at work toiling away in my windowless cubicle, I stroll out into the night, leaving the call center behind. A pale, watery sun is setting behind the clouds, and the air is chilly with a hint of frost.
Leisurely, I plod along the sidewalk, listening to the sound of dried leaves crunching beneath my Uggs. For a brief moment, I stop and admire the stunning backdrop. Leaves have matured into fiery colors of bliss. Fall is such a sexy season. An explosion of visceral colors—spicy reds, burnt oranges and mango maroons decorate the trees and the tarmac.
As I’m driving home through the suburbs, I’m reminded that Halloween is just around the corner. Ghouls, bats and cobwebs hang from the gallows; jack-o-lanterns and tombstones adorn the suburban lawns. I find myself cringing when I drive by a blood soaked guillotine, complete with a freshly bludgeoned head.
Now that is a little too gory for my taste.
Several days later at work, I’m treated to the sight of something much gorier. Great Scott! A great number of my co-workers take Halloween very seriously.
A little too seriously if you ask me.
Two days before, management had sent out an email stating that we could all come into work on Halloween dressed in costumes. And already, I have spotted ten Lady Gagas, and over a dozen scary looking, blood curling trannies.
Apparently, I’ve completely underestimated the vast number of men who would jump at the chance to dress as women. And what’s even more disturbing is, these men actually look better dressed as women.
Our site manager, Richard Just-Call-Me-Dick Jones, struts by in sparkly silver stripper heels, fully decked out in a red mini, blousy top and Farah Fawcett wig.
Dick looks like an orangutan from the Malaysian jungles.
An orangutan that’s wearing way too much rouge and red lipstick.
When Dick Jones is in his customary khaki pants and bright polo shirts, he’s a dead ringer for Gary Busey. Trust me, his eww factor is way up there. But as a woman, he’s passably attractive, perhaps even good enough for Bangkok’s infamous Patpong Street.
The orangutan look suits him.
Tiny’s head pops out of his cubicle, and I’m shocked to see that he too is dressed in drag.
“Why aren’t you dressed in costume, Maddy?” Tiny adjusts his Rihanna-inspired wig, then he whips out an umbrella and sings the chorus to, you guessed it—Umbrella.
I’m wiping tears from my eyes when five Call Center Termites sashay by, fully slutted out in ultra-revealing, breath-restricting German barmaid costumes.
How cliché. Halloween has become an opportunity for girls to dress like total sluts for a day. I don’t mean to be a party pooper, but when I come into work, I like to dress comfortably. My daily uniform consists of dark skinny jeans, Anthropologie tops, and Ugg boots. Truong insists on calling my boots Fuggly; to which I say, “Viva la Ugg!” I love my Uggs no matter what the haters may say.
Truong waddles over in a huge cardboard box with cut outs for his arms and head.
I gawk at his costume. “What the hell are you?”
“I am a light switch,” he says with flair.
“A light switch?” I say and stare. “I don’t get it.”
Truong takes my hand and guides it to the plastic tube that’s haphazardly taped onto the box. “Flick the switch and TURN ME ON BABY!” He flashes a hundred watt smile.
“How cheesy,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. “But I’ll give you props for being cheap and creative.”
Upon giving me a once over, his smile instantly recedes. “Why didn’t you dress up?”
“I did,” I say indignantly. “I’m a werewolf from Team Jacob’s wolf pack.”
“But, Maddy, where are your fangs? Your fur? Your wolf face?”
“D’oh! It’s not a full moon tonight. I only turn into a werewolf when there’s a full moon.”
But Truong is paying me no heed. He is far too busy drooling and ogling over something…or someone.
I whirl around to see what all the fuss is about.
It’s Mika.
He swaggers toward us, fully decked out in cowboy gear from head to toe. Truong and I blatantly stare, losing ourselves in his rugged beauty.
Mika’s hair is slicked back, and he’s handsomely outfitted in a denim shirt and a caramel suede vest fringed with tassels that sway to the rocking motions of his body.
As I cast my gaze downwards, I see the fattest Texas-star belt buckle holding up his faded Levi’s. Holy Cowboy! Even his boots are donned with silver spurs that go jingle, jangle, jingle.
Mika cocks his head to one side. “Howdy y’all.”
Without warning, he quick-draws