Before the first flock of trick-or-treaters took to the streets, I entered the bathroom just as Jess, cat ears already intact, was drawing on the last of her whiskers. She had also done up her nose the color of a maraschino cherry.  

“Your turn,” she said.

I took a seat on the toilet lid, which made for a nice impromptu beauty station. Blue and red were Jess’ primary colors of choice, and before I could say the sort of clown I hoped to be, she said, “All done.”

Perhaps I was a clown from the Great Depression, back when circus budgets were tight and clown make-up had to last, because Jess had applied only the strict bare essentials. My cheeks had smudges of peacock blue, and my mouth at rest wore a thin lipstick smile. The rest of my face bore the color of my own ruddy complexion. But add the rainbow wig and sponge nose, and, technically, I guess, I passed for a clown. Although, I wondered if more serious clowns, like Ronald McDonald, might argue this point. Which brings me to a deeper, perhaps, more philosophical question: are all clowns equal?  

Take for instance Batman’s clownish arch-nemesis, the Joker, namely the one played by Heath Ledger in the latest Batman movie. This costume was the most popular one of the night, though some were better than others. In fact, I got a laugh-snort when I confided in a pair of Jokers who were at our door wanting candy that I was dressed as the Joker, too. Evidently, my clown costume failed to meet the criteria of the cool, deranged, PG-13 Joker. Even Jess seemed ashamed.

“No he’s not,” she reassured the Joker twins. “He’s not the Joker.” Then she dropped candy into each of their bags as if to smooth things over.

What was the big deal? The Joker’s a clown. I’m a clown. You’re a clown. We’re all clowns here, aren’t we? Or are we?

After the Joker twins left, I became insecure about my clownliness, or lack there of. But this soon wore off when I noticed that some of the smaller trick-or-treaters refused to take candy from me. Instead, they eyed me warily from behind their parents’ legs. Maybe I wasn’t the Joker, but there is something to be said about a grown man-clown who strikes fear in the souls of two-year-olds.  

“His dad never liked clowns either,” barked one’s grandma, laughing like a lunatic as she towed her mute grandson to the next house. Ironically, I was frightened of her. And that’s when it hit me: does the makeup make the clown? Because this woman wore only her God-given face. Not that she was ugly; she just had that wild, Halloween clown look about her that even the best Jokers of the night couldn’t capture.

I may never find the true answers to these clown questions. But now that I’ve been a clown, I like to think that I can better relate to their culture. They’re people, too. Just like you or I. 

Concerning cats, I don’t think Jess put that much thought into her costume. And our small dog, who dressed up as a ladybug, probably had no idea she even was a ladybug.

I also had this I.O.U. sweatshirt the color of grape-flavored Bubble Yum. It had no hood but draw strings that passed through the bulk of an extended collar that stopped tantalizingly short of a turtleneck. All stops pulled, I strode right into my freshman year of college with it, along with the rest of my country apparel. Chest out, I felt cool and confident walking on campus, knowing that beneath the buckle of my braided belt was hidden the loudest pair of cheetah print underwear since Johnny Weissmuller played Tarzan.  

It wasn’t long before I made some dorm friends who were of the more metropolitan regions of Ohio. Whether it was because they pitied me or were just curious to see what I’d put on next, they remained silent on the subject of my clothes. Although, it seems possible they would discuss it wildly behind my back. Surely someone had to get the burning image of my pegged stone-washed jeans and boat shoes off his chest. I was oblivious to what my trendy peers were wearing: Timberlands with wool speckled socks, cargo shorts, all of 1994′s latest fashions. But one kid finally broke, and for the first time I was forced to question my plush Bugle Boy polo with the turned-apple-colored front and the checkered long sleeves. 

One day, through a series of networking and by the fortune of being in the right place at the right time, we won an invitation to participate in a co-ed football game on West Green somewhere. Co-ed – that meant chances were good that girls would be there. I dressed to impress. The night air was just crisp enough for bringing out the grape I.O.U. sweatshirt. Having gone through several washes, it was beginning to ride up on me a bit. Down the hall to grab my friend, I kept stretching the bottom of my sweatshirt past the waistline of my loud, little Umbros. When my friend opened the door, he erupted into surprised laughter, as if I’d punched him in the gut with a whoopee cushion. I stood there in my Bubble Yum sweatshirt, taking it. ”You look so cool,” was all he could get out. Then, knowing it was all out in the open, he laughed harder and more freely. I heard it all the way down the hall to my room.

Inside the safety of my room, I looked in the mirror that stood between my dresser and the harsh dorm light. It was as though I were seeing myself for the first time. I tried to pick out the abhorrent elements of my shirt that had turned my friend into a jerk. Could it possibly be because the draw strings had no hood? I couldn’t tell. I suddenly felt illiterate. The stubby turtleneck stared back at me like a foreign cuss word. I opened my drawer, freshly skeptical of the clothes that lay innocently there, waiting to make me look stupid. You mean my forest green windbreaker, too? And my outdated mountain boots I got for a good price? What a dreadful revelation this was! I couldn’t have been more shocked than if my parents had told me I was Chinese.      

For a year I was severely overwhelmed by my dearth of fashion sense. I couldn’t tell what went with what. I even developed a mysterious rash on my face, but that could have equally been from living in a cloud of my roommate’s secondhand smoke all year and never washing my pillow case. But, nonetheless, I set my mind on learning what others were wearing. As my eye grew keener, I started trading my jean shorts for khaki ones. But I’d always just miss the mark, returning from home with a shopping bag full of prim and proper dress shorts instead of the cool baggy Abercrombie ones guys were wearing. I’d never even heard of Ambercrombie.       

By winter quarter, I noticed that guys were cool who wore their hair in their faces. They’d sit with their dorm doors wide open, picking sour notes on their beat-up guitars, with nothing but a burning cigarette poking through their perfectly messy locks. I’d march right over to Saturday’s Family Hair Care on Court Street and explain to the exasperated hair stylist that I wanted my hair to look like Brad Pitt’s in Legends of the Fall. If she couldn’t do that then make it similar to the late Kurt Cobain’s. But my hair was fuzzy and thick and wouldn’t budge. Sweating and flushed, my hair stylist spun me around to face the mirror. I considered the broccoli sprout haircut I’d just been given. ”You’ll have to give it time to grow past that awkward stage,” she said. There was nothing I could do; my whole hair was an awkward stage, defying gravity, always growing up and out, never down and cool.  It would be a few years yet before Justin Timberlake invaded the Hollywood scene, bringing my strain of hair back in style. So I was stuck all alone with a head of hay that matched my ridiculous wardrobe. 

Whenever I’d complain about this back home, my mom would try to coax me into letting her style it. At first, I refused; especially when I found out a hairdryer would be involved. But finally I gave in. She used the mirror and dresser in my bedroom as her beauty station. Mom laid out her tools: my sisters’ hairdryer and the oversized, thick-bristled hairbrush Mom bought before I was born. I felt the hot breath of the hairdryer on my face and nape. Using long, ponderous strokes, she brushed my hair back nice and squirrelly, until it rose like a souffle. When Mom’s work was complete, my hair had the dry, bristly look of a beaver pelt. And it seemed I had more forehead than I remembered. “There,” my mom said, still touching up the sides. Staring back at me in the mirror was the spitting image of Ted Danson.  

Everything changed during winter break of my sophmore year when I discovered Mom’s bottle of Paul Mitchell hair conditioning gel on the bathroom sink. Something otherwordly prompted me just to try it. But it’s for girls, I argued with myself. Just try it. I was desperate and no one was home. So I squeezed a blue dab of it into my hand and ran it through my hair. It was amazing! My hair drank it up greedily. It was so thirsty; I had no idea. I felt like a bad parent. I threw a little more in. Working my fingers frantically like combs, I watched my hair transform into a magical new do. No longer did it behave like a crappy swimming cap. It pieced and clumped, and cool, curly tufts emerged. My hair obeyed my every whim, and it stuck wherever I told it. Catching my breath, I moved back to take a look at myself. My hair actually looked, well, cool.    

When I returned to school with my new hair and an endless supply of Paul Mitchell, friends showered me with compliments. “I can’t quite put my finger on it,” said one, “but you look different, cooler.” Girls laughed harder at my jokes. I received more co-ed football invitations. I was practically invincible, like a modern day Samson. Not even the damage of putting on a pair of guy Daisy Dukes could hinder me — though I dared not try it.

Shortly thereafter, the day came when I knew I had finally arrived. I was hanging out with a group of buddies, when I saw a highbrow acquaintance of mine from the suburbs of Cleveland coming toward us. He wore a navy button down with a thin red checkered pattern that looked oddly familiar to me.

“Hey,” I said to him, “Nice shirt…I have a pair of boxers that look just like it.” And, the truth is, I did.  

I let out a good hard, freeing laugh. My buddies laughed with me. I can’t remember what the guy with the shirt did. He probably just thought I was a jerk. And, at that moment, I was. But I could afford to be, because I was wearing a deadly combination of cargo pants and Birkenstocks.    

 It was perfect weather for wandering the neighborhood in costume, banging on strangers’ doors for sweets. Personally, I think it’s a rather rough ultimatum: trick-or-treat. A tough decision, we opted for the later of the two, and my wife, Jess, and I sat ready with treats to quench the fiery demands of these tiny masked marauders.

We set up camp on the front porch ten minutes early of standard trick-or-treat time (that is 6pm). The Jesus fish pumpkin we’d carved earlier in the week and were quite proud of was lit and hoisted onto the flower stand and positioned just so for the whole world to see.  We sat straight as sticks in our canvas folding chairs, on watch for our first customers. Books sat on reserve beneath our chairs, incase conversation somehow grew stale or the night’s festivities failed to live up to expectations.  A large Tupperware bowl’s worth of candy sat between us.

It was 6:05pm. The wait was eating me alive inside. Just married and new to the neighborhood, it was our first trick-or-treat as hosts. The excitement rushed through my veins like lava. Where is everyone? To pass the time, we fell to discussing such important matters as who’ll be in charge of passing out the candy. ”One per bag” – these instructions were strict but fair. Although, one tiny caped crusader would try for two, only to be denied by his slightly older brother, who, it was clear, was responsible for his little brother’s good conduct.   

My red sponge nose from the Kroger Halloween aisle, together with my painted-up rosy cheeks, now smeared because of an itch, transformed me into a clown. Early on I had trouble keeping my Kroger clown nose on straight, and as time went on, my nose grew extremely warm and sweaty. Jess was a cat, nothing fancy, her face meticulously marked with a set of whiskers and what was meant to be a feline nose. Our otherwise friendly mutt, Phoebe, was herself. Unfortunately, she acted badly and got herself put up early. All the dreadful looking intruders just weren’t sitting well with her and she was only able to cope by growling and barking her head off.      

As the evening light faded, the excitement sort of fizzled out. The first wave of trick-or-treaters was spotted huddled around a door some few houses down. They squealed in delight, wildly exclaiming something about receiving money. Money? Seriously? I didn’t even know money was an option, let alone a treat. What kind of house deals out money on trick-or-treat? Must be the house of a banker. I was about to go over myself and get my hands on some. Our mortgage was due the following day.

Who could live up to the money house? All we had were packs of candy corn with Bible verses printed on the back. I tried to regain my focus: That’s okay, heavenly treasures, right? To pass the time, I read one of the wrappers. Jess and I had been excited at this discovery when we had first stumbled upon them at the local Christian book store. The kids, we knew, would only be in it for the candy, so we had ruled out the possibilty of any shared enthusiasm over a John 3:16 verse. But what the heck.   

Our first trick-or-treaters! They scurried up to our porch, shy faces, eyes down, bags held wide open, mumbling something about treats and tricks. It was obvious for some that this was their first time and they hadn’t quite got the hang of their lines yet. ”And what are you?” I asked one knee-high, little girl.

“A princess?”

“Princess Jasmine?” Jess asked. Jess taught pre-school, and was eager to show-off her knowledge. She knew all the cartoons and toys that were popular with the kids.

“No,” barked the disgruntled princess, “Sleeping Beauty.”

“Darn! I always get the princesses mixed up,” said Jess. I learned that there is a cartoon featuring the Disney princesses that the kids watch. All night, a revolving door of girls under the age of five made bashful appearances  in lacy gowns of all colors. 

Wisening up now, the next little princess who blessed us with her royal presence I guessed to be Jasmine. Her little face lit up. “See,” said her daddy, “He guessed who you are.” I couldn’t help but be awfully proud of myself.

 I also couldn’t help but feel slightly subversive as we slipped God’s Word into each trick-or-treat bag, dangling below either a smiling or frightened face, depending on the age. Parents loitered around the driveway or the sidewalk, checking their watches, waiting for their kid to hurry up and get the candy so they could get on to the next house. If any grabbed candy without verbalizing their appreciation, the parent’s would bark at their child’s lack of manners, and they’d show back up offering a mumbled thanks. Then they’d disappear forever into the deepening night. 

By the night’s end, I was wiped out. I’d seen a lot of princesses and Scream masks – which surprised me, because, didn’t Scream come out over ten years ago? Must still be popular. Anyway, about a quarter till eight, Jess and I broke down camp, blew out the pumpkin and went back inside where Phoebe was whining and wagging her tail to be thrown out into the strange night. We told her no, and just as I thought the night had come to an end, the door bell rang, throwing Phoebe into a blood curdling fit of barks.

 With my foot, I nudged the small dog aside and opened the door to a pink girl no taller than a girl Tom Thumb. She had on one of those stage microphones that rest on your head and free up the hands for dancing. The little girl introduced herself matter-of-factly as Hanna Montana. She had more confidence than any five-year old I’d ever seen, more confidence than me, even. For all I knew, it might have really been her - the real live Hanna Montana on my door step - even though later I had to ask Jess who in the world Hanna Montana actually was. I tossed the girl a pack of Bible candy – a sugary little message from Heaven. She thanked me, then shot off into the dark.

Besides a few stragglers showing up past 8 o’clock, that was it - Jess and mine’s first Trick-or-Treat.