Eye Candy

“It’s all fun and games until you buzzkills make me remove all the good stuff from the treat bags,” Aunt Bobbie complains, sticking her hand into one of the bags and pulling something out. “Ooooooh, that’s where my purple butt plug went! Sam, check the bags over by you. I’m still missing twenty Percocets, a sparkly necklace that says whore on it, and three sets of anal beads that glow in the dark. I don’t want some kid to mistake those things for glow-stick necklaces. Talk about awkward.”

I immediately drop the bag in my hand and push myself away from the bags all around my legs. Nothing says Halloween like getting three Snickers bars, a Kit Kat, and a set of used anal beads to wear around your neck.





Chapter 8: Hung Stocking


Noel

“It’s from the enemy and they’re trying to get in our heads . . . weaken our defenses,” my dad grumbles as we all get out of our cars and walk in small groups toward the festivities.

Instead of a typical rehearsal dinner, Scheva and Alex decided we should just spend the night before the wedding at our town’s Halloween festival. It takes place at a local Metro Park, and there are food vendors, pumpkin-carving contests, face painting for the kids, and scary movies projected on a huge screen, with hay bales to sit on. The walking trail through the woods is all decked out for Halloween, with candlelit jack-o’-lanterns lighting the path and different scary movie displays throughout.

“Dad, you were BOO-zed. It’s a Halloween tradition in a lot of neighborhoods. It’s fun and it’s sweet that your neighbors decided to start something like that this year. It’s not some imaginary enemy trying to screw with you,” I tell him with a sigh.

Earlier today, my mom found a basket on the front porch filled with bottles of vodka, tequila, whiskey, Fireball, two mason jars of homemade apple-pie moonshine, and four shot glasses with pumpkins painted on them. The basket included a note that read:

You’ve been BOO-ZED!

The ghosts and goblins love to spy,

They noticed your liquor cabinet has run dry!

Enjoy these spirits just for you!

Nothing says Halloween like a Witch’s Brew!

Make a copy of this and spread the good cheer soon,

Within two nights in the light of the moon!

Booze to you!



Ever since my mom brought the basket into the house, my dad has been acting even crazier than normal. He checked the entire house for bugs, closed all the blinds and curtains, and wouldn’t let anyone near the windows. He unplugged their landline house phone and made everyone stop talking and write what they needed to say on pads of paper.

“Noel, it says they’ve been spying on us! They admitted they’re out to get me. Why would they do that? It’s like some sort of reverse psychology, I know it. They want me scared. They want me off my game, but it’s not going to work,” Dad states as Sam comes up next to me and laces his fingers through mine.

“Are you still talking about that basket of booze?” Sam asks. “The apple-pie moonshine was the best I’ve ever had.”

Dad glances over at Sam with wide eyes.

“They’ve gotten to you, haven’t they? They’ve brought you over to the dark side. I always knew you’d betray this family.”

“For the love of God, Dad . . . ” I mutter with a roll of my eyes.

“Okay, fine. Maybe he didn’t betray us. Maybe they poisoned him with that apple-pie moonshine crap. How are you feeling, Sam? A little woozy? Lightheaded? How many fingers am I holding up?” Dad asks, holding up three fingers.

Tugging Sam’s hand, I lead him away from my dad before he can answer, walking us over to the booth that sells tickets for the hayride. With a quick head count, I tell the woman behind the counter how many we need, and Sam pulls out his wallet to pay.

By the time we make it across the parking lot to the tractor parked at the edge of the woods, climb aboard the wagon hitched to it, and take seats on hay bales, my dad has run out of steam and finally stopped bitching about Sam being poisoned and how he’s going to take “the enemy” down.

One of the workers starts up the tractor, and we take off slowly, moving into another area of the woods, separate from the walking trail. This one is more kids-oriented and has nothing that will scare them. The tractor takes us through a five-acre pumpkin patch, filled with every light-up, blow-up Halloween decoration there is: pumpkins, ghosts, black cats, Frankensteins, and witches popping out of cauldrons. We count at least a hundred, and I can’t help but smile at the excitement on the face of my two-year-old niece, Holly, as she points at every one of them with wide eyes and a squeal of happiness.

Placing my hands on my stomach, I give it a little rub, imagining how much fun it’s going to be when Sam and I have our own child, finally here with us, in our arms, to carry on these types of traditions.

“So, have you guys picked out names yet for your little bundle of joy?” Alex asks as we all hold on to the railing at our backs when the tractor takes a sharp turn.

“We’ve been tossing a few around, but we’re not going to pick one until we meet the baby and see which one fits,” Sam tells him.

“Obviously you’re going to keep with the family tradition and pick a name that embraces your last name, right?” my mom asks.

Sam and I share a look, knowing we most certainly are NOT going to saddle our child with a dumb name like the ones my brother and I have. The main reason I hated Christmas until I met Sam was because my name was Noel Holiday, and it was definitely fate when I met Sam Stocking that day in the airport bar. He also despised the Christmas season because of his name. My brother, Nicholas, never shared my hatred, and when he was growing up, he thought it was the coolest thing ever when people referred to him as Saint Nick Holiday. Which is why he and Casey had no trouble naming their daughter Holly Holiday.

Luckily, having the last name of Stocking now, there isn’t too much damage we could do picking out a name for our child, unless we named the baby something like Stinky Stocking.

Or Silk Stocking, Fishnet Stocking, Holey Stocking . . . shit. I guess there is a lot of damage we could do. Note to self: Don’t let Sam make any name decisions when he’s drunk and hanging out with my family.

“I’m partial to the name Hung. Hung Stocking has a nice ring to it. Perfect for a boy or a girl,” Alex tells us.

“We’re not naming our baby Hung,” I reply with a heavy sigh.

“Fine. But you should at least pick something with a Halloween theme.”

My mother nods, and everyone else silently agrees, including Scheva. The traitor. And then they all start throwing out ideas, each one more horrifying than the next, until no one is paying attention to the hayride or the Halloween decorations that we drive by.

“If it’s a boy, you could name him Jack, middle name O’-Lantern.”

“Noel’s favorite movie is The Nightmare Before Christmas. If they’re going to use Jack, his middle name obviously needs to be Skellington.”

“Pumpkin is an adorable name for a girl. It should definitely be Pumpkin.”

“What about Cock Goblin Stocking?”

“No, it should definitely be Blumpkin. Blumpkin Stocking,” Alex adds.

“What in the world is a Blumpkin?” my mom questions.

“Blumpkin is the act of performing fellatio while the recipient is taking a dump,” Alex informs us.