The “Dead People” Halloween Party

A couple years ago, my friend Brett, who is obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe, and Halloween is his favorite holiday, had a party. A Halloween party, obviously.

Halloween has now been co-opted by my nephew Cashel’s birthday.

3 years ago, a kindly store owner asked Cashel, “What are you going to be for Halloween?”

Cashel pondered this a bit, and then answered, “Three!”

He is brilliant. And I am NOT biased.

But back to Halloween. And my friend Brett’s party.

It was, perhaps, the most elaborate party I had ever been to. Beating even my damn prom. Brett lives in a penthouse apartment over by the UN. It has a terrace, which wraps around the building – filled with plants, a grill, patio furniture – It used to have an unobstructed view of the East River, and now Trump has built up a huge tall thin skyscraper, right in the middle of the block, ruining everything. It’s a shame.

Brett jerry-rigged the entire apartment.

Black witch hats descended from the ceiling on invisible strings. There was a “dead man” lying in state on one of the long bay window-sills. A smoke machine (hidden somewhere) billowed fog around us, obeying secret cues.

Brett had gotten a BOOK on carving pumpkins – and even though that sounds obsessive and slightly insane, the pumpkins he carved were literally works of art. I’d never seen anything like them. Elaborate pirate ships fighting across mighty seas, with skull-and-cross-bones flag flying – A flock of witches on broomsticks – flying across the moon. The pumpkins seemed to be more air and space, than actual pumpkin.

We, as guests, had to dress as actual dead people. That was one of the “rules”. You couldn’t go as an M&M, or a Coke can.

So Jesus Christ showed up at the party. Al Capone showed up at the party. Endira Gandhi was at the party. Brett, the host, was Edgar Allan Poe. My friends Brooke and Jim, married, showed up as JFK and Jackie. (JFK and Jackie on vacation in Hyannisport, to be precise.)

I had thought of going as Edie Sedgwick. Andy Warhol’s silver-headed muse. She died from an overdose (big surprise).

But finally – I decided to be Sharon Tate.

It was in terrible taste. I admit.

God forgive me.

It was the most politically incorrect costume at the party. John F. Kennedy took one look at me when I walked in and said, “Okay. That is WRONG.”

Later that night, Sharon Tate, Jackie O, and Mrs. Al Capone danced like maniacs in the middle of the living room.

I had a platinum wig. I wore ivory pancake makeup and false eyelashes. White lipstick. I wore a white slip. I made myself pregnant. And I covered my arms and legs with Beatles lyrics, in red magic marker.

I do not defend myself. I know that it was terrible. I know that it was “wrong”.

I do not defend it.