How I Wrecked My Halloween Vacation

“I didn’t kill nobody…”

“…matter of fact, I was next door robbin’ the grocery when my brother-in-law was stabbin’ that poor fella to death. I couldnta done it!”

That’s the basic pitch I used, then I improvised from there depending on the audience. If there were little kids, I kept slipping my dead-eyed gaze back to them while I talked to their parents. Of the scores of kids I saw Friday night, I scared all but about five of them out of talking to me.

What in God’s name am I going on about?

I volunteered to be part of a Halloween extravaganza at the local “Old State Pen” and current tourist destination. The event ran for two nights and featured a “Thriller” dance, prison-related booths, the local music school provided entertainment, etc. And a bunch of us locals dressed up as the ghosts of real-life former prisoners of the pen and drifted around talking to and scaring folks who were there for the festivities.

We were each given a specific prisoner’s name and history and required to memorize it, because as this event was run by academics, we were there to educate as well as terrify.

There were four weeks of rehearsals, but I was brought in just in the last week. Which was fine, because if I had had four weeks to bail, I almost certainly would have. I only did it because it was a last-minute thing, and expectations on me would therefore be uncommonly low.

Friday night was Family Night. The instructions were, no swearing and don’t scare the kids too bad.

As soon as the doors opened, the volunteer playing my brother-in-law and I interacted with the first couple coming past. As soon as they left, “Ernie,” my brother-in-law, pulled me aside and hissed, “We’re not supposed to swear tonight!”

Saturday night would be the 16-and-up night, where, God help us, alcohol will be served. We could say just about anything then. But not on Family Night.

I asked Ernie, “Uh oh. What did I say?”

“‘Bullshit,’” he whispered.

I said, “Really? I had no idea.”

Chastened, I dialed it way back for the next group of revelers. As soon as they were gone, I was conferencing with Ernie again. “Dial it back!” he seethed through clenched teeth.

“I was!” I protested.

He assured me I didn’t exactly hit the mark and illustrated his point with an example.

“Really?” I said. “I had no idea.”

So I learned to be a lot more subtle, quick.

For instance, the visitors were given a scavenger-hunt-type list of questions that had to be answered by the convicts (to force them to interact with us). One question is, “Who was the youngest inmate, and how tall was he?” To which my stock answer became, “I reckon he about ten, but ah couldn’t right say ‘xactly how tall he was; I ain’t never seen him standin’ full up. Haw haw heh”

See? I can do family-friendly. The adults got it and it sailed right over the kids’ heads.

At one point, I picked an unplanned fight with one of my fellow actors—a guy my size who must weigh 300 pounds—and it escalated rapidly from a shoving match into a full-fledged brawl, with him body-slamming me into a wall, knocking me to the ground then running away. He came up to me afterwards to make sure I was okay. I assured him this was not my first fake fight, and anyhow, I started it.

It was a magical night.

I based my character on Karl from “Sling Blade,” but leavened the Dixie accent and made him just a few ticks smarter.

And I also made him a sick fuck.

I liked to find a single overhead light source and stand under it, arms crossed, glowering at everyone who came by, daring them to talk to me.

Not that many people took me up on the dare.

Whenever a group of pretty girls walked past, I lowered my head, followed them with my eyes and made a quiet “tick-tick-tick” noise deep in my throat. Scared the shit out of them without saying a word. Or I made a little suck-suck-sucking noise with my tongue against my teeth and made dead-eye contact.

Once I stood glaring down from the top of the stairs in the Death Row building and a little girl screamed out loud when she looked up and saw me. Again, I said nothing.

Family-friendly, that’s what I’m all about.

We were also supposed to respond to modern technology (my felon was executed in 1951). I was talking to one group of people—who kept asking me questions, and instead of answering them immediately, I kept protesting my innocence while my eyes wandered up and down the most defenseless member of their party—and when they pulled out a cell phone I screamed and jumped back, causing most of them to scream, too. “What the hell is THAT?!”  I cried before turning tail and running away from them like the devil himself was at my heels.

Playing a hateful asshole also meant that if I started getting bored with a particular group’s use of my time, it was fully in character for me to tell them I thought they were wasting my time and stalk away from them. And my make-up was so good that I was virtually unrecognizable.

It was the most fun I’ve had in I can’t remember how long.

Unfortunately, Saturday did not go as well. The “Sixteen and Up” night, complete with beer garden, produced at least five times more paying participants, but most of these were, well, sixteen and up, and their attitude toward us was, generally speaking, decidedly different. They mostly wanted to prove that they knew we were just losers in make-up, and that they couldn’t hold their alcohol. My natural-high from the night before wore off pretty quickly.

Plus, the first night my make-up was terrific and most of the crowd hadn’t put much effort into theirs; Saturday night I looked like a pasty raccoon, and all the paying customers were Halloweened-up to the nines. Frankly, I felt like a fool instead of a ghoul.

Additionally, as it turns out, I was coming down sick. When I signed up for the gig last week, I did not realize it was going to be an outdoor event, at night, at the end of October in Idaho. By midday Saturday, I was wondering where all my energy had gone. Saturday night was supposed to be the fun, wild-and-crazy night, but for some reason on the drive into town, I just couldn’t muster up very much enthusiasm.

By the end of my shift, it was painfully clear why. It must have been ten degrees cooler that night and considerably windier. The back of my neck was exposed and cold as the summit of Everest the whole second half of the evening (until I bailed early, for which I still feel guilty).

In spite of wearing SIX layers of shirts, sweaters and jackets, including thermal underwear, I noticed my sore throat on the drive back home. I managed to convince myself at the time that it was just because I’d been doing my Karl voice all night, but by this morning there was no denying it.

Today, I am one sick fuck, for realsies. I must have slept half the day away in a feverish daze—while The Missus and The Boy busied themselves with various holiday-related family activities—and it’s still just coming on. I’m gonna miss the whole damn holiday.

I think next year—as much fun as the first night was—I will pass on portraying a cautionary tale at the prison Halloween event, and stay home and carve the traditional pumpkin with my family. Halloween will be coming around again next year, but The Boy is never going to be six again.

Another hard life lesson learned at the old State Pen.