Hebrew.”
“Very realistic,” the man observed. “Did you do it yourself, in a mirror maybe?”
“No. Rabbi did it.”
“That’s the spirit, right!”
After two hours, he had accumulated enough confectionary to fill a wheelbarrow. He had also consumed about two pounds of it.
It was at that point that he began to feel strange. There was an odd, unaccustomed pressure in his head. His vision, such as it was, became even more blurry. His knees felt weak. He found himself sitting on a lawn in front of what appeared to be an abandoned house at the end of a
street.
A boy of about twelve approached and sat down beside him. “Dude,” the boy said with admiration, “that costume is, like, dope.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, assuming he had just been paid another compliment.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve never felt like this.”
“Should I call somebody?”
He considered what the boy had said. “I believe I have diabetes. I’ve heard the word and …”
“You’ve heard the word,” the boy repeated, confused. “Listen, mister, my cousin has diabetes. I don’t think that’s how it works.” He looked at the enormous bag of candy the man was carrying.
“You probably have, like, a sugar high or something.”
“A sugar high?”
“Sure. I mean, if you’ve eaten too much of that stuff …”
“I see,” he said as he looked down at his bag. Tonight was, if he could trust his memory, the first time he had ever eaten anything … let alone two pounds of candy.
The boy pulled out his phone. “I’m calling 911.”
“Very well.” Meanwhile, a woman from across the street shouted, “Hey! Great costume.”
He raised one hand weakly in acknowledgment. “Thank you.” He looked at his bag and reached inside. He pulled out a peanut butter cup.
The boy gave him the kind of look his mom did when he was on the verge of doing or saying something really stupid.
“You’re not going to eat that, are you?”
He considered the question for a moment before answering. “No,” he said with great deliberation, “I’m going to save it … for later.” Head swimming, he stretched out his legs on the lawn and closed his eyes.
Soon, an ambulance arrived. Two EMTs, a man and a woman, hurried across the lawn. “What happened?” the woman asked as she and her partner began unpacking their equipment.
“I think he ate too much candy,” the boy explained. “And he thinks he caught diabetes.”
The male EMT knelt down beside the man. “Sir, can you tell us your name?”
The man thought for moment. “I’m not sure I have one.”
The two EMTs exchanged a glance. The unspoken implication was, of course, what now?
“Okay. That’s fine,” the woman said as she, too, knelt down. “I’m Emma. My partner’s name is Diego. We’re going to take care of you.”
Emma checked the man’s wrist. Then his neck. “I’m not getting a pulse.” Without being asked, Diego double-checked. He shook his head. Nothing.
“Should I have one?” The man on the ground asked. “A pulse, I mean.”
Emma and Diego exchanged another look. Diego spoke, “Generally … I’d say … yes.”
Once again, the man considered his response. “Perhaps it is diabetes after all.”
“I’d say that’s highly doubtful,” Diego replied.
The EMT’s began working on their patient. “Let’s get his feet elevated,” Emma said. They carefully lifted his legs, surprised at how light they were, and put them up on one of their medical packs.
The man looked uncomfortable. “I’m feeling somewhat inverted.”
“You’re doing fine,” Emma reassured him as she placed an icepack on his forehead. “Just relax.”
“I could not be more … relaxed,” he said as the icepack slowly began to warm. Eventually, a little water ran down the man’s forehead and onto his cheek.
“Here, let’s get that dried off for you,” Diego suggested. “Make you more comfortable.” He took a gauze pad and gently wiped the man’s forehead. He noticed that a portion of the tattoo there had disappeared. He wiped again, then once more.
The man on the ground seemed to blink. “I believe something is happening.” Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, his face slackened. His shoulders collapsed inward and his arms lost their shape. The clay beneath the magnificent costume began to crumble.
Emma and Diego stood and backed away. “What the hell,” they said in unison.
The man on the ground continued to dissolve beneath his coat. There was no dramatic movement. No final word or gasp. Just a soft, dry collapse. His woolen jacket settled onto the grass. His battered hat tipped sideways. His oversize shoes remained where his feet had once been. Beneath it all was a small pile of dust.
The two EMTs stared. Neither spoke. Then Emma looked toward the boy, but the boy was gone.
“Where’d the kid go?” Diego asked.
“I don’t know,” Emma said softly as she turned and scanned the street. “Wherever he went, he took the dude’s candy.”
“All of it.” Diego said. “Except for that.” He pointed to a lone peanut butter cup that lay on the grass next to the man’s clothes.
Emma shook her head. “Shit. Every Halloween, it’s something. Can’t wait for this night to be over.”
“Amen to that,” Diego agreed. “It’s worse than a full moon.”
“Hey, partner,” she said as they walked back to the ambulance. “Let’s log this one in as just another prank. That okay with you? Save us a ton of explaining.”
Diego gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up. As they reached their vehicle and got in, the radio sputtered to life with yet another call.
James C. Clar