Razor Blades and Candy Bars

Halloween is no favorite holiday of mine. None of them are anymore. Everything is just so…commercialized.

I do actually celebrate. But in my own way. No pomp. No circumstance. I like things quiet, reflective, and meaningful.

For Halloween, in particular, I’m not giving you my candy out of social obligation. I was forced to share as a kid, now you can just go buy your own.

My life, my Butterfinger.

And frankly, I don’t want you knocking on my door. Go away. I never answer for anyone else, not even for Amazon, and trick-or-treaters are no exception. The lights are off, no one is home.

Oh, and the doorbell doesn’t work.

And we’re never fixing it.

So go. Get off my lawn.

I swear, I’m no curmudgeon. I’m not a hermit…yet. I just don’t want to play that game anymore.

But, of course, I’m a writer, so I think.

I reminisce.

I’m constantly digging for, and seeking material.

And it abounds.

Razor blades.

That's the memory that decided to dominate my brain as I reflect on Halloween candy this year.

First, I remembered having to share the candy haul with my sister or our friends, which I thought was total bullshit anyway.

I know that learning to share SHOULD be a valuable lesson for children, but all it taught me was how to sneak into the bathroom and stash the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Butterfingers behind the toilet paper under the sink.

Maybe for other kids those kinds of candy bars were abundantly available, but in our house, we didn't get to eat sweets all willy-nilly like that. It required a special occasion, or an extra good mood on the part of my parents, or an extra dollar in their pocket in order for us to get a candy bar.

Can you believe they were actually only fifty cents a piece!!?

So Halloween was a free-for-all.

But it wasn’t all sunshine and unicorns. On top of having to share your sweet delights, you get the weirdos down the street that put apples or oranges in the candy bag. Or a bag of unsalted almonds.

Bitch, I didn’t put on this ridiculous plastic Superman jumpsuit for fruit and nuts. Deliver the chocalatey, gooey, nougat goods, or turn your porch light off like any decent person would do. Be stingy, or healthy, in silence.

Needless to say, I didn’t mind sharing anything with a rind, or low in sodium. My friends could have all that.

After I hid my delicious peanut butter and chocolate bounty, we'd all sit in the living room and dump our pillow cases full of candy on the floor and start sorting, and building equal piles.

But there was always this lingering darkness over our candy factory…

The fear of razor blades hidden in the candy. We must have been surrounded by serial killers. Our parents would inspect each and every piece to ensure they hadn’t been tampered with.

Was that just an 80's kid thing? Do kids today worry about that? I don’t even know. If they’re not serving me a cocktail, I haven’t spoken to anyone under 19 in years.

Was that an urban myth designed to scare young children only in our generation? Or can we bond on that?

Or, and here’s my theory after a martini or two, was it a scheme organized and orchestrated by the Union of Parents across the country to get first dibs on the very best candy?

One of those neighborhood parentals must have loved Tootsie Rolls, because those were the first to go.