Some men come out of the closet in middle age, as a celebration and acceptance of their true selves. My man comes out of the Tickle Trunk every year at Halloween as a celebration and acceptance of his alter ego. It’s a spectacle that affects us all.
You’d have to know the Carpenter to understand why his annual ghoulish behavior causes such a stir. Note that my spouse is a man who doesn’t like to dress up – ever. His wardrobe has three colours: black, grey and dark blue. He owns as many shirts as blue jeans. Socks must be grey, because white is impractical. He owns one suit, which we lovingly refer to as the “marry’em or bury’em” outfit. A tie is punishment. As for shoes, he owns two pairs that accompany any of the above ensembles, regardless of whether or not they actually should.
As for his personality, the Carpenter is anti-social at best. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not rude or impersonal, he just doesn’t need to be the centre of attention. He doesn’t do small talk happily, nor fake pleasantries. He is a man of few words (He married me; what choice does he have?).
But on Halloween he transforms into a mysterious person who gives a great deal of thought to wardrobe, accessories, make-up and (Lord help me) wigs. It is serious business for him to find the perfect costume and keep it secret until the big reveal at an annual Halloween party we go to – the only event in the Carpenter’s social calendar that he willingly attends.
At the Halloween party he turns into this extroverted live wire, a costumed freak full of mischievous behaviour safely protected by his clever disguise. It’s exciting and somewhat unsettling to watch as my shy guy leaps through the crowd, talking to strangers and dancing with anyone willing to join in his funky moves. For one night, the Carpenter is totally free of his usual inhibitions.
Foolishly, I suggested that this year we pick a couple-themed costume; you know, like Bonnie and Clyde or Frankenstein and his Bride, or perhaps take a sexy role play of Cowboy and Indians.
The Carpenter looked at me as if I had insulted him.
“We?” he asked. “There is no ‘we’ when it comes to Halloween costumes. You do your thing; I’ll do mine. And I’m not telling you what my thing will be. It’s a secret.”
Well, excuuuuuse me. Hmph.
In the days that followed, the Carpenter’s behaviour was erratic, suspicious even. One night, he came home with bags of stuff carefully hidden to prevent disclosing the name of the department stores. He seemed to have a lot of gear and a look in his eye that told me this was not going to end well.
Moments later, the most hideous figure emerged from our bathroom. He had a hunchback and gangly, rubber hands, crazy tattered clothes and a horrible mask of deranged disfigurement with straggly, wild hair.
The children started to cry, upset by the mask. The dog barked, upset by the creature. The cat ran out the door, upset by the commotion. Behind the mask, the Carpenter smiled. Mission accomplished.
Freak.
Let the festivities begin. Trick or treat? Life with the Carpenter is a bit of both.