There’s a simple reason why I’m going to be Dexter this Halloween, and it has nothing to do with the TV show because I’ve never seen it. No, my own sick unconscious and suppressed personality has chosen my Halloween costume this year.
Let me explain. A few weeks ago I was in Hartford, CT parking in the Morgan Street garage (a great place to park because after 9 p.m. at night, they never make you pay). I was one of the only people parking; everyone else was leaving. The air was crisp, the first signs of fall. I was in a happy mood, mostly because I sang the song Popular from Wicked all the way from Stamford to Hartford. That’s a two-hour drive with Popular on repeat.
As I walked away from my mother’s Orange Honda Element, I hit the lock button twice simply because on the second hit of the button the car gives out a loud beep, and I wanted to scare the other commuters. No dice; the world today with its fancy talking automobiles, no one even looks up from smart phones when one beeps on its own. Idiots.
I headed west towards the exit. No elevator today, the stairs for me. The crazy straws I call legs could use the work of going down one flight of stairs. As I reached for the door a gust of wind hit me from the south and I noticed a button was undone on my blouse. “Funny,” I thought. “I could have sworn I buttoned that this afternoon. My gut must have grown.” I reached to fix my button with my left hand as I reached for the door handle with my more dominant right hand. All the while looking down, I gave a hefty thrust to the door and the button. One of these actions was met with a scream.
Due to my lack of focus I had accidentally opened the door on two businessmen, almost nicking the nose right off the taller one’s face. I scurried by, embarrassed by my inappropriate lack of clothing (I didn’t manage to button the blouse). The taller man yelled after me, “You could have killed me!”
I stopped, caught off guard by his exaggeration. Slowly, with the air of a hawk noticing his prey, I turned on the balls of my new purple Converse. Smiling a sadistic smile—not unlike the one Flo from Progressive plasters on her face—and without thinking, I said, “Don’t worry. I would have cleaned up the blood.”
Lightning flashed! Thunder boomed! Everything turned black and white, and that was it! That was the moment my true serial killer nature first revealed itself. As I spoke, I continued to turn so that by the time my sentence was finished I was facing down the stairs; a full 360 of terror. Slowly I walked off, listening to the nervous laughter of the businessmen as they continued on their journey home. As for me, well, I was off to improv.