Yesterday I enjoyed 12 hours of airplane travel madness. I left my Washington D.C. hotel at 6:14 a.m. so I could fly out at 8:00 a.m. Our plane circled a fog-blanketed Atlanta a few times and I must admit I was enjoying seeing the downtown skyscrapers poking their reluctant peaks out of the snowy blanket of clouds, like a Victorian Christmas village. Pretty cool.

Well, cool until the Captain announced that the auto-land wasn’t functioning correctly and we didn’t have enough fuel to make another wide berth of the city, so instead we were heading for Nashville.

I’m not sure why the Captain needed to tell us “there’s not enough fuel” at the same time he’s informing us of an equipment malfunction that should have been caught before trying to land the plane. All around me, my co-flyers sat up straight. What was that about not enough fuel? Even the iPod folks pulled off their headphones and asked their seatmates, “What just happened? Why did everyone flinch?”

Maybe our Captain didn’t realize how he said it. But to the layperson, “We don’t have enough fuel to make one more lap, so instead we’re going to head to a different airport in another state” is not comforting. I found myself wishing I had paid closer attention to those story problems with two planes.

So we clutched our side arms and pretended it was only a huge inconvenience and we weren’t terrified of crashing into the Smoky Mountains. I saw the movie Alive, I know how this goes. Personally don’t think I could eat human flesh if it came to that. Well, maybe. But it would have to be like, with a dipping sauce. Honey mustard. No way could I eat human flesh with a blue cheese or watery dill sauce.

In Nashville, we exited the plane and no longer confident in our cheerful Captain’s promise to “get that landing gear fixed before we try for Atlanta again,” I rebooked myself on another series of flights.

From Nashville, I flew to Cincinnati next and from Cincinnati to Minneapolis. With each new city, I got more and more irrationally nervous about never making it home, experiencing a new weather delay, equipment malfunction, a zombie invasion from Russia that immediately kills all airplane travel. I’d be stuck in the Cincinnati airport when the zombies attacked and the people who worked in the airport Cinnabon wouldn’t let me into the Employee Area with the other survivors because I wasn’t one of their own, just a traveler, and they were worried they’d run short of rolls and frosting leaving me to become an airport zombie, the worst kind of zombie.

If I’m going to be a zombie, I’d at least like to stay in my own neighborhood. I would totally go bite on those neighbor kids who keep stealing my raspberries and I wouldn’t even need honey mustard sauce.

I arrived in Cincinnati a little haggard. By now I had survived two airplane trips and had yet another to get through. I was getting a little unraveled. I’m not big on flying. I already knew my luggage was going to take a few twirls at the Atlanta airport before someone recognized its revised destination. I didn’t care; I just wanted to go home. Home.

In Cincinnati, my name was paged over the airport intercom, which always makes me nervous. (I always think my name is going to be followed by, “…you left an oven burner on at home. Your house burned to the ground.” Everyone will glare at me with angry pity and also a seething, ‘well what did you expect?’)

The friendly woman behind Delta’s gate confirmed it was me.

“Yes.” I tried to keep it cool.

“Do you have a seat on this plane? We’re not showing you with one.”

“I do! I do! I switched in Nashville, see the plane didn’t have enough fuel to land in Atlanta! So we…”

I rambled for a moment before she said, “Sir, because of the rebooking they didn’t give you a seat number like 11A, did they? Doesn’t your boarding pass say, ‘SEAT UNASSIGNED in big block letters?”

Oh. Right.

Yeah, that’s no big deal.

The last leg of the journey home was another small jet:  total of four seats across, can’t stand up straight, no beverage service because if the small plane lurches, an airline attendant could take out someone’s eye with a straw. Every lurch is stronger on a small plane. I wasn’t eager to crawl into another of these coffin-like cylinders. They assigned me to one of the back few rows, window seats. I crushed myself in and my seatmate crushed himself in and this is where it got weird.

I was feeling warm, tight, trapped in an enclosed place, and when I tried to turn on my overhead air jet, it didn’t work. He snickered a little in that, ‘airplanes, huh?’ kind of way that suggested a friendly sentence might be okay.

“This enclosed, warm space sure isn’t helping my claustrophobia.” I joked (but not really).

If I really want to chat with someone on a plane, which is rare, why must I say such odd things as an initial greeting? What’s wrong with a safe, “I bet the overhead light doesn’t work either.”

He grunted a little in solidarity but looking back, I think I had already shared a little too much by this point. I probably should have explained that I got up at the Central Time Zone equivalent of 4:30 a.m. this morning because my wake-up call was 20 goddamm minutes early. Or that I had kinda lost my normalcy around air travel for the day. Nope.

At the time, his slight guff was enough encouragement for me to continue.

I then looked at all the blank lumbering figures, slowly trudging back towards their seats amongst us and I said, “Boy, if these people were dressed nicer than they are now, this could be my funeral.”

To his credit, the gentleman completely ignored me. Just pretended he didn’t hear a single word.

Through his silence, I instantly realized how creepy that came across.

Why would I say that?

I blame the captain and his fuel comment thing. I blame the weather, of course, my frazzled nerves, but mostly I don’t take responsibility for that statement. I had had four caffeinated beverages by that point in the day.

Oh, and I also directly gestured towards these airplane zombies while casually remarking on their substandard attire for my funeral vision. So it wasn’t just words - I delivered this zinger with a flourish.

I knew he heard it; I’m not a mumbler. I was loud. He was open to hearing a friendly hello sentence; I know how to read my fellow travelers. But his complete refusal to acknowledge me was my first inkling that something was off.

Tonight I told my friend Michael this story and he burst into laughter.

“He thought you were a terrorist!” Michael laughed.

“No…no…”

Michael clearly didn’t understand. I wasn’t saying I wanted to die or that the plane was definitely going to crash. I was just saying that being here was like being at my own funeral and they would be part of my funeral. I uh…yeah, I guess maybe there was a creepy implication there.

We howled with laughter.

I then reflected on how many little non-verbal signals were confirmed by this Terriorist theory. The rigidity of my neighbor’s posture, the immediacy of turning on his computer and putting on headphones. He was powering up his computer and already wearing his headphones by the time the attendant had finished that ’safe altitude’ message. He thought I was exceedingly creepy.

If the freedom-hating terrorists wanted another crack at our national air carriers, they’d be smarter to send a chunky blond guy to do their dirty work. Someone who looks like me, all innocent and doughy.

Michael was fascinated with our interaction and demanded to know if I said anything else weird or threatening to my neighbor the rest of the trip.

I explained that no, this was not a problem after the first twenty minutes because I asked the airline attendant if I could move to the nearby exit row where there seemed to be an empty aisle seat.

Michael’s eyebrows shot up.

“No,” I explained, “I just wanted the extra room so I could work on my computer.”

“What kind of person wants to sit in the available exit aisle seat? Who also comments that the fellow plane-boarders are his funeral procession?” Michael asked.

“Terrorist.” I said glumly.

I’m not sure why I say some of the absurd things I do. Or why I find it so amusing to alienate perfectly nice strangers through unconscious creepiness. While jump starting a car some winters ago, the very grateful lady pointed out that she could see a half-eaten bagel in my engine. Instead of saying, “Huh, that’s weird.” I turned to her and said, “Did you notice any cream cheese?”

I have to work on my people skills.

“Also,” I said to Michael last night and pointed to my pants. “I was also wearing these.”

Camaflague pants.

Michael looked at me wearily. “Of course you were.”

I’m totally nervous. I feel like I’m getting ready for a date, a first date with someone I shouldn’t be dating…maybe a little bit of a bad boy vibe. Yet I’m sure nothing sexual will happen between us because his wife Rhonda wants him home by 8:00 p.m. Plus, he’s bringing his two-year-old son.

Rex is my new mechanic now, and he just finished overhauling the entire engine. I’m so nervous; I can’t wait to see my car again! Rex said he bringing engine pictures of what he fixed. He was also genuinely sorry he didn’t have time to put together a PowerPoint slide show like he intended. He was running late.

I feel a dirty whore.

I’m cheating on my neighborhood mechanics - Best Garage Ever - with Rex, and I feel like a dirty little car slut.

The first time I took my metallic-blue Subaru Impreza to the Best Garage Ever (at that time just the Neighborhood Garage), it was because the dealership wanted to charge me $500 for a broken exhaust pipe. I asked these new guys to give me a second opinion but was explicitly clear TO NOT FIX ANYTHING until we talked because I needed to decide if I wanted to do the work at this time.

“Sure, sure.” they told me.

Their casual tone made me nervous.

When they called a few hours later, the anonymous voice over the phone said, “Well, we just went ahead and fixed it.”

Instantly I fumed, ready to unleash this stream of swears that I hoped conveyed a combination of professional, decent person, and really fucking pissed off.

He spoke before I did.

“We just welded the tail pipe back onto the muffler. Took us 10 minutes, tops. We’re thinking $7.50. Cool?”

“Cool.” I said, swallowing my anger quickly. “Yeah, that’s okay.”
Best Garage Ever.

One of the best features is that while there, I never feel talked down to.

(ASIDE:  as awkward as the phrasing of that previous sentence may be, it perfectly conveys the slightly ignorant vulnerability and weakness I often feel when visiting a mechanic. I always fear they’re going to talk down to me and then I’ll feel stupid about the car I love. Folks at the Best Garage Ever are often very kind, exceedingly friendly in a way that does not suggest they read it on page 4 of the employee manual, but rather they just are this way because they are. I do not feel stupid with them.)

A few weeks ago I took my beautiful car to the Best Garage Ever to get an estimate. Something was rattling and with 125,000 miles on Old Blue, I figured my faithful steed deserved a little TLC. James from the Best Garage Ever called me and his voice was strange…careful. Measured.

“Mr. Manning? We should talk about your car. Can we do that?”

I was a little struck by his odd tone, almost suggesting I sit down in a chair.

James gently explained the timing belt issue, the other issue that was an estimated $800 fix earlier in the summer, and how they discovered both the left and right head gasket was leaking, a common Subaru problem. I listened in dumb wonder and as he cautiously dog-piled the misery, and suddenly I recognized his tone:  surgeon. Life support.

Already, the little imaginary dollar bills were swimming through my brain, piling up like a bad Refinance-Your-Mortgage TV ad.

I finally understood.

“It’s almost not worth fixing!” I cried in despair.

“I’m not saying that.” James said calmly. “Let’s just talk about this…”

“I love this car!” I yelled into the phone.

“I know you do.” he said softly. “I know.”

I was suddenly speechless. James walked me through the remaining items that would need to be fixed. Gradually he totaled the estimate for me while I held the phone limply. My car! My beautiful new car!

(Car was actually purchased in 1999. But it was my first new car ever.)

My new car!

With a grand total landing unhappily around $3,700, I squirmed. Any investment I put into this beautiful car has already been returned four times over. And I’m not worried about blue book value. But I also don’t want to die in this car - I was thinking it would be nice to die the day before a nasty trip to the dentist, to you know, save me some pain. But not screeching as the car flips into a concrete highway divider and the last thing I see is a broken timing belt on the windshield. I don’t want to die like that, being mocked by a timing belt.

I am not a rich man, either. Did I really want to invest further in Old Blue? Could it be new car time?

My brother Matt went through a battle like this, investing big cash in his old car. I decided to call him; he’d understand!

Matt listened to my mostly irrational despair/pouting and he talked to me as if he were a high school career counselor, helping me see options and consider second opinions, and how it’s even possible to find another car…another -

No.

But Matt’s counsel reminded me to get another opinion.

I consulted Rex, a former coworker from Allen Interactions, a man who worked as a mechanic for 15 years before deciding, “Hey, I like e-learning.” He was at Allen years before me and survived for another full year after me. He also worked part-time for Allen in his last years because he was pursuing life as a welder artist/inventor. He’s always eagerly explaining to me a thing he has invented and if he can just get it into one of Target’s suppliers’ shows…

Rex agreed with the Best Garage Ever:  all that work needed to be done and possibly more.

“And probably…” he began.

Don’t say it. I thought to myself. Don’t say THAT.

“…the clutch.” Rex advised. “As long as the engine’s out of the car, you may as well.”

Dammit. He said it.

Rex agreed to fix my new car, Old Blue, for roughly half of what The Best Garage Ever would have charged. In fact, Rex came up with the nickname Old Blue.

You see how I’m torn.

I love Rex, love his crazy inventor vibe that radiates out of him when he talks about creative projects. When he talks about his family, then he’s quiet, calm. He smiles this wonderful, goofy smile when he talks about his life with Rhonda and the kids.

But it’s the Best Garage Ever!

And I cheated on them!

But it was with Rex, who was my comical arch-nemesis at Allen Interactions. One year, he tried for months to get everyone at work to give me a nickname from Porkies II.  “Hey Boog!” he’d chirp loudly every morning, day after day. Thankfully it never caught on, but for months Rex never gave up.

“Morning, Boog! How was your drive?”

I heard it daily.

So is it wrong to cheat on your beloved neighborhood garage if the new guy who fixes your car is pleasantly sadistic and a good Dad?

Yup, I’m a dirty car whore.

I cheated.

This torrid affair with Rex began when I called him to vent my car woes and ask him if he would look at my car for a second opinion. I told him the ugly truth:  how many thing were wrong, how expensive it would be to fix.

“You’re thinking about putting down that beautiful Subaru?” he gasped into the phone. “I love your car! It’s got another 100,00 miles on it!”

“I know!” I cried.

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.

One of the few acceptable times of the year when the young and unempowered are allowed to threaten the status quo of the world with their one and only weapon:  youth.

I mean, sure it’s adorable when little Spiderman shows up and whispers, “Twicker tweets.” That puffy, little, muscle costume makes it hard for him to waddle up and down the sidewalk. The shy ninjas, shrugging Darth Vader who you can almost see blushing under all that plastic, the lion who wants candy but also wants you to hear her roar.

Cute.

But I’m not fooled.

It’s also a subtle threat.

They’re saying, “Hey, seriously. We live in this neighborhood and although we’re only roughly 5 - 12 years old right now, we’ll be teenagers in a few years and you don’t want to be known as that dick house where the candy has sucked for the past ten years. We’ll remember. And we’ll have cars by then. So c’mon. Gimmie a Reeces peanut butter cup.”

It’s okay, though. It’s their night of the year. And they don’t run the world just yet.

But we do, and what is the world going to be like when we hand it over? How awesome is it going to be an adult then? Or will it hurt worse than it does today, in our adult world right now and the costumes we wear? Totally cliche, I grant you; I feel like I just groped Whitney Houston.

But it’s also kinda true.

These kids will inherit debt, an oil crisis that hasn’t even begun, and a whole generation of fucked up war vets, brave men and women who gave so freely of their lives in service. Just or unjust as you may believe the Iraq war to be, these American men and women gave all their hearts to this country because they were worried that the rest of us might not be able to go out at night in costume and laugh and play and not be arrested for expressing joy. This is their love for us.

And tonight some of their kids are out trick-or-treating.

I like to think of these kids as the future walking to my front door, a toothy fashion show of how we might turn out. Hulks. Heros. Vampires. Wonder Women. Princesses in ribbons who remember to laugh. Knights who are excited to joust the air between houses. I always think the pirate children are going to end up as artists, massage therapists, and midnight authors. They understand that pirates have many different looks, and you actually have to walk crooked to pull off that costume. They’re the bravest and grow up so uniquely wonderful, little pirate kids.

If I run out of M&Ms tonight (which honestly would make me sad because then what the hell am I going to munch on during Final Destination 3, waiting for Ann to arrive from Iowa? After she arrives, we’re going to order Chinese and then head out to a costume party. She called me on the road to let me know that she’s already dressed as Harry Potter and has been all day. Adults get to have joy too.)…

Anyway.

If I run out of M&Ms, Reeces cups, and Hershey bars, I’m going to give the Future Kids one of my favorites:  Almond Joys.

Yum.

And also a silent promise to try to be a better man and to try to make this world better.

I bet it’s going to be a hard world for you kids. I’m feeling some extra hope these days because of the upcoming regime change. We might just not go totally insane in this world after all. Obama may pull us back from the brink, this unconventional and wise king. So things might be better when you kids get to be buying mortgages and worrying about your investments. I hope so. I intend to make it so.

(Although honestly, I don’t own jack shit in investments so, you know, I sleep at night. I’m not THAT grown up.)

But for tonight, you’ll have to settle for Almond Joys, which honestly, I don’t understand why you Future Kids don’t like coconut. You will. It’s coming for you. One day you’ll suddenly like coconut and then go, “Oh hey. I think I might be an adult here.”

And in the intervening years before we shake hands, adult-to-adult, don’t soap my house or egg my garage. I’m not afraid to chase you down the alley, you little motherfuckers.

I’m not giving up on you yet.

I think we might make it.

The Pirate Kids will help us out.

Ooo - gotta go!

Future Kids are at the door demanding candy.

Audie.

I love getting my hair cut by this man!

I like my hair shorn high and tight; short, short, short! I love the feeling of my hand against those buzzy bristles against my skull. But I also love sitting in his chair and hearing about his world. Every time I learn fascinating new things about him, the world, professional skateboarding, good food. Every visit is like shaking the Magic 8 Ball but instead of crappy vague answers on wet plastic triangles, something spectacular is revealed, just the way you always wanted the Magic 8-Ball to work.

I called him Thursday to inquire as to whether he had any openings for Friday or Saturday? I think this might drive him nuts:  we both know I get my haircut roughly the same week every month. We both know I’m going to get my hair cut with him. But I refuse to make a standing appointment.

I can’t help it; I love this strange thrill that sometimes occurs when he says, “Yes, there was a cancellation. I can fit you in.”

I always feel so important, so special, like I am a celebrity and just got into a five-star restaurant. I couldn’t trade that thrill for a regular, appointment. And the comparison is not entirely exaggerated. He’s been voted “Best Barber in Minneapolis” two out of the last four years. Or maybe it’s every year…I don’t know - I forget to read the plaques on the wall sometimes. We get busy chatting.

I found out he could squeeze me in, so tonight around 6pm Friday night I found myself in his chair just in time for Friday afternoon Disco Haircut Hour.

“See,” he nodded over his bifocals towards a small rotating disco ball in a plastic stand instead of from a dangling string. Faint light was bouncing off it, tracing the walls. The thing wasn’t much bigger than a golf ball, really, but this is compensated for by Disco music on the DMV music channel. Maybe the scene described sounds very night-clubby, but there was a guy waiting for a haircut reading the Star Tribune, not really noticing the Disco theme.

Today, he asked me, “How would you like your hair cut today?” About 19/20 times I get it cut the same way, but he still asks and does not assume an answer because today might be that 20th time. I am always impressed he manages to ask. There is something Buddhist in this, lack of attachment to outcome, or willingness to be open and surprised; today might be different.

I told him that I need his “Best Pentagon Haircut” because I’m headed to D.C. in a few days and I want to look sharp.

We talked about my work trip, beautiful highlights of Washington, which prompted a story from him:  in 1972 he and a friend got drunk and drove their car into the Pentagon parking lot.

We grimly joked about how that probably couldn’t happen today without my barber and his friend sobering up in Guantanamo Bay. There’s an FBI profile on Audie, we discussed it one special haircut day when the Magic 8 Ball said, “Activist Stories.” He was a political activist in the 1960s and 70s. And 80s. and 90s. This is how he lives.

We talked about his sobriety - 25 years sober. I asked him how he realized his addiction and how he got sober without AA. His story is sad and lonely at times, but ultimately he found his heart again. Now, there are two recovery homes within a two block radius from his barber shop and they send men to Audie to listen to his story. When he tells the stories about his drunken days, he doesn’t celebrate them, nor does he shame himself over it. It’s just the past.

It happened.

Over the years, three of his clientele who have sat in his chair eventually put themselves into recovery because of Audie’s friendship and stories. He didn’t tell them they needed to get sober. He just shared his heart and his own crash & burn, until they felt the uncomfortable similarity creeping into their lives. He listens mostly. But if you’re going to get his advice, you’re going to have to ask for it directly.

He interrupted the conversation next to our chair to say, “No, it’s Ted Cook’s Crab Shack. That’s the name of the place you’re thinking of - with the amazing BBQ. And please, I would know. I lived in Texas.”

The conversation meandered into the best Thai Food, the best Ethiopian food, and noodles. The Republican convention, his partner’s work schedule, Tina Fey, my work trip, where I thought I was stuck in my life.

He stopped again and addresses the conversation next to us.

“It’s GermanFest this weekend at Gasthofzg.” he explained, and then resumed clipping away. “And if you go, stay out of the basement, it’s loud and the guy with the accordian has boundary issues. I had to pay him to go play on the other side of the room.”

“What were we talking about?” he asked me.

“People in recovery.”

“Oh, yes.” He picked up where he left off. “I think she got a Fullbright Scholarship after she got sober and now she’s in southern Russia, right off the what - Crimean Sea? Oh boy, my geography…”

As he rattled off province names, Cheryl Lynn’s Got To be Real grooved over the radio station.

We’re all feeling this sexy, relaxing Disco vibe. Maybe it’s because how ridiculous our world is now, falling apart financially, this devestation of leadership and personal ownership. They say that Nero played the fiddle while Rome burned. Why not get a haircut? And while chatting, we shared our mutual fear that someone - anyone - outside the United States might accidentally hear Sarah Palin speak and then they’ll finally know it’s time to take over our insane government. Maybe someone would be kind enough to help us set up a democracy.

But at that moment, it was the Disco hour, when such fears can melt into the background of Earth, Wind and Fire’s September.

Audie shook his head at his sloppy international boundaries knowledge. Tonight when I got home, I had to google the Crimean Sea to even recognize the USSR provinces he tossed around so easily.

He has competitively judged dogs. Ran a hospital’s HR department for dozens of years. He drove a RV acrosss the counry for two years because he thought he might love it. He did. Figured as long as he was going to reinvent his life, it may as well be gorgeous while he figured things out.

I took him a jar of raspberry jam today, my annual Fall offering to this friend with whom I share life once a month. He and his partner love the jam and though I have not met his true love, I love hearing stories about their life together. Good or insane, his stories about Jon always start the same way.

“Don’t get me started.” Audie rolls his eyes and says. But it’s obvious he loves Jon.

Friday, I barely got the Jon update on his schooling when Audie interrupted the conversation in the next chair. “No, you’re thinking of that rib place on 5th. Tackiest awning you ever saw and you walk in and think, ‘I wouldn’t eat out of this hell hole, but then you taste those ribs and realize you’ll be back again. Oh honey, they’re so good, but get the sauce on the side. It’s too hot; Jon can’t eat them.”

While he talked ribs with my neighbor haircut, Disco Inferno came on the DMV radio and I chair danced, swinging around my newly shorn head, feeling the soft bristles with my hand and listening to the comparison of BBQ sauces. When he turned back to me, I had some serious shoulder humping going on.

Audie looked over his bifocals. “What are you doing. Is this a seizure?”

“Disco fever.” I told him.

“Oh my god,” he says as he trims my eyebrows. “Our Friday Disco Hour always reminds me of San Francisco in the 1970s. Oh, honey. I have some stories.”

Ah, the Magic 8-Ball has spoken.

I am almost tempted to book an appointment for next months’ Friday Disco Hour.

Almost.

Truly a banner day today for the union of galvanized bees in my back yard. Good job guys. I’m totally bringing in bagels on Monday to celebrate.