Halloween in New York

This year, like every other year, I didn't make plans for Halloween. I figured I'd maintain the distance I kept from the real world and just watch it from the comfort of my apartment. The first knock on my door, though, wasn't a trick-or-treater: it was Emma and Charlotte, who weren't quite as content with staying inside. Though it came as news to me, apparently Having Nothing To Do On Halloween is a humiliating predicament for Brooklyners, and after a few minutes of frantic texting suddenly the three of us had a party to attend.

Emma and Charlotte disappeared for ten minutes and came back wearing wigs, revealing dresses, and dramatic makeup. I'm pretty sure these were Halloween costumes, though it was also what single New York females wore to the grocery store. I had no clue what they were supposed to be, but I figured if I asked they'd laugh and say, "Oh Roman, you are so out of touch."

So, let's go with Internationally-Renowned TikTokers.

Halloween has changed dramatically since I was a kid. Back then, you had a reason for your costume, and since we were young and dumb it was usually just a stupid joke. Every neighborhood would have a Cereal Killer, a Taco Belle, and a Black-Eyed Pea. These days, though, it doesn't matter how you're dressed but only that you're hot. Highlight your boobs and your ass and nobody says a word. Nobody ever says,

"Excuse me, but since they lived millions of years apart, slutty cave women couldn't have worn dinosaur-skin bras."

Or "If Little Red Riding Hood had actually worn something like that, her grandmother would have dropped dead years ago."

Or, "Judging by the toga, I'm guessing you're a Trojan woman. Did the war start because you used up all the hair spray?"

Or, "Oh, I see. You're a Sexy Scarecrow. Because enormous tits make birds go, 'AIEEEEE!'"

Or, "Sorry to nitpick, but even Sexy Football Players restrict the padding to the general shoulder area."

Or, "If Tinkerbelle's boobs had been pushed up that far, she'd never have gotten through the window."

Or, "Why would a Sexy Bee have such enormous cleavage? Do they want to pollinate flowers, or Charlie Sheen?"

When I was a kid, Halloween was fun. Now, it's a kitschy excuse to get laid, and as long as you look sexy nobody really cares if you're Ruth Bader Ginsburg or a Slutty Manatee.

Emma and Charlotte gave substantially less thought to my costume. Charlotte grabbed a few wigs she had lying around and slapped them one at a time on my head. I don't know what she was looking for, but her final decision was a wild, straggly blonde mop. Although it went against everything I stood for, she clearly didn't give a damn if the carpet matched the drapes.

Never in my life had I worn a wig, and I knew absolutely nothing about them. I couldn't imagine why she had this one, unless she spent part of her day breaking in wild horses on the Scottish moors. I assumed with styling she'd magically transform it into something attractive, but instead she just tousled the front of it and pronounced it done.

For my clothes, she rummaged through her closet and then tossed me a Led Zeppelin t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. "Be careful with that," she warned.

"I didn't know you liked Led Zeppelin," I said.

"Never heard of them," she replied. "I paid four hundred bucks for it at a vintage shop."

I put the shirt on. I'd never had the nerve to wear a sleeveless t-shirt in public, but Charlotte was the stylist and I was the mannequin so I didn't complain. I also didn't know who I was supposed to be: I gave off major notes of grungy, dissolute, and creepy with undertones of kinky sex and weed. Aging porn star? Bisexual surf instructor? The answer to "What would Sean Penn's character in Fast Times at Ridgement High look like all grown up"? Emma agreed that I looked good and then we hit the road.

Before we even got to the subway, it was obvious something had changed. I'd always been ignored when I ventured out of doors, and I'd assumed that was true for everybody. New Yorkers were famously cold, and too self-absorbed to care about anyone except themselves. Now, suddenly, everybody was looking. They were interested in me. I was getting double takes.

One of the heads that turned was a stocky bearish type with a beard."Hey," he said, flashing dark green eyes. "How are you doing tonight?"

Had he confused me with somebody else? I wondered. Was his Cousin Sid a traveling carnival worker? Had his Uncle Mark grown up in an abandoned condom factory?

"Uh, I'm doing good, I guess. Just on my way to a party."

"Cool. Yup, it's Halloween." Something clicked in his head and once again he looked me up and down. "That's a costume? It's a costume! Ah, that's cool. Have a great night!"

Emma and Charlotte and I exchanged confused looks and headed for the subway again. This was literally the first time in New York that a stranger had spontaneously talked to me. Well, I'd never been outside for Halloween, I thought, so maybe it was always like this.

The L train was crowded, with maybe half the riders in costume. The three of us temporarily went our separate ways, with Emma finding a seat and Charlotte and I leaning in opposite doorways. Standing next to me was a DILF in t-shirt and sweatpants. I'd have noticed him even if he didn't keep looking my way.

"Hey," he finally said the next time I looked over. "What's goin' on?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Nothing," I said. "Getting ready for a fun night out."

"You're looking pretty casual. You looking for somewhere to go?"

This sounded like an invitation from an actual living male so I immediately carpet-bombed our previous plans. "Well," I said, "I had been thinking about going to a Halloween party."

"No costume?" he asked. The look I gave him must have run through a few different emotions: maybe confusion, followed by curiosity, then disbelief, and finally incredulity. "Ah, man! You fooled me. Okay, I'll leave you alone, but you really are looking great." The doors opened for 1st Avenue, and with a thumbs-up he was gone.

I closed my eyes after he left and tried to make sense of it. Did New Yorkers really think people looked like this? And, worse, did they like it better than my regular look?

It didn't seem possible. I checked out my reflection in the window. It was clear: I was the guy who sold photos of his feet online to put his girlfriend through tattoo school. My fall-back occupation was a cardboard sign that read, "Why lie? I need a beer." When God raptured everybody back up to heaven, I'd be behind the door smoking weed.

I was a totally new person, low maintenance and low expectation. The guy who ignored the rat race and listened to the beat of his own drum. But strip away all the judgements and I looked relaxed. In control. Possibly ... fun.

Thinking about it this way, my newfound popularity actually made sense, especially if opposites attract. Everybody in New York was fighting for a job, or a healthy relationship, or even just recognition, so it made sense that they were turned on by a dude who'd dropped out entirely. Who didn't give a fuck. Who wasn't fighting. Who was just happy to have a beer and a couch to sleep on.

I'd taken particular note of these guys through the years because they always mystified me. Worse, they made me jealous. Because I'd followed the rules and floundered, while they'd blazed their own trails and ended up happier than me. I'd remained largely single while they always seemed to have somebody by their side.

My parents impressed upon me what's required of a modern male: good grooming, good manners, clean clothes. I'd spent a big chunk of time and money trying to maintain those goals, and didn't even notice they'd aged as badly as a Fear Factor VHS. Nobody wanted that junk any more. Maybe it was predictable, maybe it was boring, maybe now that the earth had like seventeen years left nobody worried about retirement plans.

We reached the Sixth Avenue stop where Charlotte, Emma, and I reunited. I quickly got them up to speed. "So, all my life I've tried to stay interesting and look good, and all my life I've been completely ignored. Tonight, though, two men have already hit on me, because I look like I have a head full of Nordic Death Metal under a disheveled rat's nest for hair."

"Excuse me?" Charlotte snapped.

Emma shrugged. "I was going to tell you," she confessed. "Maybe this is something you should explore in the future. You really do look hot."

I didn't want to argue so I ignored her implication that "hot" was a new look for me. Besides, even before the words were out of my mouth I was already starting to reject this new theory. New Yorkers also had a modicum of common sense. Was I seriously thinking that the real me, at least faintly stylish with a competent haircut and borderline hunky in shirts with sleeves, was less desirable than an unemployed stoner whose t-shirt screamed, "Get a load of these guns!"?

Impossible. Absolutely not.

My parents also told me that crossing your arms in front of your chest was terrible body language, so it's exactly how I stood when we finally got to the club. I was fed up enough for one night, so I stood there in the dark, totally closed off, with a "stay back" scowl on my face. Despite all that, a middle-aged woman in a tight, sparkly dress was homing in on me like a heat-seeking missile from half a room away. She wasn't intimidated. She didn't care. She eyed me like a tiger spotting a bowl of tuna salad. "Yo, baby," she purred. "How's about you and me get some parts bumpin' on the dance fl-- "

"It's a Halloween costume," I snapped.

"Oh," she said. "I'm very sorry to bother you, sir."