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The Kid Who Hated to Trick or Treat

When I was a kid, I hated going trick or treating.

My father could never understand why every Halloween, I would turn into a little old man--begging to stay home and watch television with the lights off instead of having to put on a costume and go door to door for candy.

"Every kid loves to trick or treat," he would say, and like many fathers, he could make a sweeping generalization sound like an emperor's edict.

"But I don't."

I should probably mention that I loved watching televison as a kid, and more than anything, I loved television specials.

Every year around Christmas time, I kept a list of holiday specials I HAD to watch before the big day, otherwise my holiday was ruined.

One year I forgot to watch "Frosty Returns," and it was as if the Grinch had come down the chimney and taken all my gifts.

But back to Halloween--

During the holiday season, it's easy to catch all your favorite specials, but most of the really good Halloween specials air ON Halloween.

It's an awful Catch-22 for television lovers who also like going out on October 31st.

For me, however, it was no contest.

Why would I want to put on a plastic mask that would cut into my face, make me sweat, and trudge out into the cold October air and act like a beggar for hours on end when I didn't even like candy all that much in the first place?

When I explained this to my father, he looked at me as though I had told him that I was now a member of a cult that worshipped marshmallows.

"Well," he said, "I don't care how uncomfortable you are.  You're a kid.  You're going to go out and trick or treat, and you're going TO HAVE FUN!"

Even now, at twenty-six years old, I'll never understand how parents imagine that they can force their kids to enjoy themselves.

It's too bad that doesn't work in Hollywood.  At the beginning of a movie the director could come onscreen and say--

"Now I don't want to hear any criticism.  You're going to watch this Michael Bay movie, you're going to ignore the plotholes, and you're going to LOVE EVERY MINUTE OF IT!"

It just doesn't work that way.

Nevertheless, I was dressed up in my generic superhero outfit.  It amazed me that me not wanting to go out on Halloween bothered my dad  more than paying forty dollars for what was basically a piece of plastic masquerading as a cape, and an eye mask that rendered me blind because the openings were about as large as needle points.

Sidenote:  Who are those masks made for?  I have never seen a child with eyes that small.  When they're making them in factories in India, are they holding the masks up to rats to gauge whether or not they're big enough, or are they just aiming to torture the American children who get to indulge in frivolous holidays?

Back to the nightmare--

My father didn't like trick or treating in our neighborhood.  To him, there weren't enough houses.  If I had simply gone from house to house where I lived, I could have been done in time to get home and watch the Full House Halloween episode--

--But not with MY Dad running the show.

He drove me to an affluent neighborhood a few towns over.  It was the kind of place that would normally have a gate around it, and after that Halloween, it probably erected one.

All the houses looked the same, so I ended up going to more than a few several times.  Luckily the people
who lived in them were throwing Halloween parties with plenty of alcohol, so they didn't notice, and I did wind up with some pretty choice candy--full size bars and in one astounding case, the party-size bag of Peanut M&M's.

All the while my father was driving behind me as if I was a prison doing highway clean-up and he was the officer in charge.

"Go to that house on the right!"
"Dad, their driveway is like a mile long!"
"That means they have the good stuff!"

At one point I suggested he do the trick or treating while I stay in the car, and he said, with utter sincerity.

"If I was a little bit shorter, I could."

Clearly, he had thought about this.

By the time we got home, I had filled up seventeen pillowcases to the brim.  I felt like a thief.  It seemed wrong to get that much booty just by knocking on a door and looking adorable while holding up an empty sack.

Plus, what was I going to do with all this candy?

While I was watching the tail end of a Halloween Scooby Doo marathon, I found out exactly what was going to happen to my candy.

My father had spread it all out on the living room floor, and was dividing it into brand and size.

Every once in awhile, he would call out to me--

"Do you like Skittles?  Do you like Sweet Tarts?"

And each  time, regardless of the candy name he called out, I would holler back something along the lines of--
"No!  I told you I hate candy and I hate Halloween and when I get older I'm never going out trick or treating and I'm going to forbid my children from doing the same because it's humiliating!"

There would be a short silence, and then I would hear him say:

"More for me then."

And suddenly, it all became clear.

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