Happy Saturday, and just in time for Spooky Season, I have a new (mostly) true tale from Birchmont Village–“The Time Mrs. Shuttleford Ran Out of Candy on Halloween.” You can read it on my Medium page, or check it out below!
The Time Mrs. Shuttleford Ran Out of Candy on Halloween
It was Halloween in Birchmont Village, or, as Hank Walters Bryant had been repeating ad nauseum for the past month, Spooky Season, an expression he claimed to have coined though most everyone knew better. But they also knew this wasn’t worth arguing over with the braggadocious ranking member of the Village council because in his mind he was always right (about everything!), even though he hardly ever had a clue (about anything!). And besides, no one wanted to ruin the mood on this perfectly crisp and cool fall evening as a palpable sense of exhilaration charged the air.
With this close-knit community of overachievers, every house on every block was overly decorated, a holdover from the days when the owner of the best decorated home was awarded a generous twenty-five dollar credit at Lilabelle Durham’s upscale boutique in Poplar Square and a stuffed squirrel in a tiny tam and matching plaid scarf courtesy of Dwayne Weatherbly and his extensive taxidermy collection. Sadly, the town’s budget no longer allowed for such extravagance, since there was only enough money in the coffers for one house-decorating contest and the council, after considerable debating, and a number of surprisingly heated exchanges, ultimately decided by a unanimous vote with Eugene Bowlering abstaining as he was notoriously noncommittal, that it should be limited to Christmas. Even so, the townsfolk still went all out this October, vying now merely for bragging rights and to avoid being saddled with (aghast!) the curse of being named the worst decorated house.
Among those who had gone particularly over the top was Harris Maggiano and his collection of smiling skeletons lounging around a plastic swimming pool as if they were enjoying a leisurely afternoon sunning themselves. The Thingstons’ yard was crammed full with inflatables of every type, from werewolves to creepy clowns to a polka-dotted dinosaur wearing a tutu. Etna Pataskata showed off her collection of handmade ghosts she had fashioned from scraps of white fabric that she strategically hung from her holly tree to simulate full, frightening flight. The Chichesters’ display consisted of thousands of twinkling orange and purple lights that played a synchronous medley of theme songs from classic scary movies. And atop the Johnsons’ house was a humungous furry, fake spider ensconced in an icky sticky web. Even the renters who shared a two-bedroom suite at the Stonemill Apartments at the end of Blanchard next to the park got in on the fun by assembling out on their deck a coven of witches in black garb and pointy black hats and a smoldering cauldron in the center (though it was later determined that the pungent smell of smoke wasn’t coming from the cauldron but, rather, from the renters themselves).
Young Billy Milner, having recently turned twelve, was as excited about Halloween as any boy his age could possibly be. He simply marveled, eyes wide and mouth agape, at the homes and their varied themes and adornments on his early-morning paper route with his long-time bud, the cat named Chubz, riding shotgun in the bicycle basket, as always. Billy and Chubz planned on going out together tonight as their very own, made-up, superhero crimefighting duo with masks left over from a masquerade charity ball his parents had attended last New Year’s Eve (without the feathery filaments, which Billy thought, and rightly so, made them appear less intimidating). All of the children were exceptionally eager to get going and begin filling their buckets and bags with all sorts of sweets.
But, alas, the candy collecting could not commence until Hank announced that it could at the designated starting time of five-forty-five (determined, again, by a vote of the council after yet another surprisingly heated debate, based upon the falling of dusk and the subsiding of the rush hour traffic—“rush hour” being a relative term since the speed limit here was strictly enforced at fifteen-miles-an-hour). With a watchful eye on his wristwatch, and being certain not to be a second too early or too late, Hank firmly announced through his bullhorn while seated inside the official golf cart boldly emblazoned with the letters “B.V.” that “It is … it is … it is”—he wavered, on purpose, for among his many quirks, Hank had a flare for the dramatic—“time to commence with the tricks and the treats!”
No sooner had Hank giving this much anticipated, and ballyhooed, go-ahead when the kids instantaneously scattered, as if shot from a cannon (or cannons), speeding, frenzied and furious, from house to house, nearly causing Hank to topple out of his golf cart. Officer Fifeson, the police officer from Ridgeland who was contracted out by Birchmont Village to patrol the streets in his off-hours, cautioned through the loud speaker on his cruiser for everyone to be cautious, and to be careful, and to remain courteous, but this surely fell on deaf ears for this mob of youths was off on this hectic scavenger hunt for confectionary goodies.
The roads and sidewalks of this normally quiet and quaint community were abuzz and alive with the hustling and bustling and screaming and yelling and just a general unbridled merriment in celebration of this singular day on the calendar when the dutiful denizens opened their arms (and more literarily, their doors) to bestow upon these offspring gobs upon gobs of bon bons and suckers and chocolates and gumballs and jawbreakers (and … well, you get the point)! There were trick-or-treaters of all shapes and sizes running amok through this usually sleepy hamlet.
The starting lineup of the St. Martins Dragons, the reigning regional Little League champs, who always traveled in a pack, were making the rounds en masse in their team uniforms, and what that might have lacked in originality, these players more than made up for in their exuberance, skipping and jumping and some sliding as if coming in for the game-winning run. One of the youngest of these treat hunters had to have been Chip Charoothers’ infant son, Chip Junior, who was made up like an adorable lion cub, with Chip Senior dressed as this little lion cub’s proud lion papa while he pushed the sleeping baby in a stroller. And some of the oldest were quite obviously the several graduate students—either oblivious to the age limit of sixteen (another decision handed down by the council after much debating) or choosing to ignore it—who were trekking door-to-door with canvas sacks scrounging for whatever they could, with their preference being canned goods and other non-perishables, noting that their university meal plans had expired and they were in need of sustenance. And these candy-grabbers weren’t limited to the human variety either because Molly, the Steversens’ lovable and playful Golden Retriever, strolled about with her pup parents decked out in a pumpkin sweater that suited her ample frame, especially her rotund backside for Molly never could refuse a string cheese or a strand (or more) of spaghetti.
It got so crowded that Old Man Williams commented, to no one in particular as there was no one around him at that moment, that many of these juveniles must have been transported in from the adjacent districts of Ashfork, Chester Hills and Limerock, and even as far away as Rollingway. But the Villagers didn’t seem to mind (Old Man Williams was just surly), and some even made a party out of it. Max Chetak had set up a fire pit in his front yard where he was serving s’mores, and the Bernheim Boulevard Bird Club was holding its annual chili and hot toddy fundraiser under a tent on the grounds of the Birchmont Village Church. Even those who couldn’t be present left something out for these costumed beggars, like Ted Canari who was at the casino across the river for a big baccarat tournament and placed a bowl of candy on a TV tray on his stoop with a note that trustingly entreated, just take one, please!
The night was going off without a hitch, as smooth as the sticks of saltwater taffy that Lizzie Strumblesom was giving away, which she had bought in bulk from a cute shop on the Jersey shore when she was vacationing there over the summer with her boyfriend, Poindexter McGregor. After only thirty minutes in, Hank Walters Bryant declared this to be an unmitigated success—though Hank, as another one of his quirks, was prone to hyperbole. Unbeknownst to Hank, or to anyone for that matter, there was a serious situation brewing at the address of Mrs. Shuttleford. She, too, had been surprised by the increased turnout, no doubt attributed to the uncharacteristic temperate temperatures and, as Old Man Williams continued to postulate, “interlopers” (his word). Not only was Mrs. Shuttleford surprised, she had been caught completely off-guard. She began this evening with the same amount of caramel squares she always distributed, but with such an influx of treat seekers, Mrs. Shuttleford was (aghast!) running low. And when three princesses and a miniature firefighter came through, she found herself facing the unimaginable—she had run out of candy!
Not accustomed to such a predicament (and who would be?), Mrs. Shuttleford, in a temporary moment of panic, did the only thing she knew to do in such an unfortunate circumstance: she switched off her porch light. But with the entire populace wholly engaged in these festivities, this had the precise opposite effect that Mrs. Shuttleford had intended, and, in fact, attracted increased attention upon her residence. The first person (or persons, if you counted Chubz, and who wouldn’t?) to realize this was Young Billy Milner, who had a trained eye for such irregularities, being in journalism as it were. He sensed that something was amiss with Mrs. Shuttleford, and did the only thing he knew to do in such an exigent circumstance—he hurried home to his mother.
Understanding that her responsible and reliable son wasn’t someone to cry wolf, Millicent Miller leapt into action. She logged on to the Birchmont Village neighborhood website and sent a blast message to all subscribers, with the subject line, in all caps, EMERGENCY!!! (momentarily agonizing if one exclamation point were enough to convey the notable significance of the situation before settling on three). She also texted, emailed and rang everyone whose contact essentials she had or could easily retrieve, regardless of the inconvenient hour, six-thirty-ish, when folks were still dispensing treats. But no one she got a hold of seemed to mind, and, indeed, everyone responded in kind. They knew exactly what to do as this bore the same signs of an identical issue several years prior when the Pryors, having just moved in and with no estimate of the requisite amount of candy to have handy, had likewise extinguished their porch light prematurely in the hopes of riding out the remainder of the night in silence (and to no avail).
People dashed to Mrs. Shuttleford’s house as if there was a clock timing them—and not just from Hank Walters Bryant who was vigilantly eyeing his wristwatch to call a halt to trick-or-treating at the designated ending time of seven-fifteen. These individuals came armed with bags of butterscotch discs and peppermint rounds and numerous other sugary bites, and trays of cookies and brownies and oatmeal-raisin clusters, and platters of ooey gooey caramel apples. Old Man Williams showed up with a roll of nickels, commenting to anyone who would listen, which equated to anyone who had the general misfortune of making eye contact with him, that “back in my day,” he stressed with a certain swagger (yet without specifying when that “day” was, though most assumed, and rightly so, that it was many, many, many days ago), a shiny nickel was all these “little monsters” (also his words) got. “And they liked it!” he added adamantly.
Initially, Mrs. Shuttleford was too proud to accept this charity, and only opened her door a slight crack to barely interact with these do-gooders. As someone who did not suffer fools gladly, she firmly believed that her house deserved to be pelted with eggs for her blunder—though Officer Fifeson would certainly not allow something like that to happen, as was his charge, and he shone the spotlight on his cruiser at her home to deter such “hooliganism” (his word). But then, as more and more people arrived with their offerings—cupcakes, and shortbreads, and nougat bars, and both sweet, and sour, tarts (and Old Man Williams had gone back to his house to retrieve another roll of nickels)—Mrs. Shuttleford became overwhelmed by the compassion and the concern, and as stubborn as she could be, she nonetheless accepted these donations. And in a moment that brought a collective sigh of relief among this assemblage, she switched back on her porch light to a resounding round of applause, and cheers, and shouts of “Way to go!”
Trick-or-treating resumed at Mrs. Shuttleford’s house, and the first to ring her doorbell was, appropriately enough, Young Billy Milner with his superhero, crimefighting partner, Chubz, in tow, for Billy was instrumental in solving this crisis, and he would gladly do so again if need be because that was just how his mother had raised him, the time Mrs. Shuttleford ran out of candy on Halloween.
***
This short story is based on characters from the collection, (Mostly) True Tales From Birchmont Village, available on Amazon and for Kindle Unlimited, or order from your favorite independent bookstore [ISBN: 978–1–7375801–1–9]
