Sam

“That’s it. The wedding is cancelled!” Alex announces, walking into the living room and throwing himself dramatically onto the couch as he stares at the cell phone in his hand.

Everyone stops picking pills, pot brownies, loose pennies, random pieces of Aunt Bobbie’s makeup, and travel-sized bars of soap and shampoo out of the treat bags we have strewn all over the living room, and looks at Alex.

“The wedding is in two days. What are you talking about?” Scheva asks, pushing herself up from the floor, walking over to the couch, and snatching the phone out of his hand.

“If the wedding is cancelled, can I still keep the wedding dresses on all the clowns in the front yard? I even added veils to half of them. That was a lot of work and I’m not ruining it now,” Reggie asks Bev.

“I can’t possibly get married. My life has lost all meaning. My dreams have died,” Alex complains, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands.

“Are you upset just because of this silly email?” Scheva asks, still staring at his phone.

Alex looks up and glares at her.

“It’s not just ANY email. It’s an email from Urban Dictionary. THE Urban Dictionary. The ruler of all things awesome on the internet. They killed my hopes and dreams, Scheva. Do you not understand the severity of this situation? How can I possibly be a good husband when I can’t even be a good Urban Dictionary-er?” Alex asks.

“Is that even a word?”

“DON’T YOU JUDGE ME, SAM! DON’T JUDGE ME UNTIL YOU’VE WALKED A MILE IN MY SHOES OR RECEIVED A REJECTION EMAIL THAT HAS BROKEN YOUR HEART!” Alex shouts.

“So they rejected a word definition from you. It’s not the end of the world,” Noel informs him.

“I . . . you . . . how . . . SHITBALLS!” Alex yells, pointing his finger at her, unable to speak in any kind of coherent way.

“What is this Urban Dictionary thing? Is it filled with street slang? I’ve been trying to use the word thug more often in a sentence. I really think it’s making a difference in my life,” Bev tells us.

“It’s the Holy Grail of everything, Beverly!” Alex states, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. “And they’ve denied me entry!”

“Oh my God,” Scheva groans. “You seriously tried to submit the phrase butthole meat to them?”

“It’s another word for poop, Scheva, and it’s genius! Don’t shit on my butthole meat!” Alex argues.

Noel and I both laugh, quickly hiding our amusement when Alex looks at us angrily.

“I even provided them with a definition and very well-thought-out sentence, just like they asked. ‘Beth was mad when Chris left his butthole meat in the toilet.’ It was perfect and informative, and they denied my word!”

Scheva tosses Alex’s phone onto the couch cushions next to him and walks back over to the rest of us, taking back her spot on the floor to resume combing through treat bags.

“You have exactly five minutes to mourn the loss of your exclusion from Urban Dictionary, and then you need to get your ass back to work. There are still pumpkins to carve and illegal narcotics to remove from treat bags,” Scheva announces.

Alex gets up from the couch and stomps out of the room toward the kitchen, where a pile of pumpkins is waiting, along with stacks of newspapers to catch all the guts.

We all work quietly until someone rings the doorbell. Bev gets up to answer it, and a few minutes later, walks in with Todd, one of the neighbors.

“Hi, everyone, sorry to interrupt,” Todd tells us with a smile.

“Well, hello there, Todd,” Reggie says, speaking the name with contempt as he stares at the man standing in the doorway of the living room.

I look at Reggie questioningly, and he leans closer to whisper in my ear.

“Todd lives on the other side of the serial killers. I asked him the other day if he’d seen anyone coming and going, maybe with a white van, but he claimed he hasn’t seen anything. I know he’s lying. I can see it in his eyes. They’re all squirrely and shifty. Stupid Todd with the shifty eyes.”

I look away from Reggie and the idiotic words coming out of his mouth to listen to Todd when he starts speaking.

“Just wanted to tell you folks that my wife saw that clown lurking around our house last night, the one they’ve been talking about on the news. I was at the store and she got spooked and called the cops. Thought I’d give you guys a heads-up in case they come over here and ask any questions. Damn things scare the hell out of me. Why anyone thinks clowns are funny is beyond me,” Todd states.

“There is nothing wrong with red noses, polka-dot clothing, and big red shoes, Todd!” Reggie informs him angrily.

“Okay, well, thank you for letting us know,” Bev interrupts, grabbing Todd’s arm and pulling him out of the room. “We’ll be sure to keep an eye out. Tell Linda to give me a call. Poor dear must be just beside herself.”

“SISSY!” Reggie screams, just as Bev gets Todd to the door and practically shoves him out of it.

When Bev comes back into the room, Reggie is already up from the floor and stalking past her.

“Where are you going? We still have about a hundred more bags to go through.” Bev asks him.

“I’ve got a twelve-foot-tall Ronald McDonald sculpture to finish painting. Then, I’m going to walk over to Todd and Linda’s house and piss on their front lawn,” Reggie informs her as he stomps down the hallway to the kitchen and the door leading out to the garage.

“My wedding is going to be ruined!” Scheva wails, burying her face in Noel’s shoulder.

“Nonsense. Your wedding is not going to be ruined. There might be a clown burned in effigy on our front lawn, but your wedding will be fine,” Bev reassures her. “If Sam and Noel can survive the disaster of their wedding day and live to tell the tale, you can survive clowns and Reggie angering all the neighbors. We’ll just hire extra security. And maybe uninvite a few of the neighbors, just to be safe.”

Scheva starts crying harder, and Noel pats her back soothingly.

“It’s all fun and games until you buzzkills make me remove all the good stuff from the treat bags,” Aunt Bobbie complains, sticking her hand into one of the bags and pulling something out. “Ooooooh, that’s where my purple butt plug went! Sam, check the bags over by you. I’m still missing twenty Percocets, a sparkly necklace that says whore on it, and three sets of anal beads that glow in the dark. I don’t want some kid to mistake those things for glow-stick necklaces. Talk about awkward.”

I immediately drop the bag in my hand and push myself away from the bags all around my legs. Nothing says Halloween like getting three Snickers bars, a Kit Kat, and a set of used anal beads to wear around your neck.