Trick or Treat

It was a late Halloween afternoon, 1960 in Saratoga Springs, New York. The ponies had all gone south for the winter as had most of the birds that spent their summers in this bucolic hamlet. But it was clear that Saratoga Springs aspired to wealth and notoriety beyond its modest size ... with its hot-spring spas, its stately mansions and its miniaturized versions of everything else that was “New York City.” (It even had a Kosher delicatessen, “Moshe’s.”) The daylight was now fading fast as Eastern Standard Time had been re-introduced the weekend before ... just in time to force youngsters to go begging for their candy in the dark. This societal idiocy was ameliorated this particular year by a very bright harvest moon that gave off an orange glow like a sinister jack-o-lantern.

The kids along Congress St. in this tiny berg were doing all the things that children normally do on Halloween ... skipping through the fallen leaves, car egging, window soaping, tree toilet papering, and, of course, trick or treating. They were costumed out as poltergeists and puppy dogs, comic book heroes and cake-walkers, doppelgangers and desperadoes, ghouls and gorillas, ballerinas and boxers, grandmas and even one Gumby. As they went door to door for their penny candies, apples, and small change; it was clear that Congress St. was also a remake of an old New York City thoroughfare -- the 52nd St of the 1950s. For at every answered door was a young woman drawn from a wide variety of hues who was generally scantily clad, heavily made-up, and clearly hoping for a client from the rapidly diminishing tourist population ... or one of the returning college boys ... not a munchkin with a held-in-front brown paper bag.

Now Clement Whether, at 14, was a little older than the rest of the Halloween revelers, but, being a little slow of wit, still clung to the his childhood delights. Having recently moved to “The Springs,” he hadn’t yet been clued into the real function of Congress St. So he turned onto this shady lane in eager anticipation of sugary rewards. Clem was dressed as Samson with a large club, a fur loin cloth, and sandals ... an appropriate facsimile since he was well-muscled from his summer’s lumber jacking. At the third house on the left Clem was greeted by a gorgeous nymph, stripped to her smile, who, when Samson reddened and stammered “trick or treat?”, replied with a sultry look, “Both ... my trick will be your treat, handsome.”

© Copyright,  George W. Potts

Katz's Meow

Katz’s deli brimmed with portlies this cool Autumn forenoon. Many were gofers multi-ordering over-stuffed sandwiches and Dr. Brown’s for their office betters. The countermen were operating with the dexterity of Japanese griddle chefs, stabbing pastramis and beef briskets from the steam table and slicing them onto seeded rye or pumpernickel till a quick glance at the customer told them to stop. If said customer was clever enough to extend a greenie on the countertop, the cutting continued until there was a kalbfleisch tower.

Norris Nasselrod looked markedly out of place as he pushed his way into this odoriferous Octoberfest. He was athletically thin in a white tie and tails. The Hamilton that Norris slyly edged onto the counter had every white-apron in the place scrambling to take his order. But Moshe Poppel quickly testosteroned his right to hook and land this flounder. Moshe had established this pecking-order apex by “accidentally” dropping a butcher knife on the foot of any fellow worker who looked cross-eyed at him. He had done this so often that Blue Cross had specifically excluded this medical condition from further insurance re-imbursements.

Moshe took Norris’ order of a corned beef on marbled rye and outdid himself to justify the impending generous tip. A whole slab of steaming Jewish chateaubriand disappeared under his huge chef's knife and reappeared precariously balanced on serving-platter-sized crust of piebald provender. When he was done, he tucked three half-dones on top of this cholesterol cornucopia while wrapping it in an expanse of waxed paper.

As Norris was given and paid for this gastromonstosity, he deftly retrieved his sawbuck and slid through the lunch crowd like Paul Horning through the Cleveland Browns’ secondary. He penguin-suited his way out onto Houston St. and into a waiting cab before Moshe’s jaw stopped dropping. The derisive laughter and applause from the assembled lunch patrons and his fellow workers caused Moshe to redden from the neck upwards. By the time this sanguinity disappeared under the white yarmulke that Moshe was prone to wear, his whole face and most of his bald head were a bright crimson. The metaphor was obvious to everyone. Henceforth, Moshe was secretly referred to as “Pimple” Poppel.

© Copyright, George W. Potts