Halloween Banana

Let me take you back eight months ago, nearly halfway through my first semester in college, before the cold had really settled in New York City and the trees still held fiercely to their yellow leaves. This past fall was a busy one for me, for obvious reasons, and while I spent most of September trying to adjust to sharing a bathroom with four other girls and walking nine blocks every other day at 7:30 a.m. for class, I took advantage of the mild October weather to explore more of the city. A childhood friend came to stay with me for a long weekend, and, for the first time, I managed to maneuver the subway and get us to the Upper West Side. On a whim (and driven by the irrefutable craving for festive cupcakes), my roommate and I decided to cross Houston Street and step into the strange, expensive land that is SoHo. Halfway through the month I was invited to my first rooftop party, and spent a few freezing hours pretending I was hip enough to be there. I visited the Botanical Gardens in the Bronx with friends, ate a meal in Koreatown my wallet will never forget, and tried on old, weird prom dresses at a rinky-dink thrift store near St. Marks Place. I squeezed in every last adventure I could before the temperature dropped and I inevitably became an irritable mole-person.

As October wore on, I became more and more determined to not only explore as much of the city as I could, but also to be the most obnoxious Halloween-enthusiast on my floor. Halloween is one of my favorite holidays, and I was almost certain my first Halloween spent in NYC was going to top all other Halloweens. Imagine the pure elation on my roommates' faces as they stepped through our dorm door one evening (already covered in spider-web deco) realizing I was going to have ABC's Thirteen Nights of Halloween on the TV for exactly thirteen nights! Every time they tripped over the extension chord for the purple lights I had strung across our door frame, they thanked their lucky stars they had been randomly assigned to live with me.

And of course, among my many firsts that October, I also carved a pumpkin by myself for the first time. And let me tell you, it was not easy. For one, I had to carry this pumpkin in a plastic grocery bag for a few blocks. Then I had to cut the thing with a plastic, two-inch knife that came from a very old, cheap carving kit, spreading pumpkin guts everywhere. Then, like the culinary genius that I am, I poked holes in aluminum foil to form a makeshift sieve so that I could, with much difficulty and very little success, rinse the pumpkin seeds and roast them at a later time (this, of course, never happened). But damn, I was proud of that pumpkin. On Halloween day, I put the pumpkin outside our door in the hallway, alongside a little Tupperware of candy corn, my good-natured attempt to be neighborly and (aggressively) festive.

Later that night, I realized too late that I should have never let that cute little jack-o'-lantern out of my sight. When some friends and I returned from our wandering of the Village and Times Square to watch a Halloween movie at my dorm, my poor pumpkin had his fanged teeth kicked in and a gash that left his face nearly split in half.

I was annoyed as all get-out. I shouted obscenities. I shook my fist. Injustice! Anarchy! Assholes! This wasn’t just an accidental hit-and-run; the massacre of my pumpkin was totally intentional. You could tell because his top and stem were discarded in an alcove halfway down the hall, an additional, unnecessary act of violence on my already disfigured pumpkin. Surprisingly, the Tupperware of candy corn that I left out for passer-byers was untouched.

I carried the Tupperware and the broken pieces of my pumpkin inside, where my friends were wondering how long it would take me to get over a rotting vegetable. One of my friends kept muttering, “I don’t get it. What’s the problem?” which did not make me feel any more agreeable.

My emotional melt-down very quickly became uninteresting for my company, and they began to chat and laugh in my room while I attempted to reconstruct what was left of my pumpkin’s face with toothpicks. Then, there was a knock at the door.

Expecting to see the guilt-ridden perpetrators returned to beg for forgiveness, I yanked the door open only to see a boy dressed as a giant banana, flanked by another boy in a pirate costume.

“Good evening,” said the banana smoothly, adjusting his eyeglasses. “We were wondering if you or any of your roommates had any alcohol.” I stared back at him, wondering in a moment of panic if somehow this banana-pirate duo were Residential Assistants trying to bust under-age Halloween activities.

“Any alcohol?” I repeated, looking back over my shoulder as though one of the bottles of peach-flavored vodka my roommate had stashed might come bounding out from under her bed to incriminate us. I turned back around ready to feign ignorance, but the pirate chose that moment to reveal a box of sour candies. “We’ll trade you this entire box for any alcohol you have,” he added, extending the box in my direction.

My worry fell away and I appraised the two with a look of disdain. I mean, were they really going door-to-door asking for booze in exchange for fifty-cent candy? Dressed like they were in a weird children’s show, no less? 

They could probably tell I was judging them and about to decline, because the pirate added, “Could you check with your roommates too?”

With a sigh, I called out to my friends. A few of them joined me at the door, peeking over my shoulder and assessing the situation. “They want alcohol,” I deadpanned. “For candy.” This earned an eager shake of the box from the pirate.

“Ooooh, those are really good candies!” One of my friends grabbed a strip of green packaged sweets.

“Yeah, but we don’t have any alcohol here.” I turned back to the boys with an insincere grimace. “I’m sorry!”

“Are you sure? Could you check?”

Could I check? Clearly this freshman's desperation for liquor knew no bounds. My friend was still hungrily eyeing the box of candy. “We don’t have alcohol...but I have a Tupperware of candy corn I can give you?” I offered weakly.

The two boys exchanged looks, and there was a moment of silent deliberation.

The banana shrugged his shoulders. “Candy corn is good.”

I sent my friend to go grab the container off the edge of my bed, while the three of us stood in my doorway in awkward silence.

“I like your ears,” the banana said eventually, referring to the pointed, elfin, rubber pieces  balanced on top of my ear, the only costume prop indicating I was dressed as a fairy.

“Thanks,” I replied, even though I knew he was lying. “I like your…banana.”

Luckily, my friend returned with the Tupperware of candy corn before he was able to think about what I just said.

We made the trade-off cordially, and waved them off. “Good luck with your search!” I called out, watching the two waddle off to the next door, thinking to myself, even considering my Halloween-fanaticism, at least I’m not those guys.