Lunar Park

I let Kentucky Pete in and, after hesitantly granting him a margarita, quickly led him to my office, where I locked the door and pulled out my wallet. He was in a hurry anyway; he needed to get to the college by eight to sell a large amount of dope to an affluent group of juniors. When he asked if I had a pipe he could borrow, I opened my safe. He downed the punch and heaved a huge, satisfied sigh, humming along to the Zombies singing “Time of the Season.”



(What’s your name? Who’s your daddy? Is he rich? Is he rich like me?)



“What’s in there?” he asked, craning his neck, and then, “Dig the sombrero.”



“This is where I keep my cash and guns.” I reached into the safe and gave him a crystal pipe that under no circumstances did I want returned after its use. I needed two eight balls of the pure stuff and a couple of the heavily cut grams for drunken guests who were going to bum off me and be too wasted to notice the difference. After the transaction was finalized and a discount given in exchange for the pipe, I pocketed the tightly wrapped multicolored packages and led Kentucky Pete outside, walking him across the pumpkin-scattered lawn as he admiringly stared back at the elaborately decorated house.



“Whoa—this place has been turned into one spooky shack, man,” he murmured appreciatively.



“It’s a spooky world, dude,” I said hurriedly, checking my watch.



“Ghoulish, man, ghoulish.”



“The spirits will be moaning tonight, my man,” I said, maneuvering him toward the motorcycle parked lopsidedly at the curb. “I know all about the darkness, dude. I am primed to party and ready for anything.”



Even though it was the end of October an Indian summer had lingered and I shivered at the incongruity of this decidedly nonautumnal weather while Kentucky Pete explained the origins of the holiday: Halloween was based on the Celtic day of Samhain—this was the last day of their calendar and the one time of the year when the dead came back and “grabbed you, dude.” And if you went out you had to wear a costume that made you look like one of the dead so they’d be fooled and leave you alone. I kept nodding and saying, “The dead, yeah, the dead.” We could hear “Time of the Season” playing from inside the house.



“Adios, amigo,” he said, revving up.



“Always a pleasure,” I said, patting him on the back. Then, wiping my hands on my jeans, I scurried up to the house and locked myself in my office, where I snorted two massive lines, and exhaling with relief I rushed to the bar with my empty nonalcoholic beer can and had the werewolf fill it with punch. I was now ready for the night to begin.



The guests started arriving. Costumes were fairly predictable: vampires, a leper, Jack the Ripper, a monstrous-looking clown, two ax murderers, someone who seemed to be just hiding under a large white sheet, a bedraggled mummy, a few devil worshippers, and there were a number of fashion models and a plague-ridden peasant, and, as expected, all of my students were zombies. Someone I didn’t recognize came as Patrick Bateman, which I didn’t find funny and had a problem with; watching this tall, handsome guy in the bloodstained (and dated) Armani suit lurk around the corners of the party, inspecting the guests as if they were prey, freaked me out and somewhat diminished my high, but another trip to the office reclaimed it. Cliques began forming. I was forced into meeting a few of the parents of Robby’s and Sarah’s friends, discussing another national tragedy before the conversation turned to topics about as interesting as last week’s weather: the daughter who didn’t get into the desired preschool, unfair soccer leagues, and a book club someone had just started—and when I suggested that they begin with one of my books I was met with what could only be described as “uneasy laughter.” Jayne was hiding her anger exquisitely by playing the charming hostess while I waited impatiently for Mr. McInerney, who was giving a reading in town and had called earlier asking for our address again. Sometime during all this Jayne insisted I strap the guitar I kept in my office (a leftover souvenir from my Camden days when I was in bands and thought I was going to be the next Paul Westerberg) over my shoulder to hide the marijuana leaf, after she noticed the concerned looks from a few of the parents, and so I was soon spinning around the party greeting guests while strumming the guitar—which was also a clever way of disarming my students from wanting to talk about their stories (always one of my least favorite topics of conversation—and tonight I did not want to be asked, “Mr. Ellis, have you read ‘What I Was Thinking When I Gave Him Head’ yet?”). And I didn’t really focus on anything in particular until Aimee Light appeared.