Southern Lady Code: Essays(16)

Laura remembers, “It was a game to test our observation skills. We were supposed to see how good we would be as a ‘witness’ if it had been an actual crime. One boy on my team acted like he knew it was a game all along, he said the guy had once come to one of our acting classes, so he knew it was fake. But I didn’t remember the guy or think it was a game.”

Me, I don’t remember who was on my team or what first place was. I don’t remember prize-winning details like the gunman’s eye color or whether his wife’s jeans were Jordache or Gloria Vanderbilt.

But I do remember Liz, aka the Grim Reaper, said, “Mr. Ellis, you’re going to pay for my therapy.”

But her parents never made an appointment for her with a shrink.

And nobody’s parents sued us, the cops weren’t called, and the gun was real.

Papa remembers, “The gun was one of mine. It was loaded with blank cartridges. In other words, it could only make a loud noise and not hurt someone even if pointed right at them. Real bullets would have been too dangerous.”

Hey, some fathers take their girls to daddy-daughter dances or buy them puppies; my father faked his own death for my birthday.

For my sixteenth birthday, Papa convinced me I was seventeen. He said, “Helen Michelle, have you ever seen your birth certificate?”

For my seventeenth birthday, he rented a white Econoline van, the trademark of a serial killer. I don’t remember which serial killer, but I remember that if you saw a white van idling at your curb like an ice cream truck, you were supposed to run away like it was doling out double scoops of Mint Chocolate Razor Blades. Anyhoo, my parents drove that white van and “kidnapped” my friends to come celebrate with me.

Mama says, “Oh, Helen Michelle, there was a lot of kicking and screaming going on in some driveways!”

Mama finally quit finding Papa’s practical jokes funny when he called her from an airport pay phone to say that my little sister was missing. He said, “Don’t panic. But I’ve lost her.”

And then he had my sister call from a pay phone right beside him and cry, “Mama, heeeelp!”

On the drive home from my thirteenth birthday party, I was mortified, but Papa laughed off my teenage despair as if the prank he’d pulled was no more embarrassing than a whoopee cushion or dribble glass. He thought I should be thanking him. He had my best interest at heart.

He said, “Next year, when you start high school, everyone’s going to know who you are.”

And they did.

“And they’re all gonna want to hear about that party.”

And they did.

Folks still do.

Laura, aka Trixie, says, “It’s been one of the stories I tell people now, and they can’t believe it happened. If it were 2019 instead of 1983, it would’ve gone viral, made national news, and had a lawsuit or two sprinkled in.”

Ellen, aka Ralph “Stay Gold” Macchio says, “I wasn’t a fan of Halloween then and I’m really not now. And I thought I came as Pony Boy. Outsiders rule!”

Me, I’m still friends with all of these women, who despite Papa’s practical jokes, turned out okay. All of us are married. Three of us have kids and three of us chose not to. But we all stay home on Halloween night. We hold the candy bowls. We look through our peepholes. Because sometimes, under exactly the right circumstances, we like to be scared.





TODAY WAS A GOOD DAY!





There wasn’t a clown in my closet. A doll did not turn its head to look at me. A music box did not start playing on its own. A pair of shoes wasn’t sticking out from beneath my drapes. A man in a hazmat suit didn’t knock on my door. A snake didn’t jack-in-the-box out of my toilet. A hair on my face was not growing out of my face.

No one said: “Keep still, this’ll be over before you know it.”

No one asked, “You’re not from around these parts, are you?”

No one said, “Bless you!” when I sneezed alone in my home.

No one slapped me across the face and told me to relax.

I didn’t yank oxygen tubes out of my nose. I didn’t back out of a room slowly. I didn’t crawl through an air duct. I didn’t chop off and bleach my hair in a gas station restroom. I didn’t carve a pistol out of soap. I didn’t burn off my own fingerprints. I didn’t make a rope out of bedsheets. I didn’t sit on a suitcase on the shoulder of a highway. I wasn’t abducted by a “weather balloon.”

I didn’t fall to my knees and scream, “Noooooo!”

I didn’t raise my hands toward the heavens and scream, “Whyyyyyy?”

I didn’t ask, “Was none of it true?”

I didn’t answer, “What in the world were you thinking?”

I didn’t dump my purse over the head of someone texting in a movie theater. I didn’t dump my purse over the head of someone texting in a movie theater again. I didn’t windmill my arms into a fistfight. I didn’t act as my own attorney. I didn’t draw straws in prison. I didn’t pick the lesser of two evil tattoos. I didn’t cut out newspaper articles, tape them to a wall, and connect them with red string. I didn’t reenter society.

I didn’t say, “You don’t know me!”

I didn’t say, “There’s someone in here!”