On Saturday, the day just before Halloween, I came home to find my mother's bag in detailed order in the kitchen.

Her lined up reading sack that held the vintage look of the Beat Generation of 1950, the polished hard metal shell was holding the shiny edge of her typewriter. The jewelry box was sleeping on the living room bookshelf with its mouth open, from where a pair of earrings gleamed in the lazy light.

I didn't have to think of the word 'Divorce' since the flashing light in my mind's attic was attacking me to find the matrimonial lawyer that hid in a broom closet like Boogeyman.

Dad appeared out of thin air, from behind the curtains of the back porch and Mum glided down the stairs with her heavy boots making the wooden steps creak harder than heartache.

I was thinking of a story idea, that involved the life of a teenager who has gone through a parental divorce and all the post trauma expressions.

At first, the protagonist would have been Jackie but I admired the blunt chance of receiving a first hand experience.

And then Mum uttered the word.

"Vacation."

Apparently, Mum, Julia Newell has committed a crime to a woman named Eleanor, by not keeping in touch. So, the time to pay her debt was ticking along and Mum who smiled with the words, "I'll take this as a vacation." did not show doubt for a second that I was not buying into her lie.

Dad jumped in, vouched for her existence and added that, this Eleanor has been calling for the last few days and sprayed her neediness through the holes in the speaker to the point, they both subsided to her demand.

"It's alright, Frey. I'll be back in a week. Don't miss me too much." Mum's simper faded out as the earrings assaulted her ear lobe.

Through telepathy and facial expression, I was sending the message that 'a week' was too long of a vacation.

"Alright, five then."

I am grateful for my threatening eyebrows.

"A couple of days, Frey. She's one of my old friends. We used to live in dorms together, went through college."

She made a face that meant to express that 'going through college together' was a bond that was stronger than 'mother-son relationship'.

"And she's on the low."

"Does she need money, then?" I inquired, insensitively and explicatively.

"No. Just needs to see a familiar face."

"Alright, address and phone numbers." I gestured like a policeman.

"Already on the table."

Unlike intricate surgical methods, Dad forgot Chivalry since mum had to verbally request him to manhandle the luggage in the boot of the car.

At first, I was criticizing Dad for the lack of suave notions but I came to the conclusion that a married man does not need to go out of his way to make a gesture to announce himself.

"Lamb chops, mashes, sandwiches, beans and rice, well . . . everything's in the freezer, just pop it in the oven. And I want both of you to eat together."

"Sure." I delivered the word, glum glued to my mouth.

"And Dad's here for a while. You guys, well—spend some time together, for a change."

Mum's laughter rippled across the air to Dad whose list of worry became heavy like the back of the Buick.

"Um . . well, Frey, he's too old for trick or treating but maybe you can take him along as Frankenstein or something like that."

"I don't think I'll be going anywhere tomorrow." I said, with the full implication of my psychological imbalance.

There were a few subtle, silent moments of my mother's stare as the car's engine tried to revive itself before she lobbed her left arm.

I felt the warm tentacle of my mother's multipurpose overcoat that is both suitable for rain and snow, as it brushed around my shoulder.

I thought about the difference between the relationship that Jackie has with his parents and the bond between my parents and I.

It was hard to find any envious bullet points whilst my mother seeped around something sensitive to say.

"Come on, it'll be fun. You don't have to take Dad. Have this."

She pressed a 20 into the cusp of my hand. I was in place to beat finance up, by saying that throwing money at a problem was not always the solution, contrary to popular belief.

"Bring Clay and Kenneth and—and the rest of those boys from the baseball team to Palladium. Have a few games at the arcade."

I understood that she was trying. But not enough.

The potential was still unexplored.

"But don't hang around too long, okay?"

                                                                      ***

"Enough lipstick?"

I ask as Kenny's face gleams into the last simmer of the sun and it has the ability to light the fear of God in us.

"Ugh . . Jesus!" Harvey snarls out from the backseat of the Lexus that is home to a Dracula, an evil Magician, a Nerd zombie, a Nazi and Kenny, who's currently swimming in the sea of loss of personality.

Identity crisis is something that I can relate to.

"Alright, alright, Harve'. Ken. What are you supposed to be?" Clay fixes the broken frame of his glass, wipes the extra red from his undead forehead onto his torn checkered shirt.

I cannot help but recall what Harvey said when we met up in Dwarve's.

"That Nerd Zombie's gonna do Rommery's brains out."

His erotic implication gave birth to a minute long laugh which I used to search for Rommery, in disguise.

She's an invisible monster, out of sight but not out of mind.

"Cath said I am an European aborigine." Kenny murmured with the leftover confidence.

We glance around to decide who's going to laugh first but before conclusion, Harvey's voice dishes out another high note that touches everyone, even Martin, the driver, who's spastic shoulder buzzes out in sync.

The evil Magician fails to conjure any convincing hoot.

I do not allow my mind to latch onto Jackie.

"You look like a freakin pimple. Like—like, goddamn chicken pox!"

"Hey! Screw you, Harvey. You bastard Dracula!"

"Alright! I'll fix it. Just hand me an oil rag and that lipstick." I lean forward to take the lead as the Grey overcoat with the Cross is harassed near my neck.

It holds a silly overtone of the Iron Cross, which is the fruit of my 12 set water color and bad artistic sense.

The Lexus restrains itself from any coughs as it glides down to the first block of Hindenburg.

"Man! You smell." Harvey snarls, mimicking an artificial retching grunt.

"Shush! I'm creating a masterpiece." I order from the shotgun seat, drawing little spots of red and black on Kenny's slather of fleshy neck, face.

Creating the worst painting in the history must be an achievement, of sorts.

By the time, we are at the middle block of Hindenburg, Kenny has met his chocolate quota of the next month since the creases around his mouths are evidence of stuffing Bread pudding that we had at one house where the middle aged woman and her husband insisted us on having a spoonful each.

The fight broke out when the mates from Seine spotted us, with our bags filled and decided that cheap chocolate nuggets made better throw able objects rather than peebles. We left our mark for the night on the closed diner's display window.

Spotted, blotted and smeared by candy apple, a misaimed chocolate baton, the splash of a diabetic drink have painted a grand diabetic art work on the glass.

Till morning, there are enough milk, chocolate, candy apple stripes on the display window for a shop owner to be angry about.

I feel my chest tighten on the tracks of adolescent to its fullest potential as the Lexus parks down the block, almost running a red light.

"Check out the rap on you!" Harvey's voice bounces off of the empty street stillness as he harasses my coat.

"Got any more candy apple on me?" I ask as I shake around like a dog. The smile fizzes out between Harvey and me, passes onto Kenny who stuffs the laughter along with his nugget but dies onto Clay.

"Isn't this a Nazi uniform?"

"What?" I mumble as I recover a chunk of prickly caramel shard, stuck to the back of my collar like the leftover fragments of a grenade.

"Your coat, Frey. What are you supposed to be?" Clay's voice is colored neutral as his face wears the marks of responsibility and formality.

If the 9 year olds can see us in this moment, they would understand how far away he and I have become.

Drifted apart like broken continents.

9 year olds cannot possibly understand 'Passive aggressiveness'.

"A communist?" Kenny's face turns around without his body arching from the front. His hand sinks into his sack, rifles around as the candy wrappers scream with plastic screeches and pulls up a Cherry Pop with satisfaction.

"Communists wear red, you moron!" Harvey's smile buzzes around the street.

"You know, this is Hindenburg right?"

The synchronized ballad of plastic bags, chewing on pellets of Crushers, the unorganized packet of footsteps simmer down as Clay's post insult smirk flies away into the air.

"So?" The fume comes from within.

"Nazis and Communists aren't probably the most favorite characters of the Hindenburg people, are they?"

For a moment, I can hear the soothing, crystal clear words of my inner voice which informs me that, in a sense, Clay is right.

But the audible, voiceless words fly away when the Lexus coughs for the first time in the evening, overshoots the crossing and then settles down to park, beside the end curve of the Hindenburg square.

I don't even have to provoke myself too much to let go.

I am not level headed.

The arranged Sociology books that always rest on my mother's desk are thrown apart.

The drawers of her table, the appropriately named files, folders stuffed with a hundred articles, bookmarks, statistics chart, major lists are flying in the air, at this very moment.

The attic of my mind is celebrating Halloween in its own way. Through a violent destruction.

"So? I don't care what the fuck they like or not, alright?"

In the stillness of pedestrian conversation, my yell's too high on the decibel list.

The sound of Kenny's rotating jaw that crushes the bottom of the lollipop under his blunt teeth stumbles to an end.

Clay's head tilts with a smile whilst the nearby house clock screams at the top of its lung and dishes out a series of bells to mark the number of the hours.

"Okay, Frey. I'm just pointing it out."

"Well, thanks, Clarance! Because everyone needs to come to you for all kinds of advice."

"Hey, hey, hey. Everyone! Keep your cool on!"

The 5th bell rings out, as well as Harvey whose joke fails to deliver the punch line as it gets hidden by the dumb buzz.

There is no humor.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know, Mr. Prime Directive. You fuckin' tell me."

"You are seriously not blaming me for that, are you? Look, Frey. You didn't show up on Wednesday, okay? What was I supposed to do about that?"

"You didn't vouch for me, Clarance! I asked that stupid Clyde what happened and he told me that Mr. Marsh settled on the whole thing."

"I did and—"

"You fuckin didn't, Clay! First, you didn't tell me about the whole debate being back on again and now this."

"Well, you notice everything under the blue sky, Frey. Did I really need to tell you or throw you at the notice board? "

The 8th ding chimes on whilst the backdoor of a house creaks us back into the center.

"It's called being a friend, Clay. Look it up!"

"Maybe, you are not the most suitable person for giving me a lecture about how to act like a friend."

Even Kenny, who is as confused as the dim lamp post, can understand that a line has been crossed. Or something has been said.

My brain is an unnecessary sports replay camera.

The images of a startled diner lady is followed by our silhouettes in the parking lot where the red truck has taken the collateral damage of Jackie's inconsistent shove.

To the day, Jackie told me that he knew about the letter.

"Don't sidestep!" 

The 9th bell ring pushes out the beats of numerous footsteps, accompanied by the groan of a wooden door, maybe telling me to stop shouting.

"Come on, Gotfrey. This ain't the time."

The plastic fangs of a fake Dracula steps in between, closer to me as I whiff the familiar smell of Beauty Olive Oil in Harvey's smoothed hair.

I turn around to spot Kenny with his hands stuck into a cautious posture, like a boxing referee, waiting to throw himself in at any second. Then I catch the silhouette of the Magician as Jackie's hat sits on his head, at a few feet of distance between us.

"It's not my fault that you are out of the debate club, Frey."

Kenny's slow step casts the shadow onto the foot of the stairs.

"And, what you did to Jackie and Dolorous, is definitely not my fault."

My back is turned towards Clarance and his words are bouncing off of Jackie whose face has been replaced by the hollow, misty darkness of the wrongly angled lamp post.

I can see exactly what Jackie might be thinking at this very moment, in an overhead dialogue shaped box that are seen in comics.

From now, since Clay has taken the responsibility of saying it out loud, he will understand that, it isn't Dolorous with her untimely absence which screwed up his life.

He will sit down face to face with this epiphany that, it isn't his parents failing marriage which took away the adolescent colors from his social life.

Now, he will look at me and realize that, I am the Puppet master behind the curtain who's sat with a brush, an easel and drawing little blue scuff marks of upset and disappointment on every little portrait of his life.

"You're a fuckin dickhead, Clay!"

Momentarily, the three of us are a Dawrve's Special meat sandwich as the Dracula is the cured, seasoned and spiced Ham in between, I am the bun with the hot Tabasco sauce, gritted peppers and Clay is the soothing scent of cheese and satisfying mustard.

Unlike any fights we have been on, this is criminally underwhelming as the Plague Victim, Kenny's hand digs into my shoulder and snatches the Nazi out of the war.

The homemade gas mask that has been sewed with tight clothing, breathing holes, the spiral tube of an unused vacuum cleaner has been pressed too much to be war worthy.

"Jesus, Frey! I fuckin' said now's not the time. What the fuck's up with you two?!"

"Hey, guys. Let's bail, yeah?" Kenny takes lead as he pushes me to the back.

"Duh! I'm getting Martin. Ken, watch these two! For fuck's sake—" Harvey passes another curse as he fixes his jacket, crumpled up on the side by my strong fists that were waiting to show what betrayal does to one's skin.

His palm commandeers the rest of the trampled hair back into the slick formation as he looks at us with humorous hatred.

"Bastards!"

"It's fine. Harvey. Let's just go to the Palladium, okay?"

"About fuckin time."

"I'm going home." I announce, not trying to add any curse or insults like an added clause.

I crane around from behind the fat cover of Kenny and pick up my sack as the long look scans through the empty street of usual lighting.

Since the Hindenburg is a colony of Europeans, they are not so accustomed to the whole meaningless decoration of Halloween.

There are no plastic skeletons in the front porches, no graveyard's tombstones.

And there's no Jackie Hemprhey in sight, either.

He has kept the reputation of his magician outfit and pulled a 'Houdini' out of everyone's sight.

"No, you are not. We are going to the Palladium!"

"Don't fuckin tell me what to do, Harve'!"

I am independent through force, not choice.

"Fine! Fuck off then!"

The porch light turns to its highest beam, without any warning as I swivel my head just in time to reply in the same rude tone at Harvey.

My dramatic, adolescent exit has been stolen as the front door opens with a man in a black silk shirt.

None of us can conjure any words or the power to disperse like cat burglars.

The light rays stick us into our place.

I am experiencing the first hand effect of sudden entrance of light that has the stopping power of any social emotion.

"Hello?" The European juke in his tone is either too distinct or the fact that we are at Hindenburg is making everything feel too foreign than it intends to be.

"Boys? Trick . . trick or treat?"

His smile works as an anti-paralytic as I finish my step onto the stone pavement.

"Trick or treat!" Clay's the first one to shout, grinning from ear to ear.

I don't let the momentary appreciation towards Clay who can switch the awkwardness around in any situation.

"Ah! That's the spirit!" The porch light loses its stunning potential as it turns down like a vacuum cleaner, with a mild hum.

The large candy bowl looks attractive with the wrappers of red, blue, black, bars, lollies, Dip Daps and scones fitted to its brim.

"I have been waiting for long . . . but . . children . . kids . . no one seem to come by."

He steps down the stairs, from the high stance to the gate to meet Clay, followed by Harvey who fingers his fangs into place.

No one asks me to join or screams at me with enough curses to disperse.

I eye around the crumpled up skin of his cheek, the aging lines flow down to his lips as his boy short hair tries to remain combed and suited.

"Sorry, no pumpkin on the porch, eh? The missus doesn't like it. It's—uh too . . messy."

"It's fine, sir." I hate the distinctly fake laughter of Clay, the chortle expresses as if he has just heard the most fantastic joke in his life.

As if he just hasn't fought with his best friend.

"You boys . . have you been out for long?" He asks with the same smile as his head nooks down to earthbound.

"No, we are just about to head home."

"Oh. . well . . . it's a shame that I bought so much chocolate but no one's passing through here. I . . just love . . the idea of this . . Halloween, you see. The idea of celebrating fear."

"We do too!"

"Here, you boys hit the jackpot tonight. Like, the Americans say? Jackpot!"

He laughs in his breathy tone, the mixture of cough, hissing of leaked balloons occupy the air as he distributes the full bowl.

I wonder if he has heard everything, every bit of curse, grunts of an incomplete fight in his front porch. Heard the name Dolorous and Jackie, what Mr. Marsh did and that I was put out off of the Prime Directive.

From his textbook smile of social etiquette and cooperation, I can tell that even if he did, he wouldn't understand anything because all of it will be out of context for him.

All of everything is out of context for everyone.

"Let me take a guess. Dracula, you are." His finger sees through Harvey's presentable attire.

Then it's aimed at Clay.

"A . . dead . . those things from the movies—"

"A zombie, sir." Clay chirps the answer with the assisting hand gestures.

"And you are?" In the angled posture, his eyes are squinting at Kenny's dotted face, chocolate smeared lips.

He's probably wondering at the moment if that is a kid or actually a monster in amateur human disguise.

"A—what was I? Oh, plague victim!"

His finger gun is lining me in his sights.

"Oh. And, um—you there. What are you?"

---------------------------------------------------

(To be continued)