Between Octobers

October 31st

October 31st

"I told you we left too early." Evan bragged, leaning against the counter in the huge hotel lobby.

"As if we'd have to wait for check-in time."

People could not wait to do things for Mr. Fred Rubble, one of Evan's pseudonyms. It was the actual name printed on the credit card. The concierge escorted us to our adjoining rooms, where we showered and changed before heading back down to one of the restaurants.

The hotel was gorgeous. And massive. I lost track of where we were going several times. We heard snippets of conversation as we passed chatty groups of casino patrons, everyone was buzzing about the weigh-ins later.

After way too much fruit salad and eggplant parmesan, we wasted time wandering from one casino to the next, doing a little gambling here and there, and shopping for souvenirs. I bought a set of shot glasses for Evan to practice his game on. And I am not sure how we got onto the subject, but somehow he roped me into buying a costume and then presented the action as challenge.

Evan's smile was huge as he explained. "Two rules. First, your costume has to be both, unique and cliché. Second, we only get an hour. We'll meet back in front of that fountain," he pointed down the wide corridor. We shook hands, synchronized watches, and headed off in different directions.

No doubt, I was going to lose. Not only did I lack the keen competitive edge that Evan had, there was zero selection in women's wear. Oh, there was a plethora of costumes, but they all carried the same theme—slutty cops, slutty nurses, slutty dancers, and easy mermaids. On my thirtieth trip around the last store, I found the perfect costume buried in a discount bin. 

Fifty-eight minutes later, I was back at the fountain. Evan showed up with a whole minute to spare, laughing at my fluffy orange pumpkin suit. He was dressed in full Death Angel garb, including black and white face makeup, a scythe, skintight black bodysuit under an oversized, tattered cloak and for humor, a really bad '70s porn-star mustache. 

 "That's not very unique." I admonished.

He shrugged. "Well, it was either this or a giant banana and I've already got one of those."  

"Oh, brother," I shook my head.

He stepped closer, taking the end of my floppy pumpkin stalk hat and flipped it away from my ear. "Gracie, it's huge." He whispered.

I balked, my face heating as his breath raised goosebumps all over my neck. I looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.

"What?" He asked innocently. "I dressed as a giant banana last year." Then he smirked and took my hand.

We wandered into a small restaurant near the front of the hotel. The tables were full, so we took an open space at the back of the bar. Evan ordered drinks and appetizers while we waited for a spot to open up.

Several rounds later, we were still there and I was feeling light-headed.

"Have you ever thought of getting married again?" He was staring at a television mounted behind me. His face, painted to look like a skull, was cracking around his mouth.

"Why? Is there someone you want to set me up with?" I giggled, finding myself much funnier than he did.

Evan ordered more drinks and fries with gravy, and I knew I'd have to find the hotel gym in the morning. 

Everywhere around us, people were dressed in a crazy variety of costumes—nuns, serial killers, showgirls, boxers, demons, Presidents, and hundreds of slutty cops and nurses—not a pumpkin in sight, but I did see a few reapers.