Halloween, 1972
She and Paul shepherd you into a blank-faced building with a mirrored lobby. There is a gorilla in the elevator. He stands upright and powerful with black fur that tufts over his arms and legs. You dig into your mother’s thigh with angel nails. “It’s all right. It’s just a costume,” she says and the gorilla, with some difficulty, removes his head to reveal another one underneath. “See?” he says. “Just a costume.” Your heart flip-flops. The gorilla struggles to replace his head and turns toward you, ape face askew and fixed in a lipless grin. He attempts to give the thumbs-up sign with a rubbery hand. “Shit. How am I supposed to hold a drink with this,” he says, tugging awkwardly at his digits. More people collect in the elevator: a flapper, a man in a Nixon mask, a woman mimicking the hangdog face and lanky body of Cher. Paul, making a joke, has dressed in prison stripes, while your mother has Cleopatra-flat hair and a beige tunic with gold accents.
You flow out with the crowd toward a door in the hallway. It swings open and Catwoman steps out, revealing a room cloudy with smoke and conversation muffled by faux fur and latex. She reaches out with heavily lacquered nails and rakes the hair under your halo. People are always touching your hair, cooing over your thick blonde ringlets as though you were a doll.
The gorilla closes the door.
This is an excerpt of a work in progress. The entire piece isn't written in second person, just those bits of dredged-up memory. For another Halloween story, read The orangutan did it.
Image: Man in gorilla costume from Compassionate Spirit.