text: "Mr. Billingmyer's Seventy-Fifth Halloween" by Ryan Sheffield The doorbell rang for the first time that evening around half past six, and the excitement that brought Thomas Jacob Billngmyer to his feet was that of a grade school child. This was to be his seventy-fifth Halloween, but with such gleeful enthusiasm in his arthritic bones, one might have easily mistook it for his first. An old man he was, yes, but a child at heart. And how he loved the children. “Trick or treat!” was the chorus they sang, and to Mr. Billingmyer it was more lovely a sound than any Yuletide carol could ever be. The costumes grew more unrecognizable to him as the years passed--the children of late preferring their popular television characters to the more classic Halloween staples to which he was accustomed--but he loved them just the same. For one night every year they could be anything. For that one wonderful night, they were no longer burdened by the strict rules of school marms or the limits of the adult world. Adults preferred the rules and rigid routine, growing up and out of their imaginations and leaving them behind like a snake’s old skin--much to their own detriment, in the opinion of Thomas Billingmyer. On this night, he could be anything and there were no rules. “Happy Halloween to you all!” he proclaimed, and dropped a piece of candy in the baskets, bags and buckets of the smiling children. They thanked him and ran off down the drive, back to their imagination-deprived parents who waited in their boring, everyday clothes to lead the little ghosts and ghouls to the next well-lit house on the street. He watched them go and shut the door, too excited to sit down again. He wished he had had the foresight to purchase a carving pumpkin during the day. But he supposed it was best this way. His searing joints did not share his festive mood. Such spoilsports they were! He missed his youth dearly, and though seventy-five Halloweens were more than most could hope for, he would trade it all to have stayed young. To have never known that awful world of responsibility and toil and boredom that all adults must occupy. To never shed the precious gift of childhood imagination. In the two hours that followed his first evening visitors, the doorbell rang but four times. Each time was a grand time--tiny witches and pint-sized devils joyous and shouting and thankful--but it was so much fewer than the year before. And so the pattern had gone for years. Perhaps the children these days grew up too quickly. The world was changing and adulthood intruded on their little lives too soon. The old man wondered if a year would come when there would be no Trick-or-Treaters at all. He wouldn’t likely live to see that terrible night, and for that he was grateful. He would not be alive to mourn the world’s imagination. He would see to that. It was nearing 9o’clock and Mr. Billingmyer had all but given up when the doorbell rang again. He made his way to the door as quickly as his grumpy, old skeleton would allow. But this time he was not greeted by the shouts of princesses and goblins. The young man that darkened his doorway had long since shed and forsaken childhood, his scary costume nothing more than his own skin and that putrid symbiont, desperation. The young man pulled a knife from his shoulder bag and pushed Thomas Jacob Billingmyer backward into the house. He locked the door behind him and peeked nervously through the blinds on the window. “Keep your mouth shut, old man. I swear to God, I will cut you.” He gestured with the knife and Mr. Billingmyer did as it commanded, backing away slowly toward the living room. “Sit down.” The knife directed him to the wooden chair he had set out for resting between doorbell rings. He did as he was told. The young man dug through his bag and pulled out a roll of duct tape which he used to bind Mr. Billingmyer, most uncomfortably, where he sat. The young man was desperate indeed. He dug through all the drawers--even the kitchen pantry!--looking for valuables he never would have sought had youthful imagination not been so cruelly discarded. Mr. Billingmyer did not truly blame him. Adulthood encroaches as it will. He watched patiently as the young man darted into the bedroom, rummaged around, and returned with handfuls of jewelry. Most were obviously “costume” fakes, but the young man did not strike him as someone with a very discerning eye. He felt bad for him, really. “What time is your wife supposed to be gettin’ home, old man?” he asked as he filled his shoulder bag with the worthless trinkets. “I never married,” replied Mr. Billingmyer. “What, are you some kind of fruit? Why you have all this shit? Nevermind. Cash. Where is it?” The young man held out the knife. It wasn’t very threatening. It seemed to be serving more as punctuation than anything else. “I’m afraid I don’t have any,” said the old man. “You don’t have any? Bullshit. Don’t lie to me, man. I’m not kidding around here!” The punctuation was sharp but weak. “I’m terribly sorry. I really can’t help you, son.” The young man threw his arms in the air and began pacing. “You’re lying,” he said, though it seemed to be directed more at himself. “Shit!” He took a few minutes to quickly--and most ineffectively--ransack the house in search of money that was not there. He gave up easily. Mr. Billingmyer assumed the young man had done so a great many times before. “Shit... shit...” He threw himself into a chair and ran his fingers through his hair. It was a sad and pitiful sight. Mr. Billingmyer wished he didn’t have to see it. After a moment, the young man got up in a huff and grabbed a piece of candy from the Trick-or-Treat bowl. “That candy is for the children!” shouted the old man. He was incensed and his lip was trembling. “It’s for the children, not for you!” “Shut the hell up, old man,” he said weakly. He unwrapped the candy and ate the entire bar in one bite. “No money... liar...” he mumbled. And then he fell facedown on the living room floor. His body shook with spasms and blood began to pour from his mouth, nose, ears, and even his tear ducts. The poison worked so much faster than Mr. Billingmyer thought was possible. And such a mess... Though his bones put up quite a fuss, the old man was able to wriggle free of his restraints after only a few minutes of trying. Goodness, the place was a mess! It was getting late and he supposed he should probably be on his way. The night was waning, the little ghouls were returning home with their bounties, and the homeowners would likely be back soon. And to find such a mess! He felt rather apologetic, but there was little he could do but make himself scarce before they arrived. Thomas Jacob Billingmyer’s seventy-fifth Halloween was going to end as a disappointment. He hoped the next would be better, if fate saw fit to let him live to see it. Then the doorbell rang. Mr. Billingmyer rushed to the door and opened it just a crack. “Trick or treat!” sang the children. The old man smiled. Oh, to be young forever. Adulthood was the end of dreams. And no one deserved that. The children extended their baskets, buckets and bags and the old man gave them each a piece of candy. “Happy Halloween to you all!” he said. And looking into their smiling faces, all the disappointment and misfortune vanished from his mind as though it were never there. Yes, he thought. It was a wonderful night.