A short Ninja Turtle and an even smaller Little Mermaid stand on the porch, an odd duo, uncertain and shivering and uncomfortable. The Ninja Turtle itches under his shell. The Little Mermaid tries to realign the eyeholes of her mask, but it's designed for a bigger Little Mermaid. Only one eye can see through at a time. Mom coaches them from the sidewalk, prompting them with the line they seem to have forgotten every single time. "Say, 'Trick or treat!'"

         "Ricko teet!" says the brave Ninja Turtle. His mask looks like it’s been stepped on at one point. "Tick..." says the mermaid. She aims her good eye at us, then Mom, then us again. There are a lot of us in the house, costumed, having a party. Our hostess tells them they’re cute. We nod and grin. She turns for the candy bowl, but the candy bowl has somehow migrated to the potluck table, where it’s been slowly filling up with chicken wing bones. A shamed silence falls upon us. A Snickers-wrapper tumbleweed blows over our feet and onto the porch. Did we really eat all the candy? Rendered treatless, we are in supreme danger of getting a trick. Suddenly we snap into action, taking up a collection and dropping a couple handfuls of pocket change into each bag.

         The eyeholes scan for Mom.

         "Say 'Thank you!'"

         "Tankoo!"

         We close the door. How confusing the Halloween ritual must seem to the young first timer. Out of the blue, they're asked what they want to "be" for "Halloween." Then they are taken out in defiance of every rule they know. They go out at night, without a proper coat, taking candy from strangers. They wonder, “Is this how it's going to be from now on? Because I’ve always thought this is how life should be.”

         When they get home, they lay out their goods in neat rows, categorizing them first by desirability, then type, then meltability, and so on, admiring their haul from every perspective. That night they lay awake with chocolate in their veins, sugar crystals forming on the corners of their mouths. In a few years these same kids, as teenagers roaming the streets in their so-called costumes, “Rock Concert Patron,” “Football Player,” and “Slut,” will sense that they’re not so cute and not so welcome at the door. Some will retire with grace and hand out the candy while their parents watch TV. Other kids will go bad, roaming the streets in packs, menacing younger kids, exacting tolls. They will peer into the bushes looking for candy caches, the surplus goods hidden to escape parental rationing, a pound or two of Hershey’s Finest scheduled for pickup on the way to school the next day. Digging through the bushes for free candy. How low.

         In the end, everybody loses the original thrill of Halloween. All that’s left is handing out the goods, backseat trick-or-treating with our own kids, and grown-up costume parties. At these parties, most of us take half our costume off by the time we reached the beer, because it’s uncomfortable or because it’s blocking our mouth. The smart people put together comfy, clever costumes such as “Guy in Robe With Messy Hair.” Ask him what's scary about that, and he'll claim, “I’m a guy who just leaped out of bed to investigate the terrible crash in the street and there was all this blood and gore and it was obvious that there was nothing anyone could do but suddenly they all got up with outstretched hands and walked towards me and AAAAH!" and then he'll ask you to get him a drink while you're up.

         A lot of booze gets sold for Halloween parties, but you may notice that the alcohol industry doesn’t promote it much. Actively pushing a product that impairs drivers on a night where half-blind children fill the streets is just a black cat’s whisker away from a class action lawsuit.

         Kids already run the gauntlet of (if you go for urban legends) pins and box cutters and hand grenades and chocolate anthrax that your psychopathic neighbors will put in your little plastic pumpkins if you give them half a chance. It’s much safer to trick-or-treat at the mall. Where your neighbors work. Soon, those chain stores are going to realize they’ve got a unique promotional opportunity on their hands. Your kid’s going to come home with a basket full of Baby Gap coupons and chocolate scented sachets from Victoria’s Secret.

         The good news is that if the kids are switching to the mall, we adults can take back the streets. We will hit the neighborhood not with bags or plastic pumpkins, but with partitioned plates to be loaded with deviled eggs that look like eyeballs, finger sandwiches, little pumpkin-shaped smoked cheeses. Oh, and you know those tiny airline-sized bottles of liquor? Just the thing. See you this week; I’ll be dressed as “guest who won’t leave.” Scary.