Remember the houses that handed out full-size candy bars at Halloween?
That?s good. Mine won?t be one of them.
As I slipped into a last-minute, makeshift costume my freshman year of high school, my Dad relaxed on the couch, albeit bewildered. “What?re you doing?” he asked.
“I?m going trick-or-treating,” I replied confidently, adjusting the freshly cut holes in my mother?s new sheets to provide proper eye-openings.
“Aren?t you a little too old for that?” he offered rhetorically in his fatherly tone. “And by the way, your Mom is gonna kill you.”
I was too old ? and she was going to kill me ? but that year was my last shot at partaking in the time-honored tradition of traipsing through the neighborhood with a sack half my size, stocking up on Snickers and SweetTarts. I was 14 years old then, the cut-off point before puberty kicked in full speed. I knew that soon I?d look too teenaged to pass as cute in a costume. I needed one last night of immature innocence before all the complications of adulthood took hold. Plus, I really liked accepting candy from strangers.
But kids are different these days. They don?t even try. I hate myself for sounding like a youthful incarnation of that curmudgeon down the street, but it?s getting out of hand. I couldn?t tell you how many high schoolers came to my house last year in nothing more than what they wore to school earlier that day ? the boys in sports jerseys, the girls in cheerleading outfits. FYI: Those aren?t costumes, they?re uniforms, and very poor excuses for creativity.
Sure, my sliced up Springmaid ghost back in 1995 wasn?t exactly cutting edge, but at least it was something. I might still have the bruises to prove it.
While each of the teens? lack of effort was appalling, I think more damage was done following their knocks on the door. I?d walk over, candy bowl filled to the brim, and stick out my head.
What normally fills the space between the turning of the knob and the placement of candy in their bags is a hearty and collective “trick or treat.” Instead, dead silence. And scowls. We stood there for an awkward 10 seconds ? blankly staring at each other like confused chihuahuas ? before the brightest one of the bunch discovered that the only way they would walk away with a handful of sugary goodness was to say those magic words. “trick or treat,” they finally mustered from their angst-filled depths. “Thanks,” I shot back, visibly annoyed.
One after another they arrived, and the same thing happened. It played out like scenes from the movie “Groundhog Day,” except on Halloween. They knocked, I?d answer, we?d stare. And if my hand wasn?t overflowing with candy when I pulled it from the bowl, I got dirty looks. I?m pretty sure I even heard one of them call me a name that?s not fit to print. Uh huh, she was sweet.
Look, I?m not bothered that kids are trick-or-treating past their prime. Not at all. If I could?ve gotten away with it, I would have. But when they come to my door begging for candy ? and their 5 o?clock shadow is darker at 16 years old than mine is at 25 ? I?ve got to put my foot down. I certainly won?t turn them away ? I?m not Mr. Wilson, for Pete?s sake ? but I do expect a certain level of decorum to be observed: A costume that doesn?t smell like processed chicken patties and perspiration, a seasonal greeting and, perhaps, a smile.
If your teens can?t manage that, and they?re seeking king-size Kit-Kats, well, advise them to try next door.
All I?ve got to give are months-old Mary Janes.
Michael A. Knipp is a Baltimore-based freelancer and the founder of Line/Byline Communications. He can be reached at [email protected].
