Halloween with Willy Wonka

We’ve lived at our condo complex in Sunnyvale now for a little over three years this past August. We didn’t know anyone here when we moved in and we don’t know anyone here now. Maybe it’s the neighborhood, maybe it’s our society in the twenty-first century, or maybe Fehmeen and I are just anti-social weirdos who can’t make friends. Regardless of the reason, we didn’t necessarily put ourselves out there to become friends with our neighbors and our neighbors certainly didn’t make any gestures, subtle or overt, to befriend us, either. And after Willy Wonka came to town this Halloween, I’m going to go out on a fairly sizable limb and predict that there won’t be any olive branches extended in our general direction any time soon.

It all began at 5:00 pm on October 31, 2006. That was the time we arrived home to our condo from a hard day’s work at school. Because we entered our crib through the garage door, I always made it a habit (can you say OCD?) of opening the front door and checking for packages, phone books, flyers, or general debris. Although I found none of the aforementioned items on my doorstep, I did however see something that caught my eye directly across the hall. As I approached my neighbor’s door, I was able to read what was printed out in twenty-four point font: Sorry. Ran out of candy.

I stood there in the breezeway for a moment processing what I had just read. Then I glanced at my watch. Five o’clock in the afternoon. I thought to myself, ‘How is it possible that this guy has exhausted his supply of candy already? I mean, it’s not even dark yet.’ I chalked it up to either extreme lethargy (too lazy to get off the couch and answer the door), major frugality (too cheap to buy a bag of candy), or a combination of the two (sprawled out on the couch eating the candy himself). An hour after our second and last costumed child of the evening trick or treated us at 9:00 pm, I looked out the peephole on my door and noticed that the sign was gone.

Fast-forward exactly one year in time to October 31, 2007. Upon our arrival home early that evening I conducted my usual (OCD) visual check of our front door area and I noticed a sheet of paper taped to my neighbor’s door. I was shocked to see, in the familiar twenty-four point font, the message, Sorry. Ran out of candy. Incredulously, I walked closer to the sign for further inspection. Much to my surprise/chagrin/delight (it IS possible to exhibit all these feelings at one time), I realized that not only was this the same message as last year, it was in actuality the exact same sheet of paper as well.

My mind reeled with the sheer absurdity of this realization. In addition to the distinct likelihood that my across the hall neighbor was a lazy cheapskate, it was highly possible that this foolio had a file cabinet full of holiday related excuse notes. I first considered removing the note in order to force the Halloween Grinch to face his adoring and candy-seeking public. I then pondered tearing down the note, wadding it up into a little ball, knocking on the door, and throwing it in his bah-humbug face. I finally chose to do nothing and stew about it.

And stew about it I did. All year long, in fact. Even through the ALS diagnosis process and the birth of my daughter, both fairly momentous, life-changing occurrences, I never once forgot about my stingy and slothful across the hall neighbor and his recycled candy-denying declaration to the world. I plotted for hours the various ways to send this cheapskate a message that someone had caught onto his game and was willing to expose him to all the world (or at least the condo complex) as a fraud and a prevaricator.

Around July of this year, I hatched the perfect plan to avenge all the sugar deprived youths of the southern Sunnyvale area. Having the million dollar idea is one thing, but it’s another thing entirely to actually carry out said nefarious scheme. In most cases, people lack the sack (guts) to carry it out but one valuable lesson having ALS has taught (is teaching) me is to live in the present. My problem wasn’t having the balls to pull it off but rather not having the physical capabilities to do it.

So I asked for help. And my friends responded. Another thing about having ALS is that I have discovered that people are more than willing to lend a hand and assist me in a wide array of tasks and endeavors; even if the tasks are not necessarily morally upstanding (but right in oh so many ways). Even though I wasn’t physically able to punk this clown, I count myself blessed to have accomplices, I mean friends, who were.

Here’s how it went down:

The day before Halloween, I asked my coworker Su to use a Sharpie and create a special sign for me. The message read: Great news, kids. This year I planned ahead and I have more candy than Willy Wonka. Come early, come often. I carefully transported the sign from school to home in the safety of my rolly backpack. As Fehmeen served me breakfast at 6:00 am on Halloween morning, I handed her the pre-Scotch taped-up sign for her to stealthily place on the neighbor’s door as she took out the trash. When I knew the dirty deed was done I asked her Mother, and one of Emma’s nannies, Maheen, to check it out and tell me how it looked.

She opened up the door and the sheet of paper rustling about on the ground. It had fallen off the door. Without a seconds hesitation, Maheen swiped the roll of tape from the kitchen table and made her way to the windswept hallway. Not only did she pick up the sign, the proceeded to fasten the note to my neighbor’s door. Loudly. Nothing in the world is quite as loud as the sound of Scotch tape being dispensed at 6:05 am in the silent hallway of a condo complex.

I then heard Fehmeen loudly whisper, “Mom!” when she returned from her trash run followed by them both returning inside as the door slammed shut. Mission accomplished. We all sat around laughing hysterically for a while until I worked up the courage to peek out my door to admire our handiwork. It looked awesome. The letters were large (and in charge) and the tape job was masterful (and bountiful). It was a work of art on so many different levels. It was a shame we had to leave for school.

In the end, I have no idea what happened after that. The sign was gone upon our arrival home at 4:00 pm that day. Maheen said that the sign was gone by 9:30 am. Whether or not my neighbor tore down the sign in a fit of rage or laughter or indifference or utter cluelessness, I will never know. All that I can say for certain is that his old stand-by, the recycled declaration of candylessness, never got put up this year. I have one word for you: Victory.

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