What Are You Supposed to Be?

In this flash fiction, eight-year-old Bobby’s epic Halloween costume fail sets off a chain reaction of unexpected consequences.

I’m eight years old. The Cub Scouts Halloween party is tonight. 

In the window of the 5 & 10 there’s a pirate costume. A long red coat, a tri-cornered hat, a sword, a parrot on his shoulder, and a peg leg. 

I sprint home.

“Ma! Ma! Can I have $14.95?”

Ma says “Bobby, are you out of your mind?”

“But the prize for best costume is a complete set of New York Mets baseball cards!”

My little sister Maggie says, “And the loser gets punched in the face!”

Last year, a kid showed up as a ghost with a sheet over his head. Gorilla Gallucci hit him so hard, I still have nightmares about that blood-soaked sheet.

I go, “Ma, if you won’t give me the money, I’ll have to make my own costume!”

Ma says “Make your own costume.”

Shit.

I stomp to my room. A riot of clothes, books, toys. 

I grab my copy of Treasure Island. 

Long John Silver with his long red coat. 

I spy my red bathrobe. Arr!

On Long John Silver's head, a tri-cornered hat. I put on a wool cap. With a pom-pom.

He’s got a sword. I’ve got a wiffleball bat. The parrot on his shoulder? I’ve got a rubber duck.

I look in the mirror. I remove the sash from my bathrobe and tie my right leg behind me. 

I go, “Arr! I’m cap’n here because I’m the best man by a long sea-mile.”

*** 

The Halloween party is in the basement of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows. The church hall swarms with eyes looking at me sideways. Ma, Pop, and Maggie are at the refreshments table, as far from me as possible.

“What are you supposed to be?” says my buddy Dominick Bartlett. He is wearing his big sister‘s miniskirt, a wig, and high heels. Goddamnit Bartlett looks good.

My buddy Hickey zips by wearing a cowboy hat, straddling a hobby horse. “Bobby, what the hell are you supposed to be?” 

Old Father Healey taps a microphone. “Cub Scouts, take the stage!” 

An army of Spider-Mans, Tom Seavers, and Frankensteins hustles up. I chase after them on my one leg, hop-hop-hop.

I catch my reflection in a mirror. I see an eight-year-old boy wearing a bathrobe and a wool cap with a pom-pom, clutching a wiffleball bat, with a rubber duck taped to his shoulder and one leg tied behind him.

Across the room, Gorilla Gallucci meets my eyes and mouths, “What are you supposed to be?” 

Three stairs up to the stage. Hop-hop-hop. 

Father Healey says, “A round of applause for… Mister Pajamas?”

I take my place between a Popeye and a Grandpa Munster. Mister Pajamas? I go, “Father Healey? I’m Long John Silver.”

Father Healey gives me a look. He says, “He who has eyes to see, let him see.” 

I raise my wiffleball bat and go, “Arr! Sometimes them what quotes the Bible has less Bible in their hearts than them what don't.”

Father Healey says, “Well. There’s no doubt who tonight‘s winner is…” 

My stomach lurches. Really?

Father Healey says, “Dominick Bartlett!” 

Bartlett sashays across the stage in his sister’s miniskirt and heels. Father Healey reaches out to shake his hand but instead Bartlett curtsies and the crowd goes apeshit.

The Cub Scouts descend the stairs. I descend the stairs, hop-hop-hop. 

Gorilla Gallucci approaches. 

Only he’s not going after me. He’s going after Bartlett.

Gorilla Gallucci shakes a fist in little Bartlett’s face and says, “You are a freak.” Scouts gather behind Gallucci.

Father Healey says, “Mister Gallucci, blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.”

Golluci is about to smash Bartlett. But Long John Silver steps between them. 

Long John Silver raises his sword. 

Long John Silver tells Gallucci and the morons standing behind him, “Them that die will be the lucky ones!” 

I do not take home a complete set of New York Mets baseball cards. 

I do take home an extremely bloody nose and maybe an answer to the question: What are you supposed to be?