Halloween Bully

With Halloween quickly approaching, I cannot help but think back to the years of trick-or-treating days of my children when they were young. And the countless late nights of sewing costumes: a zebra, a tiger, a Minnie Mouse, a couple of princesses, a witch, a king, an Indian, a bride, a pirate….

But probably my favorite of all was the one designed by my four-year-old Erin. When she announced she was going to be a lamb for Halloween, I tried to convince her of something otherwise, as I had no idea how to make a lamb costume.

“It’s easy!” she said. “You just get a white shirt and then glue cotton balls all over it!” And you can have black tights underneath!”


She could not be dissuaded and, we made the costume according to her vision, wielding a glue gun and bags of cotton balls until half my fingers were burnt. She was the cutest thing you ever saw. I knew then that Erin would go far in life.

The last Halloween costume my mother made for me was a Little Red Riding Hood cape when I was nine. We had just moved into our new house overlooking the yacht club and the bay. My parents’ dream come true. They were on top of the world.


But the next week my dad’s younger brother died in New Mexico and my dad flew off to the states for the funeral. He left on a Friday. The following morning my mother had an aneurism burst in her brain. By the end of the day, she was dead and we six kids had to figure out how to track our dad down three thousand miles away.


That was only two weeks after she transformed me into Little Red Riding Hood.


I still remember that first Thanksgiving, less than two weeks after she died. We were invited to join our nearest neighbors to the east. 

They lived just a mile farther east and had three older daughters that I admired, and a son about my age whom I just detested. 

It was the oddest Thanksgiving ever. We were served chili and rice. And nobody felt much like eating.
The girls were sweet and let us come in their room and play with their perfumes and things. I still remember the smell of a violet perfume that captured me to this day. 

But the boy, Rick, was rude and mean and hurtful. He actually cornered me alone somehow (in that small house with their family of five and our family of seven) and taunted me about my mother being dead.


My first clear memory of him is one Sunday afternoon down at the yacht club. I stood next to a palm tree talking to someone when suddenly this horrid boy started throwing very large, sharp darts at my bare feet and laughing, no sneering, when I tried to jump away. I just detested him.


Well, one Halloween not too long after my mother died, my father, ever the thoughtful, kindhearted type, convinced me to let poor Rick go trick-or-treating with us since he had no friends. I, of course, had to convince my friends to let him come along, and that was no easy task.  Rick's reputation spread far and wide on our small end of the island.

But come Halloween evening when we set out to wander the miles of roads that wound through Cotton Valley, we were all decked out and full of excitement. 

Hi and Diane Lang and I, the inseparable trio, went as the Three Blind Mice. We had grey sweat shirts with thick, rope tails, with homemade mouse ears and eye-patches.


I don’t remember what the others wore, but Rick had made his computer costume out of a tall cardboard box (maybe a cut down water heater box?) 
on which he had drawn knobs and gadgets – back decades before the concept of the desktop computer had ever been imagined.

He griped and insulted and made fun of everybody’s costume and complained about the route we were going.  We wondered why we ever agreed to let him come with us.


Ever the kind-hearted do-gooder, I quietly reminded the others that he had no friends and we needed to do the right thing. But he complained about the candy apples at one house and grumbled about the Hershey’s kisses another offered.


As we approached a little pink house whose drive curved down off the road, we discussed the idea of just passing it by.


“They never have any candy anyway,” Diane reminded everyone.


“Well, it’s worth a chance since we’re here anyway,” Hi rationalized.


The houses were all so far apart it seemed a waste to pass it by without even trying. So we started down the short, curved drive.


“This is stupid!” Rick piped up for the umpteenth time. “In Chicago trick-or-treating is way more fun. There are hundreds of houses and you don’t have to walk so far. And the roads aren’t dirt roads…”


“Well, maybe you should go back to Chicago!” Billy snapped, voicing everyone’s opinion.


“C’mon, guys, let’s cross our fingers. Maybe they got candy this time,” I said, trying to change the subject and ease the tension.

Rick’s response was to stick his foot out and trip me. I went sprawling on their uneven driveway and scrambled to my feet spitting out dirt and scraping at the gravel imbedded d in my knees.


“Why are you always such a jerk! We’re trying to be nice to you, and all you do is complain and say nasty things and be mean to everyone!” I snapped at him, having finally reached my limit.


The others began to bicker too as we reached the door. We were so busy arguing amongst ourselves that nobody remembered to knock on the door. But the occupants of the pretty little pink house with its manicured flower beds obviously heard the commotion and came to the door.

The porch light flicked on and the door opened on an unruly mob of youngsters in the midst of battle. But we knew our cue, and instantly we all stopped and shouted, “Trick-or-treat!” in unison.


The little old lady opened the screen door and stepped out with a bowl in her hands. “We don’t have any candy…,” she began.


“Figures!” Rick sneered rudely.


I punched the side of his cardboard computer and said under my breath, “That’s rude! If you don’t have anything nice to say, then shut up for once!”

“…but I do have a bowl full of pennies for you!” she finished her sentence.


And with that, she grabbed a handful of not just pennies, but nickels and dimes as well, and threw them up into the air over our heads.


Now mind you, this was back in the day when a dime could buy a full-sized candy bar, and a handful of pennies would buy a whole bag full of gum balls and Tootsie Rolls and Pixie Stix. So we were talking serious cha-ching!


Pennies and nickels and dimes rained down out of the sky and we all fell to our hands and knees, scrambling about to obtain the most currency we could gather, oblivious to all else around us.


When every last coin had been picked up off the concrete patio, we all got to our feet and sang out a chorus of heartfelt thank yous. Our benefactor waved good-bye as she retreated into her house, and we all began counting our money and comparing fortunes.


It was then that we noticed that the irritating computer stood off to the side a bit, and distinct sniffling sounds emanated from within.


“What’s wrong,” I asked concernedly, despite the vicious treatment I’d received from him just prior to the penny toss.


The computer began to heave and shudder. Its arms disappeared within, and it wiggled and wobbled some more as Rick finally hoisted it up over his head and threw it on the ground. With tears running down his face, he kicked the cardboard computer over and over, loosening a stream of swear words none of us would ever dream of using.


Then he sat on the low garden wall and buried his head in his hands and cried like a baby.


Everyone stood aghast. We looked silently from one to another and shrugged our shoulders at each other in confusion. Who’d have thought that the hateful, mean bully had feeling?


Unnoticed by us, poor Rick, in his constricting computer box, could not bend over to scramble for pennies. And having only seen the abusive, horrible, bullying side of him, we all stood just stunned to realize he could cry: a stunning revelation. 

We gathered ‘round and picked up his assaulted box and tried to straighten it out as best we could. Then we each offered up a portion of our cherished pennies and nickels and dimes and learned an important lesson that, at least for me, stayed with me for life.


Even bullies…maybe especially bullies…need kindness.




Liz Carson Rosas
30 October 2009