A Halloween to Forget

Twelve years was just too old for trick and treating. That’s what my twin brother Ned, our best friend Frankie, and I decided that year. Eighth grade was the time to finally escape the childish routine of donning costumes and canvassing house to house for stacks of candy, and instead, delve into the true essence of Halloween. But what activity would capture the holiday’s true spirit? Brainstorming in our basement that October 30^th, I came up with an idea. “Why don’t we egg cars?”

    My suggestion was greeted with energetic approval by my two collaborators.  All the pieces were in place. Right down the street from our house in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn ran Ridge Boulevard, a busy two-lane thoroughfare where vehicles speeded by, unhindered by stoplights. Eggs were always available in mom’s fridge, a necessary staple for feeding a family of ten. And finally, Halloween fell on a Saturday that year, so there would be no problem in escaping the house at dusk for our antics.  It was settled; tomorrow we would revel in a manner appropriate for the occasion.

   The following evening, Ned and I took advantage of an empty kitchen by smuggling out an unopened carton of eggs from the refrigerator. Making our way down the block, we rendezvoused with Frankie and set up our station on the corner of Ridge Boulevard and 81^st street. Cradling an egg carefully in my hand, I tensed and waited for an appropriate target. Spotting a large truck racing toward us, I yelled out; “let’s hit that.” As the truck roared toward our position, three eggs were hurdled at its back end. A satisfying smacking sound followed by a cascade of yellow and white splattering indicated we had hit our target. The truck sped on, unimpeded by our missiles. 

   Well, that was easy, I thought. With greater confidence, we decided to attack more challenging targets. Next, a passing station wagon was pelted. Once again our aim was true, and as before, the car didn’t even slow as it continued racing down Ridge Boulevard, seemingly oblivious to the blemishes that now sullied its body.  

  This is fun, I thought,  like taking target practice with no danger of being caught. Eagerly identifying our next target, a four-door sedan of some generic make and model, we launched a third round of our fragile ammunition. This time, only one of the bullets reached their mark but the results were satisfying—a direct hit on the front, passenger side window. As we stood there admiring our handiwork and trying to identify the sharpshooter among us, a sudden screeching sound assaulted our ears. To our utter astonishment, the car jolted to a sudden stop, both driver and passenger doors flew open, and two large figures emerged and immediately launched into a sprint across the boulevard, directly at us. These guys meant business!

  I don’t think I have ever been so scared in my life. Momentarily fearing the dire consequences of being caught, what would mon and day say, I turned and started an all-out sprint down 81^st street with Frankie at my side. I had no time to worry where Ned was; at this point it was every man for himself. I never ran so fast in my life as the fear-induced adrenaline pulsing through my body powered a murderous pace. Down the street we sprinted, all the way to the next major crossroad, Colonial Road. Sneaking a quick peek behind me as I crossed the large street, I noted with panic that that one pursuer was actually closing the distance between us. Another long dash took us all the way to the next thoroughfare, Narrows Boulevard. My gosh, he’s still there! Steering Frankie left, we reached 82^nd street with our chaser still in hot pursuit. Breathing very hard now and reeling from the burning effect of lactic acid buildup in my straining muscles, a feeling of inevitable surrender started to settle over me. Reaching 83^rdstreet, we dashed into a large driveway and crouched in the shadows of a large stone wall, desperately hoping it would mask us from this unrelenting hunter. Unfortunately, our hopes were dashed as a large man ran into the driveway seconds later and cornered the two of us.

   Before our captor could even utter a word, we were startled by the sudden arrival of Ned. Amazingly, he had taken a different route than Frankie and me, running parallel to Ridge Boulevard for two blocks and then turning down 83^rd street to eventually wind up at the same destination at almost the same time Must be some kind of twin thing! His pursuer followed him into the driveway and joined his colleague in facing the three of us.

   Now came the moment of truth. Taking the initiative, I pointed to my brother and yelled out. “Honest, it wasn’t us, it was him.” Frankie lent his support to our cause by shouting, “we don’t even know him.” Of course, Ned retorted in the expected fashion. “I never saw them before in my life. They threw the eggs, not me.” So much for, “all for one and one for all.”

   After these mutual proclamations of innocence, one of the men turned his wrathful glance at me for several seconds and then, in turn, at Ned before exclaiming in a sarcastic tone, ”Oh right, you two don’t even know each other.” Both of us had failed to consider the fact that our genetics was a dead giveaway.

  It turned out that the two men were more lenient to us than we had any right to expect. After a warning about the dangers of throwing eggs at passing cars and soliciting our promises never to repeat the juvenile activity, they actually bid us goodnight and walked back in the direction of their car. Relief could not begin to describe the emotion the three of us felt at our escape.

   Gathered around the breakfast table the following morning, my mother suddenly declared to no one in particular. “I know I bought a fresh carton of eggs yesterday, but I have no idea where they are.” Sneaking a conspiratory glance in the direction of Ned, we both recognized that at least for now, last night’s episode was a tale best left untold.