Illustration by Victor Kerlow

All right, all right, you don’t have to shout. You want a treat or you’ll trick me. Makes sense. Silly? A little. But also? Very aggressive.

I like aggressive. You’re good people. Hardworking. You’ve got families. And the fact that you can’t simply earn the treats you deserve, you’ve gotta go around begging, I don’t like saying this, but here’s the reality: it’s an international embarrassment.

Everyone on the block knows it.

You? What are you supposed to be? A ghost? Very nice. Very cute, with the sheet. I dressed up as a ghost a few times, too, back in Brooklyn. It’s a fine costume. Maybe you’ll get a fun-size Snickers, if you’re lucky.

But let me tell you who the real ghost is. The American middle class. And it’s not just a white blanket with some scissor holes in it. It’s actually disappearing. And it’s certainly had enough tricks, let me tell you.

By the way, I’ve spent a lot of time living in scary-looking houses. I don’t give a damn about ghosts.

What are you? Speak up, I can’t hear you. A vampire? Huh. With the black suit and the fangs? I thought you were some sorta Wall Street guy. My mistake. I apologize.

But let’s cut the B.S.—nothing’s scarier than living in an oligarchy. Not even those pointy fingernails.

What’s that on your mouth there? Fake blood? You spent actual American dollars on fake blood? Listen to me. Get some ketchup. Squirt it out and wipe it on your mouth. That’s it. Cheaper than any fake blood you’ll buy at a corporate Halloween chain store. You don’t even need name-brand ketchup. Now take the money you saved on fake blood and invest it in a strong national grassroots movement—we’re not asking for much more than thirty dollars. I mean, stand up and organize. For God’s sake, organize.

Well, aren’t you a cute little ballerina?

Let’s not sit on the fence here—you’re not going to get all the treats you deserve until we start a serious discussion about why you are all walking more blocks for less candy than ever before. You can wave that pirate sword all you want, young man, but I’m telling you it’s shortsighted. You won’t fill up those pillowcases until you demand treats from every house—goddam it, from the entire neighborhood. I hear that some people in the gated community down the road even give out full-size 3 Musketeers bars. But only if they decide that your costume is good enough. Disgraceful.

Let me ask you kids something. What do you really care about? Because, let’s be honest, dressing up is a distraction from the real issues. Look at this block. Who’s giving out the candy? A tiny group of individuals. And they’re diverting you with their decorations—the cobwebs, the skeletons, all that candle-in-a-pumpkin hullabaloo. But who’s doing the walking? Who’s doing the doorbell-ringing? Who’s doing the suggestion of tricking? Which, might I add, is something you all must continue to do in such a highly competitive neighborhood economy. Who’s doing the work? You are.

The unequal distribution of treats is the great issue of our time. And I’m sick of—

Hey, stop crying. You, little boy dressed as a banana, what’s with the tears? Sponge who? You’re a sponge-blob with a square dance? I’ve never heard of such a thing. I thought you were a banana. Look, I’ve got no time for made-up nonsense if we’re going to save the middle class. And neither do any of you.

As for treats, I’ve got a loaf of bread, only one day old, I’ve got a couple of Altoids, and if anybody wants they can pet my cat. ♦