Who Is That Guy?
A True Halloween Tale
It must have looked pretty strange, riding my flashy red chopper while dressed as a scarecrow. A grim mask over my face, a floppy black hat tied to my head with straw resembling hair protruding from beneath it. A long, tattered black robe made from a dyed bedsheet was on top of my pull-over leather jacket, topped off by leather elbow-length gauntlets. A crooked branch was tied across my shoulders with gloves tied to the ends.
Below were black pants and knee-high black boots. You might guess that black was kind of the theme here. There was no visible skin; all you could see were my eyes through the holes in the mask.
But then, it was Halloween, and the misty Southern California night had already fallen as I rode out of the city and into the foothills of the Santa Ana Mountain Range. I was on my way to Silverado Canyon to attend a party at the home of a pretty young blond I had met. Her name was Laurel, and the year was 1974.
Don’t think of the silly dancing and singing scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. This outfit was patterned after the Scarecrow of Romney Marsh. The sinister-looking good guy was played by veteran British actor Patrick McGoohan in the 1963 Walt Disney television mini-series.
I had seen it as a kid and loved the plot and the outfit, so years later, when invited to a Halloween party, that was my costume of choice.
Swerving through the canyon roads on my Harley with my ragged cape flying in the wind, I chuckled to myself at the image. I almost felt like Vicar Syn speeding along on his big grey thoroughbred stallion that the King’s men could never catch.
After an hour, I pulled into the dark carport next to her Volkswagen bug, killed the engine and swung down the kickstand. From the Led Zeppelin echoing in the narrow canyon, it was obvious the party was already well underway. I walked up several long flights of stairs to the old house that was built on the side of a hill.
People were standing with drinks on the stone patio. They stared at me as I strode by. Nervous laughter started but quickly died away when I looked at them, but said nothing.
I opened the door and walked into the living room. The lights were low, and the atmosphere was thick with the smoke of cigarettes and marijuana.
Antique furniture, stone walls, and oil lamps gave the room a gothic feel.
Guests in costumes sat around talking, some looking like they were zoning out. The conversation stopped as everyone stared at the new stranger.
Spotting Laurel dressed in a wispy gown with makeup to make her look like a ghoul, which didn’t do much to take away from her good looks, I walked up to her and just stood there.
Almost a head taller than her, the bulk of my costume made me look bigger than I was
Looking confused, she said, “Hi… uh, who are you?”
“Don’t you recognize me?”
“Yeah, right. Now who the hell are you?”
“Just kidding. I’m Dale.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, she said, “Oh, it’s you! I’m so glad you made it. Wow, great costume.”
She fetched me a Margherita, which was almost impossible to drink through the narrow slit in the mask.
The house was full of people I didn’t know.
I said, “Your friends look like a bunch of hippies.”
“They’re mostly my neighbors from here in the canyon. There’s a lot of LSD going around, would you like some?”
“No, thanks.”
“That’s okay. You probably don’t have much in common with these folks.”
“I’m just here to see you.”
A few people came over and said, “Who’s the scarecrow?”
Laurel would play along and say, “Gee, I don’t know, I thought you might.”
“Who are you, Scarecrow?”
I would just look at them; they would mumble something rude and walk away.
Laurel said, “You’re scaring my guests.”
“Sorry.”
“No, that’s okay. This is fun. Most of them are blazing on acid; I think you’re really getting to them.”
I was having fun. While I hadn’t planned it that way, I was finding out that the costume was very intimidating when people couldn’t see my face. With the mask, it didn’t matter if I smiled or not; nobody could see an expression. I mostly stood still, kind of like a scarecrow; so there was no body language either. Sometimes I slowly stalked through the crowd, but did not speak to anyone.
Who is that guy? Does anyone know him? Is he a threat?
People seemed to start thinking the latter.
At midnight, the crowd was thinning. People were taking off their costumes.
Someone said, “Hey Scarecrow, take off the mask, let’s see who are?”
Others repeated it. They were tired of being nervous and not knowing.
Laurel said, “Yeah, take it off, I want them to meet you.”
I hesitated, shaking my head, and said, “No, I can’t.”
“Aw come on, take it off.”
Standing near the corner of the room, I hunched over and started acting strange. Grunting and moaning. Laurel was concerned, “Are you okay? What’s wrong?
Facing away, I slipped a set of plastic fangs in my mouth.
The drunk and stoned crowd was getting their nerve up. The chant continued, “Take it off Scarecrow, take it off.”
The whole room was focused on me, it was dimly lit, the crowd closed in for a closer look.
I kept facing away, grunting and snarling, while shaking my head as I undid the mask.
Laurel had her hand on my arm, not knowing what’s wrong.
Suddenly I ripped the mask off and turned on the crowd as a full-blown werewolf, plastic fangs and all.
I did my best version of a throaty roar, arms wide, fingers reaching. Everyone broke and ran. The room cleared out so fast, I was afraid someone would be trampled to death in the rush to get down the stone steps in front of the house in the dark.
Laurel had shrunk helplessly into the corner with a look of shock on her face. Eyes wide, she seemed unable to move.
In our short relationship, I had picked up that she liked werewolves. Or she hated them, I wasn’t sure which. But I thought it would be fun to hide a werewolf under the mask as a little surprise. It worked better than I had ever imagined.
I thought she was going to start screaming. I felt as if I had gone too far. She would probably never want to see me again.
We were completely alone. Well, at least that worked.
I pulled off some of the fake hair on my face, knelt down, put my arms around her and held her, talking to her gently in a normal voice.
She started laughing. “That was great. I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
I ended up spending the night. A couple of years later, she became my first wife.
Laurel and me, 1974