I was nervous, and rightly so.
This was, after all, my first effort, and I’d spent hours putting my display together. Neighbors had traditionally embarrassed me with their elaborate displays, mocking my lack of initiative. So this time I broke down and did what I thought was necessary to head off those condescending looks.
Word spread that the Halloween inspectors were around, but you never knew which block they would pick until their sputtering ’85 Honda pulled up. Every year it was the same two – a tall, bespectacled reserved sort and his shorter, pudgy, excitable partner.
In the past, I hadn’t bothered with either because I simply had no business with them. Perhaps I should have at least acknowledged them with a wave or greeting. Maybe it would have made a difference in their evaluation. I doubt it.
I went out to sweep the sidewalk about 10 a.m. this past Sunday when I spotted their car, and immediately, sweat beads formed. I whirled around and rechecked every iota of my display to make certain nothing was amiss. Then I went inside and waited.
And fidgeted.
It wasn’t until almost three hours later that I saw them staring from the end of my short walkway. Around me, others had gone to enormous lengths, even moreso this year when block prizes were added to the individual ones. I felt obligated to hold up my end of the deal.
Determined to appear confident, I burst out my door with a hearty, "Hey There! Welcome to my abode!"
I chuckled. They stared. I stopped chuckling.
"I’m Martin," the tall one barked, "and this is my associate."
"Are these supposed to be spider webs?" asked Thomas, fingering the white gauzy stuff hanging over my doorway.
"Where in God’s name did you buy this stuff?" Martin sniffed.
"Uh, the Party Store…"
He threw up his arms in disgust. "A vacuum, we are dealing with a complete vacuum."
"Listen, I resent my efforts being dismissed…"
"YOU resent? Do you have any idea how many designs we have to evaluate in one week?" I noticed sweat stains under Martin’s armpits.
"What was the overall concept here, sir, if I may be so bold to ask?" Thomas snipped.
"Obviously to frighten. It looks scarier at night, believe me."
"Is that a bat or a nylon smudge?" Thomas said. "Where are your sound effects? You don’t throw a sheet over six wire hangers and expect people to think ‘ghost.’"
"Plus, your color scheme is all wrong," Martin added.
"Damn right," Garvey, my neighbor, threw in. "If you’re gonna have all these lopsided, poorly cut out pumpkins, you don’t dress your goblins in violet."
"Does the word ‘clash’ mean anything to you?" Thomas asked.
By now I was backing quickly toward the entrance, all confidence exploded. "I hope this won’t impact on our block’s performance."
"Ha!" Garvey said in disgust and joined the inspectors as they walked away. "You just buried us, is all you did."
"Maybe if I skipped Thanksgiving and concentrated on Christmas," I called half-heartedly, but they had already put me out of mind.
I’m thinking, If I throw some red wine on the sheet or poke out one of the goblin’s eyes … dammit, I never claimed to be an artist.
"And you, sir, have a problem. Problems, plural." The short one shook his head.
"Well," I spluttered, "I do work full time…"
"Here come the excuses," Thomas interrupted. "It’s always the slackers with the list of reasons."
"I take exception…"
"There’s a basic imbalance here," Martin pointed out. "You’ve got two witches, three skeletons, of rather poor quality I might add, and all of these … pumpkins, but not a ghoul anywhere. You, sir, are ghoul short."
"But here’s a Dracula …"
"Oh please," Thomas spit out. "That is so 1974. Who did you study with?"
"Well… I didn’t actually … I mean, I went to the library and referenced…"
"You do not reference artistic instinct, sir." Martin glared down at me. I took a step backward. "There is a three jack-o-lantern limit. You’ve got pumpkins practically breeding out here."
"I wasn’t aware…"
"Where are your headstones?" Thomas’ face grew red. "Look at this. A scarecrow. With stuffing emerging from its knees. And suspenders. OOOOH, I’m scared."
"No need to be sarcastic."
Garvey was still nosing around.
"He’s ghoul short," Martin explained.
"I could have told him that," Garvey shrugged.
"Then why didn’t you?" I bellowed.
He thought for a second.
"Ain’t none of my business," he responded. – Joe Del Priore