Halloween (aka Shabbatoween) was delightful. Ezra put his tiny body into a muscled-up Iron Man suit, then asked me to spray his hair black and give him an eyeliner goatee so he could be Tony Stark. I straightened and geled Maxon's hair and bought him an Ed Hardy shirt and costume rings so he could be Stefon, the flamboyant New York City correspondent fromSaturday Night Live's "Weekend Update."
After meeting friends, we traversed the side streets of Center City from 17th to 22nd – Delancey, Panama, Croskey – twice. If you have never seen these streets on Halloween, residents don't just drape cobwebs or pin paper skeletons to the windows. On the 1800 block of Delancey, also called Delanceyvania, one homeowner erected prison cells outside the house and manned them with live Halloween villains – Bellatrix LaStrange, Hannibal Lechter and Jason from Friday the 13th. These folks never broke character. Next to the cells, Nurse Ratchet handed out "doses" of apple cider. Across the street was a Dr. Seuss party scene. Croskey Street pulsated with the sounds of the "Monster Mash," smoke curling beyond a skeleton-adorned gate, automated bats circling overhead.
Families filled up these streets as the evening darkened, walking slowly to admire the costumed kids and houses. The residents on these blocks sat on their front steps with their offerings, and our Tony Stark and Stefon zig-zagged from one house to the next, plucking candy out of pumpkin-faced buckets and repurposed serving trays.
Their bags were fat with sweets. Ezra's was so heavy he could no longer bear the weight, despite his Iron Man muscles, and had to pass it to my husband. It was a beautiful night, and I felt bewitched by the holiday, drunk on the community effort to make Halloween so memorable for the kids in the neighborhood.
But once we emerged from Delanceyvania and found ourselves on the quieter stretch of Pine Street, I noticed something: Tony and Stefon had no interest in knocking or saying "trick or treat."
"Just ring the bell," I said. "They have decorations, they are probably home."
"Nah," said Stefon.
"No way," said Tony Stark.
I imagined the people inside, their full bowl of miniature Snickers by the door, wondering where all the trick-or-treaters were. But what appeal does a closed door have next to a house done up to look like the Emerald City?
I remembered a Halloween years ago when I was in fourth grade, walking through Merion with two of my girlfriends. One was dressed as a rose — her mother had fashioned the flower out of pink paper mache. The flower was so bulbous that she often had to walk in front of us, her arms poking out of two holes, her legs in green tights adorned with cardboard thorns. We didn't trick or treat with parents back then, and the three of us walked from one house to the next, ringing doorbells and gathering candy.
Most of the adults behind the doors were kind, but we did have run-ins with some who were more sinister and just didn't want to be bothered. We ran from those houses giggling, feeling like we escaped some real danger. Before we approached each door, I remembered feeling a cousin of fear — a series of pirouettes in the belly, some spooky campfire story playing in the back of my mind right before a friendly face opened up and offered us Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
With such an elaborate Halloween streetscape near our current Center City home, I doubt our kids will ever need knock on a door again. I do believe there is something lost in mustering up the courage to ring a stranger's doorbell and hustle for candy and UNICEF pennies, but I guess that is the sacrifice you make when your neighborhood is a masquerade ball hosted by Bellatrix LaStrange, Thing 1 and Thing 2. Our boys' Halloween memories will be more fantasy and less fright.
As for the Rittenhouse folks waiting inside for trick-or-treaters? Next year, you might have to step up your game.