Beware of Groucho
Since Halloween is my second-favorite holiday (my favorite, of course, is Arbor Day), and since I love getting dressed up (unfortunately, Victoria’s Secret doesn’t have anything in my size), and since Halloween falls on a weekend this year (get to the point already!), I have decided to go trick-or-treating.
I just hope I don’t get mistaken for a bank robber. By my mother, no less.
That’s exactly what happened the last time I went trick-or-treating, about 10 years ago, by myself, dressed as Groucho Marx.
When my daughters were kids, I took them trick-or-treating every Halloween. Because they hadn’t reached the age where children not only don’t want to be seen with their parents, they don’t want other people to know that Mom and Dad even exist, I would accompany the girls around the neighborhood in my Groucho costume.
Even though my large mustache, bushy eyebrows and prominent proboscis make me a dead ringer for the dead comedian, I would always authenticate my get-up by covering my mustache and eyebrows with greasepaint; parting my hair in the middle; putting on a pair of eyeglasses; wearing a dark jacket, a pair of gray pants, a white shirt and a thin tie; and clenching a cigar.
And, of course, I would carry a trick-or-treat bag, which neighbors filled with candy.
After a few years of this, the two little ghosts or princesses or Barbies I took trick-or-treating decided they would rather be abducted by space aliens (real ones) than be seen with me. Not to be deterred, I started going out by myself.
In what became a holiday tradition, I would go around the neighborhood with my bag and shout “trick-or-treat!” when someone opened the door. Then I would go inside and tell a series of lame jokes in exchange for my treat, which was often a beer or a shot of brandy. After that, I would go on to the next house. By the end of the night, I was half in the trick-or-treat bag.
One year my wife and I were invited to a costume party given by our neighbors, Carol and Frank. Naturally, I went as Groucho. My wife went as Harpo, the silent Marx Brother, which meant she couldn’t talk all night. I later found out that everyone wished I had been Harpo.
Frank dressed up as a lady of the evening, complete with mascara, lipstick, jewelry, high heels, a low-neck sweater, a short skirt, a blond wig and – the topper – a generously padded Miracle Bra. It was a Miracle he wasn’t arrested. That’s because he and I drove, in costume, to the store so I could buy some cigars and he could buy, as I recall, pantyhose.
“What are you doing tonight, toots?” I asked Frank at the cash register.
“Nothing,” he purred. “Come up and see me sometime.” The cashier was speechless.
My Groucho gig came to an abrupt end the year the infamous Groucho Robber held up several banks in town. During his crime spree, the comic crook would don a Groucho disguise (the fake nose, mustache and glasses combo sold in variety stores), walk into a bank and hand a note to a teller. I don’t think the note said, “Say the secret word and give me an extra hundred dollars,” but Groucho made it perfectly clear he wanted money.
As the robberies increased, one of my neighbors, Jon, who happens to be a cop, said to me, “Do you want to confess?” During one stickup, a bank camera snapped the Groucho Robber’s picture, which was splashed across the front page of the next day’s paper.
“Are you going to skip town?” one colleague asked me. Another said, “I bet I could get a big reward for turning you in.” Around noon, the phone rang. It was my mother. She didn’t even say hello. She just said, “Please tell me that’s not you.” My own mother!
The Groucho Robber was eventually caught and I was cleared of any wrongdoing except for being an idiot. But now that Halloween falls on a Sunday, and I have all day to dress up, and I live in a town where no one knows about my shady past, I’ll renew a holiday tradition and go trick-or-treating as Groucho. I’m not worried about the cops. I just hope my mother doesn’t find out.