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Mr. Jones' big surprise:
Was it a trick or a treat?
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of TheColumnists.com
IT'S NOT JUST for goblins
anymore. Those of us who’ve witnessed a recent Halloween
know the traditional methods of celebration, like pumpkin carving
and trick-or-treating, have been overshadowed by a new world
order of charity politics: If it’s a holiday, there surely
must be a cause du jour that can be attached to it.
It’s a photo op, parents figure, to help their kids develop
a social conscience. Which is why children who once made the
rounds for trick or treat goodies now carry donation boxes for
Juvenile Diabetes Research. And also why K-Mart sells environmentally
correct costumes bearing labels like, “No weevils were slain
to harvest this cotton” or “People for the Ethical
Treatment of Werewolves guarantee that none were harmed in
the making of this mask.”
What used to be a fun day for the kids has become another platform on which to create some fanfare for a common cause. A phenomenon that’s spread to the socially conscious adults as well, who not only seize the day, but make it a way to turn a buck for their pet project.
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Which is the way it all started at the Crystal Gardens Hotel just last Halloween. Located along the North Shore of Lake Michigan on Chicago’s glittery Gold Coast, the Crystal Gardens is an elegant retreat for the Rich and Aimless. In addition to deluxe suites and a certain international charm, the posh inn hosts more charity balls than any other hotel in the city.
Last October 31, the magnificent Ice Crystal ballroom was reserved for what would be heralded as the charity event of the season: a costume ball to benefit the Albino Chigger, those eco-friendly little critters found to excrete a genetic substance with the same miracle properties as Viagra.
Environmentalists worldwide were elated. Finally, a naturally occurring organic solution to an age-old problem. No more harsh chemicals, no expensive prescriptions. Pump some research dollars into those babies and the marketing potential would be limitless. So what if the thousand-bucks-a-plate donation was a bit stiff?
With such an exciting project, it was no wonder the Fundraiser Committee went overboard. The ensuing promotional blitz featured newspaper and TV announcements to herald the worthwhile event. Media crews were dispatched to interview environmental kingpins eager to spread the word.
Socialite partygoers consulted their favorite designers for cutting-edge costume couture. Each of them demanded something unique, a creation that would not only make a statement but show their support for the planet, one erection at a time.
On Halloween evening, record crowds surged into the Crystal Gardens, all of them costumed, festive and prepared to hoist one for the bug. Attendees were ushered into the ballroom lined with mirrors that reflected their collective finery. While the sponsoring Chigger Foundation manned the cashboxes, the guests preened, admiring themselves and each other. Music played, champagne bubbled--one of those nights that dreams are made of.
At least, until the arrival of Montclare Jones.
A Viet Nam vet with more
than six years in country, he’d somehow survived exposure
to Agent Orange, the fall of Saigon and a textbook case of jungle
rot. The only area where his luck had failed was the post-traumatic
stress syndrome that, depending on the day, made Montclare believe
he was back in the jungle, dodging snipers or tiptoeing around
Claymore mines. On his best days, he had a foggy grasp of his
surroundings with only an occasional flashback. And while he
wasn’t a socialite, an environmentalist or even a regular
patron of the Crystal Gardens Hotel, he’d decided to attend
this important benefit for some earthwhile cause. He wasn’t
exactly sure what it was, but after all the defoliants he’d
sprayed in ‘Nam, he figured it was time to give something
back.
It wasn’t the pricey donation that gave him pause. He was
pretty sure the hoity-toity types who ran these events would
barely notice if he slipped in without paying, not while they
were flapping their jaws and knocking back the bubbly. But the
required costume presented a problem. Not that he didn’t
have a few items left over from his military days, but this was
one of those theme parties. He’d heard them talking about
it on the morning news. Something about bugs. Save the fruit
flies? Locusts for peace? Montclare really couldn’t remember.
It didn’t matter. Six years tramping through steamy jungle
battlefields had left him with a flare for disguises. They wanted
him to dress up, no problem. He’d bet his costume against
those tree-hugging bug lovers any time.
Montclare’s arrival at the Crystal Gardens proved him to
be right on all counts.
Since he’d opted to rappel down the side of the hotel rather
than use the conventional entrance, he was able to bypass the
cashbox collectors at the ballroom doors. And even without some
trendy designer’s input, he’d managed to fashion a
costume unlike any other. The military-issue, long khaki trench
coat was a bit moth-eaten but still made a statement. Moths were
bugs, too, he decided, and appropriate for this crowd. He also
wore his G.I. combat boots--partly for sentimental reasons, and
partly because there was still enough tread on the soles. Descending
exterior walls could be tricky sometimes.
And while his skull-and-crossbones headband and jungle camouflage
face paint weren’t strictly in keeping with the rest of
his costume, he’d added it after a brief encounter of the
mailbox kind--the one he thought was an enemy huey. Six ammo
clips later, he felt some measure of safety return. You just
couldn’t be too careful.
But it was the rest of his costume that raised eyebrows. Once
he opened his khaki trench, the crowd’s collective gasps
were followed immediately by a quick call to 911. Police responding
to the scene of the ‘Man exposing himself’ call at
the Crystal Gardens later reported that Montclare’s costume
could definitely be classified as organic. Not to mention earth-friendly,
as far as they could see, and one that posed no imminent danger
to the eco-system. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the outraged
socialites who insisted on signing complaints, the cops might
even have let him go. It wasn’t often they encountered a
guy with such natural creativity.
Montclare had almost gotten it right. He’d gone for a bug
theme when he selected the cans of red and green flourescent
spray paint. A spritz or two here, a few more judicious touches
there, and he was ready to go. And even though the paint’s
drying time took longer than anticipated, he was still a stand-out
when he peeled off his trench. No two beefsteak tomatoes had
ever been as jubilantly red; no tomato slug as thick and green.
As the handcuffs were snapped
on, Montclare decided that might have been the problem. In that
bug-happy crowd, maybe authenticity counted for more than he’d
expected. Perhaps his tomato slug was too big to suspend belief.
On the way to jail, he tried to be philosophical. It’d been
the right idea, wrong crowd.
But he still had a lot of that green spray paint left. And there
was always next year. Maybe he could find a ‘Friends of
the Kingsnake’ Charity ball.
Halloween. It’s not just for goblins anymore.
© 2001 by Gina Gallo.
Gina Gallo caricature © 2001 by Jim Hummel. The Halloween
cartoon is from IMSI's Master/Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco
Blvd. East, San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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