Last night in the middle of our tri-hosted Halloween party, my friend Dave approached me very seriously - food poisoning serious - and murmured, “Do you have anything like a little kitten sweatshirt? A small jacket like that?”

My first thought was that he really did not understand my costume.

“A kitten sweatshirt?”

And then, he suddenly seemed to understand what he just asked me. “Not, like, you would have a kitten sweatshirt exactly. It doesn’t have to be a sweatshirt.”

Dave remained serious.

The fact that his Halloween costume portrayed him as a surgeon really actually lent him this strange credibility. I mean, he looked at me sharp-eyed, intensely as if ready to convey bad news.

“What’s up?” I asked quietly.

Dave explained that a cat had been trying to get inside the party for the last half hour, climbing up on my front window boxes and pawing the storm windows as if to say, “Look this is embarrassing, but I’m a neighbor and I seem to have locked myself out…”

Dave had asked for a bowl a few minutes prior; I assumed it was for the sushi that Tony Stark and Pepper Pots rolled themselves before coming to the party. (Evan really did look eerily like Tony stark, facial hair landscaping impeccably crisp. He glowed with this sexual energy and charisma that was typical of him and yet shining brighter.)

But apparently, Dave was getting water for the cat. And food. Figured the cat might like some sushi rolls and also the turkey. The cat had indeed eaten heartily, but seemed to want more than food. Maybe bedding? The cat found the right emissary. Dave is one of those men who has forged a great friendship with his dog:  Dave loves Jack the dog; Jack loves Dave. Their lifelong friendship has changed them both. Dave is built of that kind of kindness.

“How about a towel?” I ask. “Will that do?”

Dave and I rushed off to rescue the Halloween kitten.

“I can’t believe you asked me if I had a kitten sweatshirt. What the fuck is a kitten sweatshirt anyway?”

“Quiet.” Dave says. “Focus on the cat.”

Oh yes, I am now a man blogging about a cat. I recognize the absurdity of, you know, cat blogging, but this is how the story unfolds, so we’ll all just have to accept things and get through this:  I am blogging about a cat experience.

(Just think, 15 years ago, where would I have published a long and tedious story about a stray cat? Thank god for the internet.)

After debating a few choice locations and deciding under the hydrangea bush, Dave fluffed a little bed out of the big towel and moved the water dish and food dish closer. We wondered together where she had come from, and I remembered how someone earlier had complimented me on my cat. Again, I thought it was a misguided reference to my costume. (I did one of those concept costumes and nobody really got it until I explained it and then they said, “Oh yeah! Right. Sure, sure. Now I see it.”)

The cat appeared suddenly and was a youngish, soft-eyed, calico cat. The little fuzzball immediately vibed this very friendly and hip, “Hey. Cool. I like you.”

She nibbled on the hors-devours Dave brought her, gazing around the yard as if appreciating the autumn decorations:  golden crunchy leaves, the deepening green of November grass, the coolness of the earth on Halloween weekend.

One of the serial killers joined us on the front steps and explained how he felt her teats a few minutes ago and he now believed she was a young mother, this cat. Again, he also had a certain credibility. He had stabbed the Trix rabbit right between its big beaming eyes with an ice pick. His box of Corn Chex was assaulted by a plastic gun and there was an exit wound on the other side of the box through the daily recommended nutritional values.

I turned Dave to me and whisper loud enough for all to hear, “This is how serial killers begin, with neighborhood cats.”

My friend the serial killer talked about the cat he had once loved, Ms. Marple, and how he missed her quiet company in his life. This serial killer friend is actually quite loving, he’s gentle and sweet so his costume is deliciously the opposite of his normal persona. We talked about loving animals for a minute and we speculated on her neighborhood origins, the nearness of her possible kittens.

We went back to the party.
Ten minutes later, the cat scurried into the house when someone opened the door. She ran through the guests, leaving everyone cooing, this living embodiment of all of our combined love and good cheer. She was the party ambassador. I could almost envision her nodding, “Getting enough to drink? To eat? Cool, cool.”

The house was bursting with people I love.

Best friends.

Lifelong friends.

Newer friends.

Brand new friends.

There was this joy about our gathering, something that rocked orange and golden and happily green. We giggled and ate Stephen’s Mac and cheese, constructed with so much cheese and eggs that a single mouthful absolutely bent the plastic fork. I made a chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting and green coconut grass. I broke up Hershey Bars and made adorable little tombstones, even rounding off the ends of some so that there was a variety amongst the dead stones.

Most sugar-licious graveyard you have ever tasted.

My basement had been transformed into a suburban dungeon. Stephen and I ghoulishly designed a basement of horrors (and coolers with beer and a dessert table made from sawhorses and a shiny wooden door covered in dead leaves). Even this minute, almost 24 hours later, I’m reluctant to go down there and do laundry tonight. It’s a 1920s cement, exposed-beam basement with copper pipes stringing the ceiling and swinging single bulb lighting. Grey cement floor. Enormous wood pile. Metal doo-dads hanging on the wall like possible props from Pulp Fiction. It’s pretty clean, generally, but it’s also got a good creep factor.

I do love Halloween.

Throughout the party night, our mysterious cat repeatedly entered and exited the party, charming everyone. Another guest set up a food and water station outside the back door. I mocked Dave regularly for his request for a ‘kitten sweatshirt.’

“They exist!” Dave protested weakly.

This cat stopped its silent wanderings only for ONE person - the one person in the room who was violently allergic. Don. She nestled comfortably on his big chest. Don was costumed as a major league baseball player and had a wooden bat curled in the meaty paw attached to his giant, thick arms but he watched the cat helplessly and repeatedly muttered, “Every time. Every damn time.”

Don is a smart IT guy, but I sometimes think he should do hospice work. If I were dying and fearing what happened next, I think I would like to be in Don’s arms. He is a very gentle, very strong man. I think I would relax upon hearing his reassuring warm voice rasping as he said, “Don’t worry about it. Seriously.” It would not be a bad way to go, all that strength and gentleness swirling around in him, holding you tight at the very end whispering in his thick Italian brogue.
Don and Dave are together; they are my lifelong friends.

They brought a gift bag to the party, with Pumpkin peeps, a favorite wine, and a cheerful threat. A month ago I dumped National Treasure in their kitchen freezer, buried in the ice bin. It’s a thing between us. Sometimes they threaten me, sometimes I threaten me. The night they discovered National Treasure, Don muttered curses in the background while Dave chided me for breaking into their home and dishonoring Jack.

“He needs to feel he’s guarding the home.” Dave chided me. “You’re killing his self esteem by just walking in like that.”
“I gave him a cookie, a treat.” I protested back then. “I played with him a while and told him I was sorry about having to wear that cone around his head.”

“So you humiliated him.” Dave said flatly. “Well that’s great. You can’t humiliate Jack like that. He needs to feel he’s protecting us.”

“Tell Edmond he’s dead to us.” I heard Don mutter loudly in the background. “Tell him I spit on the ground. Tell him, Dave.”

At the Halloween party, Don and Dave threatened me:  National Treasure was hidden in my house again while I was downstairs putting eyeballs in the lemonade.

Meanwhile, Ann, our wonderful Iowa co-host, blazed a fire into existence and we brainstormed names for the cat.

The first suggestion was “Edmond’s cat,” which I tried to point out politely yet vehemently, was NOT a great name for a cat because I’m not really cat people. Let’s not get ideas, here. It was a stray.

I suggested a name I had fancied.

“Hatchet. What do you think of Hatchet?”

My friends politely avoided eye contact with me. Ann and Dave, who had also just met for the very first time, shared meaningful glances. Then Stephen, who also met Ann for the very first time, shared meaningful glances with Ann. All these people know me too well. They weren’t threatened or frightened of me, they were just saying with they eyeballs, ‘See how it is? See how he is? You understand, I know you do.’

I tried to move beyond the awkwardness and continued to extoll the virtues of this adorable name. I mean, Hatchet - found on Halloween? It’s adorable.
“So you’re a zombie, right?” someone else said cautiously. “Do zombies eat cats? Is that like a zombie thing?”

Hatchet continued to stroll through the party. She just wanted to be involved. Someone humane in the room suggested “Mr. Snuggles” or something like that and I nodded and said, “Yeah that’s good too, but how about Hatchet?”

All our guests had ideas about Hatchet and throughout the night I chatted with all of them. There were actually two cereal killer costumes, both with knives murdering various GE and Post products, giving all of us an evening of saying, “how tacky of you two to wear the same gown” type comments. A zombie banker who could make his head wounds open and close like speaking lips, a chef who beamed with his lady love (wise witch) as if he were all favored guests in his restaurant. We all nodded at him gratefully as if he had deep fried the turkey himself in my backyard.

Oh man, that deep fried turkey was good.

I enjoyed a beautiful, heart-opening conversation with a skeleton-masked friend. I took him to my bedroom to show him a sketch important to me. He took off his big mask and as we sat in the soft glow of my stained glass lampshade, we reflected on growth and pain and how growing love into your life demands these sacrifices sometimes. He talked about his weaknesses and I talked about mine.

Every now and then I’d catch the skull mask out of the corner of my eye and feel like I was hanging out with Hamlet, but the cooler Hamlet where he shrugs and says, “Well, what the fuck are you gonna do?” and then he goes out and gets the job done.

I barely spoke to my friend Brett last night. He freaked me out quite a bit, a 70s’ British rock star whose hair could have been used in a Rapunzel costume as well. I barely said hello to this powerful, important friend but I was aware of him all night, like a sparkling light on the other side of the room, someone I love so much and yet we were busy glowing in different circles that night, that’s all. I felt that way about a friend in Bunny Ears, another in jangling leggings, who insisted on a Renaissance speech. Awesome.

Before the party, I called Zombie Banker to pick up some extra ice and he refused to speak in anything but moans so I had to say to him, “Moan twice if you’re going to pick up some ice for me.”

“MMMMMMMmmmmm.”

“Uuuuugggggh.”

“Great.” I said. “Thanks man, I’ll give you a few bucks when you get here.”

A wall street vampire discussed the upcoming election expertly. He had big golden bling in the shape of dollar bills and a Wall Street sign, protesting self-centered CEOs who are sucking our futures dry. I felt a certain affinity for him and the zombie banker all night, because I myself wore a ripped-to-shreds business suit, zombie makeup and a giant red, plummeting Dow Jones index report spray painted across my shoulders an abdomen.

My costume was The Economy.

“Oh…riiiiiiiiight,” I heard over and over.

Two people very seriously offered to adopt Hatchet if he were still around on Sunday. Hatchet had endeared himself to everyone. I myself had begun to think, ‘Yeah, right. Like I’d let you take Hatchet away from me.’

Honestly, I’m not a cat person. But things happen on Halloween.

We put on costumes and reveal little bits of our wonderful shadow selves. It’s not that my friend secretly wants to be a serial killer. Nope. It’s about touching something different and scary, wonderful and liberating. Acknowledging that we have fear. Choosing to let our darkness become light instead of being a slave to it. I could be a surgeon. I could be dangerous and threatening. I have chosen in this life to be me. But this costume is to remind you that I am also other things.

Carl Jung said, “I’d rather be whole than good.”

I think part of that wholeness is celebrating Halloween.

Scary basements, brave hero costumes, and wonderful, sensual energy. We let out the part of us inside that needs to stroll through shadowy candle light every now and then, like a fuzzy Halloween cat. A fuzzy purple feather pimp coat and a silver sparkle wig. The Pulp Fiction action guy, Harry Potter and the Grim Reaper. We celebrate our weird quirks that make us surreal and wonderful. We’ve all got our own stories, our own crazy days blended together with ordinary things like taking out the trash and recycling the day after a party.

It’s Sunday.
I haven’t seen Hatchet all day.

I put out more water.

I spent the better part of Sunday strolling around the neighborhood and along Minihaha creek. This day was stunning, a perfect golden afternoon for long walks. I photographed leaves that seemed to be on fire and I took raspberry jam to the neighbor who grows giant sunflowers, introducing myself and thanking her for the gift of her crazy, overgrown yard.

She blushed and offered me perennials.

I confessed that I thought it would be weird if I showed up one day with raspberry jam because you know, it’s weird. She laughed and put her hand on my arm to say, “It’s okay. We spirited kind of people recognize each other so we can be weird with each other. It’s alright.”

But no Hatchet anywhere in the neighborhood or around the house.

I’m not surprised, I guess.

Things happen on Halloween when people of spirit gather together and love their own strangeness.

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 2nd, 2008 at 6:30 pm and is filed under Gratitude. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.