Masquerade

It’s Halloween! A scary time. Definitely a scary time for us, it’s just three more days till the election. Brenda’s gained tremendously in popularity, but with whom? Not with the parents, teachers and administrators she hoped to have on her side – they’ve become leery of her – but with the kids. She’s going to go for the youth vote. The young adults.

She’s at the Mall, giving out not candy, but unlightable fake joints filled with chocolate. No she isn’t. She turned down that suggestion. It was Chauncey’s. She’s giving out packs of rolling papers and calling them mini-sticky-notes. No, she’s not doing that either. That was Adele’s idea. And she isn’t wearing a long blue cylinder and dressing as a bong, even though Phoenix and Phil (I never noticed those two Ph’s before; did you?) offered to make her outfit from industrial-size plastic plumbing.

She’s dressed as the Statue of Liberty. Her tack is Freedom with Responsibility. (Now where have I heard that before? Dad?) She’s got the whole panoply of paraphernalia out there. Little models of cracked-up cars with bandaged bodies strewn around. She got these from MADD. And from Planned Parenthood, slews of pamphlets featuring condoms.

Lest this be too exciting, she’s surrounded by pictures of good food and bad food, with the NO circle and slash around and through the pictures of the bad food. A bit of a downer at Halloween, but she’s giving away little boxes of black raisins covered with white chocolate. Never mind that the grapes were all sprayed; raisins are nature’s gift. And chocolate has recently become a health food. Have you had your chocolate today?

Adele is at the Kandy Kiosk having the black and white raisins put into the campaign’s little black and white striped boxes with Brenda’s name on them. It’s Saturday. Everybody is here. Economic downturn or not, it’s the place to be.

In fact, Danielle is here, with her ten-year-old son, Timmy. While she’s browsing in the book store, he’s got permission to go look at model cars. He and Zeke have similar interests. On the way to the store, he’s drawn to the little model cars in the drunk driving display. He stops to look at them, and Brenda offers him a box of raisins. He puts it in his pocket and thanks her – he’s a polite boy. Later that night he’ll take it out and leave it on the kitchen table with all his other treats, for Mom to sort into Okay and Trash. This goes on all over America. Danielle puts it in Trash.

And it’s not just Danielle. Republican district, people. They don’t like drugs. Brenda has lost a lot of the esteem that derived from her being a teacher. Even Republican druggies don’t like drugs. Rush may have become addicted to a pain-killer, but he wasn’t out looking for fun. These people are hard-line when it comes to recreational drugs. They don’t approve of recreational sex, either. The condoms make them angry.

A pinch-faced woman with mousy hair, carrying an infant with ice cream on its face and dragging behind her a whining toddler, stops to say, “Have you no shame? This is disgusting. Sex is sacred. You have no business bringing it to a public place.”

“She’s not exactly screwing,” Adele says, under her breath so the woman can’t hear.

“I’m trying to save some children a lot of heartache,” Brenda replies. Brenda never gets angry anymore, no matter what they say.

“You’re telling them they can do whatever they please as long as they don’t make babies. Sex is for making babies. You’re telling them to defy God’s law.”

“What is God’s law?” Brenda innocently asks.

“Go forth and multiply,” says the woman, equally innocently.

Adele pops up from behind the display and says, “That’s what Brenda’s been doing her whole adult life. Teaching children to go forth and multiply. She’s a math teacher.”

Several people within hearing distance, who have stopped in hopes of a fight, laugh out loud. The woman harrumphs away. Now both her children are crying.

Where’s Jason? We know where he is, don’t we? He’s where Mom usually is, making sure the kids’ costumes are ready, planning out the evening, fighting against bad ideas like “Let’s go to Bailey’s Field. There’s a big party there, with music, and it’s just a few blocks from the parade,” from Sheba, and “I want to go to the Haunted House,” from Zeke, who doesn’t know that’s where the perverts hang out to snatch little children.

No, Jason has made it clear that he will be with them, they’re following the parade route, and that both of them are going. Sheba’s throwing her clothes around in a fit of pique. She doesn’t want to be seen with her father and her little brother. This is a girl who’s had a date with someone who’s maybe a man.

In a tight black dress, with a flare at the ankle, à la Morticia, Sheba is one of the tens of thousands of sexy teenage vampires who inhabit America tonight.

She would be quite alluring. In fact, she is. But she’s meandering along the street, which is closed for Halloween, next to her Dad, who has, on his other side, a cardboard replica of a Smart Car. Not Brenda’s black one, but the red one Zeke wanted. As happens to many parents on All Hallows Eve, Jason was granted great powers of artistry, and ingenuity. He built this Smart Car, made of foam and cardboard, on two skate boards, piece by piece, cutting, bending, taping, and finally painting it, complete with a recognizable facsimile of the Wagman’s little dog in the passenger seat window.

It’s a great night; there’s a little rain in the air, but it isn’t coming down. It’s warmish for the season. Sudden gusts bring whirls of leaves. Capes blow wildly, then flatten against bodies. Hats fly off. It’s exhilarating. People are laughing.

The Moon is almost full. It’s high up there, blessing the parade, which is taking the place of trick or treating. A town alderman, who saw ET, fell in love with the idea of a whole town parading down Main Street. His town has an appropriately wide boulevard. He was elected to public office, and has made his dream come true.

A lot of parents are relieved. The kids aren’t sure what they think. Maybe they’re being cheated. Not out of candy, though. At pre-approved stores, they swarm in to get their pre-approved treats.

Coming down the street is a familiar, slouchy shape. This is no insultingly convenient coincidence. It’s Dracula, come for our Morticia. The blood red hair is slicked back over his ears. His face is powdered white, his lips obscenely reddened, his eyebrows bushed, and his teeth pointed by blackening. He’s wearing a long, satin-lined, woolen cape. He punches his cell phone.

As he passes by the Shapiros, he sticks out his caped arm, and Sheba twirls into it. This was choreographed in cyberspace with the final cue being the ring on her phone tucked at her wrist, into the tight fringed sleeve. Her family goes on without her, Dad staring straight ahead at the goblins, pirates, princesses, witches, spider-men, vampires, devils, and cats coming down the street, while Zeke is mesmerized by the traffic outside his non-existent windshield.

The children of politicians, especially those running for office, often rebel against the demanding love or hate affair between their parent and the public. Kids get jealous. They won’t say so; kids know it’s demeaning to confess. They just go about righting the wrong some other way.

They went to Bailey’s.

Sheba was excited, and felt very grown up. There was beer in the center of the field, and pot around the edges. Neither one of our kids indulged. It was good just to be there, with people old enough to get away from their parents and young enough not to be parents themselves. A big, neighborhood, counter-culture party, with lots of costumes.

Over there is someone dressed as a cop. Very authentic. On closer inspection, we see that it’s not a costume. We know him. We’ve seen his face close up through a car window. He’s the cop who escorted Sheba and Brenda, siren wailing, to Phoenix’s house, with the two ounces.

He’s a good guy, likes this party down at Bailey’s, and doesn’t want to see it get out of hand. He’s looking at Phoenix and Sheba. He’s not sure. But he saw them in silhouette when she delivered the goods, and suddenly he’s looking at the same silhouettes – short, young girl, tall, gangly guy. And that hair.

He ambles over toward them where they stand watching the scene. Now he’s eighty percent sure. Ninety. Bingo. It’s her.

He doesn’t want anyone to hear. He walks up next to her, but she’s fixed on the people in front who are downing beer, laughing, kidding around. “Ms. Shapiro,” he says. Her head jerks around. Some guy dressed as a policeman is accosting her.

“You look lovely,” he says. “And old. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were twenty. But I know how old you are. Everybody does. This is no place for you.” Phoenix has turned to listen. “Or you,” he says to Phoenix. “I ran a check on you after I brought the ladies to your house. You’re dangerous, man. You have no sense of self-preservation. Coming here. With her.”

Within five minutes Sheba is back at Jason’s side, further up the street, where our police officer spotted Zeke’s Smart Car. His plans for the evening dashed, Phoenix takes a ride home from the cop, who knows the way.

Zeke wins a prize. Jason is very proud of Zeke for thinking of the idea, and of himself, for its execution.

Brenda stays on for the evening at the Mall. A lot of people come there to show off their costumes. As predicted, Adele has been asked to cover Mercy’s private party, whose address was sent, by mistake, they think, to Brenda’s campaign.

She goes home to change. She has decided to dress as a man. She thinks it’s brilliant, and feels very much better about going. She’s not afraid anymore. She no longer feels like prey.

She’s small, and she’s dressed as a jockey, her hair under a cap, jodhpurs, tall boots, and a silk vest in her colors: rose and red.

The party’s at The Pub Club in Mercy’s boutique-y neighborhood. Its entrance is an oval of glass. Tonight it’s splintered by spider webs. The gang’s already there when she comes in, and there are plenty of them. Nobody is in costume. There are men and women, dressed quite nicely, sitting at a long polished wooden bar, their reflections mingled with those of the bottles in front of the bar-long mirror. Others are sitting at booths along the other side of the long room, drinking and eating hors d’oeuvres. The space between bar and booths has been turned into a dance floor. Couples, many of them same-sex, are clinching in the narrow space.

A man detaches himself from a group he’s been talking to at the bar, and comes over to greet her.

“Welcome,” he says. “Glad you’re here. Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you in a while.”

Good-looking. She wishes he’d stayed around but he’s back with his laughing friends.

Several women come up to speak to her – something she hadn’t counted on. They’re flirtatious, and extremely forward. After fifteen minutes, she begins to wonder why Mercy isn’t there yet.

She’s getting tired of fending off females and listening to the music with an empty glass in hand. She had only one white wine and is not going to allow herself more. It’s wearing off. Maybe she ought to go.

Just then, the man who’d greeted her catches her eye, crosses the floor, and asks her to dance. Oh, no. He’s gay.

It’s a slow dance. He pulls her to him quite forcefully, considering they’ve just met. And whispers in her ear, “It’s me, Honey.”

Adele’s hears Mercy’s voice. She pulls back her head, looks at the face before her, and gasps. It’s Mercy Alexander.

“It’s a cross-dress party, Sweetie. I thought you wouldn’t come if you knew. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you caught on somehow. And here you are.” Mercy pulls her close again. Very close.

Suddenly Adele pulls away. “What’s that in your pants? What’s that I feel?” she asks. “A dildo? Mercy, did you ask me to dance, wearing a dildo?”

“Of course not,” she whispers in her ear. “Here’s a riddle for you: I am sexually attracted to women. I am not gay. What am I?”

Adele stands stock still and answers the question in her head. You can too. I know you don’t want to hear it out loud.

“Why?” she finally asks. “Why in the world do you masquerade as a woman?”

Mercy nuzzles her hair. “Because I’m so much better as a woman. So much more commanding, with my deep voice – nothing unusual in a man. So much taller. Especially with heels. I’m a giant of a woman. I have to curb my power. As a man I simply don’t have enough.”

She liked him, but she quite agreed. As a man, he no longer enthralled her. As a man, they were equals. How strange.

Folks, I’m as surprised as you are, I swear to God. I didn’t even know who the Republican candidate was going to be when I started to tell this tale. True, she seemed to appear out of nowhere, but that’s how it works in these special elections; the county bosses pick the candidates. And it would be indecent to ask every strong, self-sufficient woman, who wants to run for office, to drop her pants.

Don’t forget to turn back the clock. That gives us time for a nightcap. We need one.