THE SURFING PIZZA

There I was in Rite Aid, checking out the Halloween section, again. It was the same old crap I didn’t have much interest in, but then again, there were these little yellow sale tags abounding, and so I did have an interest.

50% off all Halloween Decor. The true and ugly reason is because they’re making room for the Christmas season stuff. Frosty the Snowman can stand a chance in hell for all I care right now. I shouldn’t be supporting this. I shouldn’t be freeing up a peg hook for a premature wreath.

But I stand there re-evaluating all the items I had written off in earlier ventures. Skulls–still stupid. There are too many skulls. Pumpkin garland–still garland. Haunted Houses do not have garland. Cotton spider webs–I want them, but I’m holding out for the green variety.

And then there’s this head. Pay no attention to the skull behind the curtain.

Last week, what didn’t seem worth it for $15, suddenly seems something else–something scarier and deader and ghoulier. Yeah ghoulier, which possibly rhymes with Dave Coulier. In fact, I think that’s the head’s name. Dave Coulier. But I’m still thinking about it.

There was a kid in the aisle with his Mom.

“Mom, can I have this head?”

“What are you going to do with that head?”

She answered a question with a question–not a good sign, kid.

“Can I get this?”

“You don’t need that.”

He shuffles. He picks it up anyway. His tactic switches to holding it tenderly like a just-hatched chick, staring longingly into the dead rubber eyes.

“Please? I want it.” He drops to his knees, holding the head. A show of deference, or something.

“You don’t have a place for it.”

She doesn’t even see her son, on his knees, hugging the head to his chest. She is already somewhere else in the aisle. Something about needing more candy. It won’t be enough for Saturday. She walks away, involved in this candy mission.

But he stays put, hoping she will see his commitment to the head. That he won’t treat it just like every other head he has at home, but that this head is a head he will never do part.

“Brian!”

He hesitates. Defeated. He puts it back, scrambling to his feet and already running, one fluid movement, towards his mother.

I can’t even bend my knees in one fluid movement. But I can buy this head. It’s a trade-off. I’m totally buying Dave Coulier. That kid is me and I want this head. And I don’t know what for, and I don’t what place, but sometimes Mom, you don’t need to know all the answers in advance. What you need to know is that it has mangled gray hair, bruised slits for eyes, and a protruding spinal cord.

And it hangs, and it spins in the wind.

My god, does it spin in the wind. It spins so much, and there is so much wind. SO MUCH WIND. I can’t get a freaking single good picture of him. And I’m not climbing on the ledge of the porch tonight. And screw it, the camera battery just died. So this is the only other picture I got.

But there is his lovely severed spinal cord, which I’m sure Brian would have loved and kissed goodnight each night.

The end.