Dylan Stafford

“Hey love. I need a Halloween costume.”

“Look in the box, in the attic.”

Found it. The banana costume–Perfect: Bright. Fun.

I was ready, and it only took five minutes.

My twelve-year old son and his buddies have been planning Halloween for two months. We have a school carpool and they have a lot of time together. Think the boys from South Park, conspiring for a month.

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

“We are going to be scary.”

“Ok. What? Monsters? Vampires?”

“We are going to be Putin, Kim Jong Un, and President Trump.” Full pre-teen confidence. Zero doubts.

Who knew? You can order world leader costumes on Amazon. The full deal: suits and rubber masks. The Kim Jong Un costume was the most realistic. The Putin costume was the least realistic, like a blend of Alfred E. Neuman from Mad Magazine and Mr. Garrison from South Park. The Trump costume looked like an orange Michael Myers until they added the red hat, then Oh my! That hat will go over great in a blue Los Angeles neighborhood, I thought.

A fourth boy, not in the carpool, got to join us last-minute, too late to be a world-leader. He came as a pickle.

That was our fellowship: Putin, Kim Jong Un, Trump and a Pickle.

After pre-pizza at our house, on a perfect California Halloween with the sun setting, our hunter-gathers launched their candy quest. Armed with empty pillow cases and supreme confidence, the four amigos marched forth, followed a respectable distance by me, the trailing chaperone banana.

When I was a twelve-year old boy in Texas in 1982, watching the movie E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, there was a Halloween scene. Romanticized of course, California-movie-Halloween seemed so much more fantastic, with more kids and more excitement. Well, here I was in real-life as a dad following controversial world leaders, and a pickle, six days before our presidential election. How exciting?!

It went fine.

In the first hour of Halloween, especially with all the super-young kids and their parents, the energy is so beautiful. Lots of little princesses and policemen costumes. It’s the sweet part of Halloween.

Our neighborhood is from the 1930s. It has sidewalks. It’s a huge draw for kids from all over town. One block had four different “haunted driveways” with strobe lights and smoke machines and dementors “flying” on wires. Full Hollywood special effects, with no traffic allowed on the block and hundreds of kids everywhere. So cool.

Many families set up card tables in the driveway and give out candy and talk with the costumed-kids and the trailing parents.

How did Putin and Un and Trump go over?

Some people laughed.

Some people had some comments. “He better not win!”

The twelve-year old’s never backed down. They could care less about the politics of the adults. Their mission was candy acquisition and after an hour they looked like world-leader-burglars, with their pillow cases heavy over their shoulders, filled with pounds of individually wrapped sugar.

We came back home and the boys went inside to look at their booty.

As a tired banana, I sat on the porch with my wife, who was wearing her favorite tiara, and we gave out candy for the last hour. The kids got older as the evening waned. Teenagers enjoying their last trick-or-treat nights before the long pause until someday, maybe, they will get to be parents themselves and be on the other side of the magic.

We handed out candy to kids of every stripe and hue.

“Happy Halloween.”

“Trick or Treat.”

“Can I trade this for one without peanuts? I’m allergic.”

We will elect our next President Tuesday: Special K or Mr. T.

America will be alright.

When I count my blessings, I’m the richest person I could ever hope to be. Wearing a banana costume. Giving out candy. Being a parent in the background of a pre-teen, shepherding his growth. Being in a neighborhood and sharing a magical night.

It’s all good.