Consider the injustice. A skeleton presents himself at a door on the one night of the year built entirely around him and collects a scream, a slammed door and, on one memorable occasion, a garden rake. A nine-year-old in eleven ounces of printed plastic knocks on the same door and collects a full size bar and a compliment on how frightening he looks.
The remedy ran two dollars and change at the five and dime. A smock with a skeleton on it. A mask of a skull, moulded in an ivory that is frankly not his colour, on an elastic that has already gone once.
He is wearing himself, badly, at retail, at a markup. The woman at number nine said it was a wonderful getup and asked where his mother had found it.
Under the mask is the truth. How I miss the good old days, when I could show my true face and horror ruled the peasantry as it should!
