David Sedaris "Tricked"-Journal Entry-9/01/09

Of all the holidays that occur during the course of a year, I would most definitely have to say that Halloween is my celebration of choice. I love the smell of burning leaves, piping hot apple cider, not to mention the crisp fall air and the spooky mystique all around. One of my fondest memories of that holiday however, did not fall on October 31st, but rather the night before. Perhaps it's a Northeastern thing, but the craziest night of the year for our neighborhood was this night, Mischief night, where all childish pranks were overlooked and expected.
At our house, front windows were painted with various symbols of the holiday, stemming from green goblins to orange jack-o-lanterns (or pink, depending on the age at which said jack-o-lantern was created). Store bought flimsy dangling skeletons were everywhere and for some reason unbeknownst to me as a child, one more tradition was held firmly in place. High atop the large pine tree in our front yard, one plastic pumpkin stood, shrouded in a white sheet. Every year, my father would climb up the ladder and lovingly place this pumpkin on its perch, climb down and join the rest of the family in a bizarre ritual of ooing and ahhing. Now I was the youngest so I took the bait every year, anticipating the bliss of Halloween trick-or-treaters as they spied this spectacle along their journey up Kingston Drive. My siblings simply shook their heads, knowing the likely fate of that pumpkin come Mischief night.
It was always the same scenario. Beautiful pumpkin October 30 th, white shrouded, headless pine tree Halloween morning. This was probably all part of the fun but being the sensitive child I was , I never saw it coming, year after year.
The year I turned 9, it all turned around. My heroes, my brothers, the Hamilton boys, had had enough. They were angry and they weren't going to take it anymore. Plans were discussed and layed out, weapons were chosen. Sweet revenge was near.
Mischief night descended on Kingston Estates. Behind the protective refuge of the overgrown bushes located at the side of the house, my brothers were armed and ready. I chose the safe haven of the inside quarters. Darting my head in and out from behind the curtain, I was close to the action but not too close. Somewhere around 9:00 P.M., the fun began. The Wagner brothers, who lived about two blocks down from us, were known for their devilish ways. If they were not stringing sneakers up flagpoles or terrorizing younger kids on their way home from school, they could be found in detention for committing such acts. They were basically your textbook neighborhood bullies. We were not positive but legend had it that these three boys were responsible for pumpkin head abductions in at least three neighborhoods. But not this year, not this house.
My brother Brandon was the first to spy the enemy. It was Jimmy Wagner, the youngest brother. Even in the darkness, you could notice his swagger, his hunched back, the constant tossing of his long, neglected bangs. Following closely on his heel was the oldest boy, Jake, his faded black army boots pounding clip-clop along the uneven cement beneath his torn up soles. Coming up the rear was Julian, the middle boy, who apparently was in charge of weaponry. Sticking out of his his hand-me-down back pack was a broom handle and in his hand a plastic bag, hiding what was surely toilet paper for stringing up or soap for soaping up cars. I saw Brandon signal with a terribly unsteady hand to Brock that they were nearing our driveway. I ducked behind my curtain and prayed. I remember hearing the simultaneous gush of spraying water and blood-curling screams as I tentatively maneuvered myself closer to the edge of the curtain, fists clenched, one eye open. There stood Brandon, clutching that garden hose, screaming like a banshee, his crazed eyes fixed on his target. Julian was the first to go down, broom handle and Ivory soap soaring high into the air. Jimmy was next, getting hit mid lunge, landing head first into my mother's azalea bushes. Brandon passed the hose swiftly to Brock, who carried out the final assault on Jake, who cried like a baby as he hobbled home in one soaked boot. Life at the Hamilton home resumed as usual, with one small exception. The shrouded pine tree was headless no more. My heart no longer sank Halloween morning and I swear I noticed a broader smile on that pumpkin. Harmony was again present in our home and my faith in mankind was restored. That is until the Harris brothers moved in next door...