Halloween is a big night for me financially. I plan parties. I plan the oh my god, I can’t believe they have a giraffe here kind of party. Not the keg in the backyard party.
Although, there is nothing wrong with a keg in the backyard party. In my twenties, drunk dancing to a friend’s CD collection was the best way to forget about crap jobs and crap boyfriends. But, somehow, over time, I turned a love of creating memorable experiences into a career, and I’ve been a party planner for over 25 years.
Last night, I prepared for my Post Halloween Garden-Party. It’s one last costume party I throw for my circle of friends and close business associates to showcase my event planner skills and give the adults a relaxing Halloween party away from the candy and kids.
Three elements make a successful party.
Element One is Alcohol.
Alcohol is called a social lubricant for a reason. That’s why when a guest comes to my door, I give them a warm greeting and a personalized compliment, and then I immediately press a drink into their hands. The trick is plying the guest with enough alcohol to uncross their arms, but not so much that they start whisper-screaming their darkest secrets into a stranger’s ear.
Element Two is the Entertainment or the Fun Surprise.
This year I hired a close-up magician. He will move from table to table between the courses and help add a bit of mystery and wonder to the night.
Element Three is why I was in my backyard the night before my post Halloween party using a barbeque lighter to light a Jack-O-Lantern with a shot glass of authentic 150-proof Irish poitin.
I placed the shot in the middle of a massive squat Rouge Vif d’Etampes heirloom pumpkin that I spent the afternoon carving into a nightmare of teeth and malice. I purchased the pumpkin from the farmer’s market because I buy produce locally whenever possible. Buying local is good for the economy, and it’s good for networking. You never know where the next customer may come from.
I lit the shot glass and stepped back from the Jack-O-Lantern.
The pumpkin flamed, and the power went out. The only light from my property came from the flickering yellow flame of the Jack-O-Lantern, which was unfortunate because I made a scary one. Triangles for the eyes and nose, jagged teeth. The creepy glowing smile looked like it came straight from the imagination of Tim Burton.
Then the flame of the Jack-O-Lantern blazed and coughed.
I held my barbecue lighter like a sword and backed up into the outdoor kitchen bar as a raspy voice emanated from the pumpkin. The fire in the Jack-O-Lantern brightened, and he said, “That’s a good burn. Do you have any more?”
I wasn’t ready to say anything, so hands shaking, I gestured with my lighter at the open bottle.
His voice punctuated words with an Irish brogue that reminded me of interviews I had seen of Colin Farrell.
“I’ll help myself then, shall I,” he said, and then the vine on the top of the pumpkin grew.
Vines and leaves encircled the pumpkin and then pushed out body parts like the sausage extruder attachment on my KitchenAid mixer. Its limbs were all made from thin and leafy vines, but the way vines overlapped gave the entity the look of a man with trousers and an overcoat. It took a step towards me and grasped the bottle of poitin.
The Jack-O-Lantern leered at me, which I did not appreciate. Then before I could stop it, it tilted back its big pumpkin head and poured the poitin into its mouth.
I don’t have to tell you what happens when you pour alcohol on a flame. The flames climbed up to the mouth of the bottle as the Jack-O-Lantern imbibed half the alcohol away. I thought he was going to burn the patio furniture by the way he slopped his drink all over the flagstone. The big dummy didn’t have any concern for fire safety.
I calmly walked around my outdoor kitchen island and grabbed my canvas grocery bag. As a party planner, I must prepare for any number of catastrophes, and so I found what I needed at the back edge of the bag. When the Jack-O-Lantern belched and his eyes flared, well, that’s when I had had enough. I grabbed handfuls of baking soda from my grocery bag and tossed them in his face. Demon or no demon, I was not going to allow him to set my outdoor kitchen and patio on fire.
I backed the Jack-O-Lantern man up to the wrought iron patio chair I carved him on with nothing but anger and baking soda. He fell backward into the chair, and I grabbed the bottle away from him.
Then he laughed.
It was a pleasant laugh. It was an embarrassed laugh. It was a human laugh.
He said, “I forgot myself to the drink there, didn’t I.”
“I would say so. Attempting to burn a woman’s house down is considered rude even for demons.” I said in as biting a tone as I could muster.
“Hey, now I’m not a demon. I’m Stingy Jack,” he said, looking genuinely offended.
“I haven’t heard of you,” I said with as much of a superior tone as I could muster.
“Have you heard of Jack the Smith?”
“No”
“Drunk Jack?”
“Nope”
“Flaky Jack?”
“Nu-uh”
“Jack of the lantern”
“I have heard of a Jack-O-Lantern. That’s what you are or were. I made your head.” I said, and I waved in the general direction of his face.
“You carved an avatar for me. Did you provide the offering as well?”
“The alcohol?” I asked.
“Well, yes, but not just any alcohol. First, the drink must be from Ireland, and second, it has to be strong enough to get me off my tits.”
“There is no call for that sort of language, mister.” I reprimanded.
“What?”
“You know what you said. I’m not repeating it.”
“No, it doesn’t mean. It means drunk.”
“Well, you could have just said drunk then, couldn’t you.”
“I could have done yes, ma’am,” he said with remorse.
“So you’re not a demon?” I asked
“No, not a demon. Not that I was a good man, mind you. I had a reputation, but I am not a demon.”
I don’t know what got into me. It could be the relatively normal conversation I was having with a giant pumpkin-head man, or it could be the massive bag of baking soda I was holding. Either way, I felt bold, so I just sat down across from Jack and handed him back the bottle. He looked at me with almost painful gratitude.
“So, you had a reputation,” I prompted.
“That I did,” he said, and his triangular eyes flamed blue as he poured the rest of the bottle down his open maw. “Many years ago, I was as alive as you are now. Smithing was my trade, and there were no other smiths for miles. Well, I did what any fine businessman in my position would do and squeezed every ounce of silver out of my neighbors. I also enjoyed my drink.”
“Is that so,” I said as I handed him another bottle from my grocery bag.
“Bless your heart, my dear,” he said as he snuggled the bottle to his chest. “If you have the coin, being on the tear smooths out the monotony of the day and no mistake. I guess the real problem was that I was a mean drunk. I got pissed and acted like a cruel bastard to everyone, regardless of age. However, and I’ll stand by this to the end of my days, nothing is funnier than tripping a toddler. The way they flop and bounce is a sight to behold.”
Jack saw my expression and quickly added, “Not that comedy justifies being cruel. It’s just an observation.”
I’m starting to understand. I said and subtly scooped a cup of baking soda into my hand.
“I must have been more horrible than I realized because the devil himself took notice.”
“Gosh, that’s not good,” I said, and I meant it.
“For certain,” he agreed. “Gave me the scare of my life, he did. I was properly ossified and wandering through an orchard when I noticed him. My memory is foggy here, but I do remember the old Yew tree and the man dangling by his neck in the branches. I was trying to pull his boots off when he opened his eyes, and his dead liver lips smiled at me.” Jack took a drink, and his flame fluttered as he sighed. “I knew right then and there, it was the end.”
“Uff-da, that would be a shock,” I said and rooted around my bag for an emergency chocolate kiss and popped it into my mouth.
“I’ll drink to that,” and then he poured another half bottle into his jagged mouth, and his flame burned hot and bright.
As stressful as this whole encounter was, I couldn’t help but notice the backyard had a rather pleasant roasted pumpkin smell.
“What Happened after he found you?” I asked.
“I was a singularly-minded individual back then, and I had nothing to lose, so I asked the Devil if we could get smashed before we traveled to Hell. Surprisingly he agreed, and we walked to the tavern. We spent the next two days drinking. Now, this is where it all gets weird.”
“You betcha. This is where things get weird.” I said but I don’t think Jack heard the snark in my voice.
“The devil doesn’t carry a purse, and I had spent the last of my coin before I stumbled into the forest.”
“So?”
“That’s what I thought. I was ready to scarper, but the Devil said, and I quote, ‘always pays his debts’ so we just sat at our table finishing our drinks and suggesting ridiculous ways of paying the tab.”
“That’s surprising,” I said, genuinely confused.
“It is. Now we were very drunk, and I leaned over and spoke. Just turn yourself into money, boyo, and the cheeky bastard did. The Devil turned into a silver coin, and I put him in my pocket just out of habit and stumbled home. I did not know until the next day that the coin was next to mother’s crucifix. He couldn’t turn back and let me tell you being trapped as a coin put the Devil in a grand mood.”
“You trapped Satan,” I said with disbelief.
“By accident,” he interjected. “I was struggling with the whole affair. But eventually, I had enough presence of mind to strike a deal.”
“What was the deal?” I asked.
“The deal was that he would not take me down to Hell for ten years. I truly felt that in ten years, I could right the ship. Learn to be a better person. Scrub the old soul clean.” Jack took a drink. “I was wrong.”
“Did you try to be nicer?”
“Did I try? The first year, yes, I tried. I switched to ale. I sold my services for fair prices, and I did not trip a single toddler that year. The problem was that people didn’t trust me. No matter what I did, they grumbled and assumed I was cheating them. I mean, I wanted to cheat them. I just didn’t. And truthfully, once you form the habit of being a selfish git, it’s challenging to stop. Then one day after shoeing a mean old horse and being kicked for my trouble, I thought, feck this.”
“That’s unfortunate,” I said.
Jack made a big show of wiping under his triangle nose. I wondered if any of the remorse he emoted was genuine.
“How did you become this, then?” I gestured at his viny form.
Jack sniffed and began his story again. “Ten years later, the Devil returned, and my soul was as dark as ever. I was passed out in the same orchard we had met in before. The Devil looked pleased with himself, and that is not a visage you want to see on the Devil. As a purely desperate ruse, I said, I haven’t eaten today. Could I have a last meal before I go to Hell? The Devil looked me right in the eye and said ‘I’m not falling for your shite again, ya jammy bastard’”
Jack burst into laughter, and I laughed with him. He seemed so tickled at the memory. It was easy to join in his glee.
Jack snorted, and a little blue flame shot up into his eye. “Any food at all I pleaded. I whined and whined, a pitiful sight to behold. Finally, the Devil grew tired of my whining and climbed a tree to pick an apple. As soon as he was in the tree, I carved crucifixes around the trunk. I figured if it worked once, it would work again, and it did. I trapped the Devil again.”
“No, you didn’t,” I said in awe.
“I did, as sure as I’m sitting here. But the Devil was in no mood to be dealt with. He was effin’ and blindin’ a full day before he let me get a word in. I was older, the drink was starting to take its toll, and I knew I wouldn’t change. Not in the time I had left to myself. I bargained again. The Devil would be free, and I would never be allowed into Hell. The Devil agreed, and I let him down out of the tree. Although, I had to find my breakfast. The grumpy old Cute hoor refused to give me the apple.”
Jack raised his carved face to the night sky and sat preternaturally still.
“So you aren’t allowed in Hell. Is that why you don’t consider yourself a demon?” I coaxed.
“That’s it,” he said.
“Then what happened when you died?”
“My soul traveled to heaven, but it was a hard stop at the pearly gates. That Holy Joe St. Peter wouldn’t budge a smidge. I’ll admit I had a bit of a chip on my shoulder, seeing as I had fooled the Devil twice and all. So, when his piousness St. Peter refused to let me in, I raised a fuss.”
“That’s when I met God.” Jack took another long drink, and his whole body shivered, the leaves of his body making a loud rustling. “God told me in no uncertain terms that I was not allowed into Heaven because of and I quote,” Jack made air quotes with his fingers. “sinful lifestyle of deceit and drunkenness. Then the lord gave me the old barmen you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here, and tossed me out on my ear.” Jack crossed his arms and huffed. Somehow his flame looked sullen.
“He’s more of an Old Testament god then,” I said to solace. Being rejected by God was obviously a tender memory for Jack. The pumpkin-headed man sat with arms crossed around the remains of his bottle like a young child taking comfort from a teddy bear.
“Well, their loss, obviously,” Jack said as he cuddled the bottle gently.
Jack’s flame flickered, and for a moment, I thought he was gone.
Then just when I was about to check on Jack he spoke again, “I found myself at loose ends, and somehow, after a long time muddling through the darkness, I managed to find my way to the gates of Hell. I’m not too proud to admit that I begged the Devil to let me in.”
Jack balanced the bottle on his knee. “Twice I had beaten the Devil, and now I was standing at his door pleading for charity. His smile was a wicked thing. His face nearly split in two as he told me a deal was a deal, and he could not allow me into Hell. But the Devil knows what it is like to be cast out of God’s sight. He took pity on me. He gave me an ember. A small thing to help me see between the domains of heaven and Hell in the mortal world.”
Jack took a sip from his bottle, and his eyes lit with an eerie green flame. “With the help of the ember, I found my way home. Both spirits and the living can see its faint light. I carved a lantern out of a turnip to make the ember easier to handle, and I’ve been luring the unsuspecting into swamps and bogs with it ever since.”
Jack laughed and the joy of his laugh had been stripped away. What was left was cruel and malicious. It was no longer a human laugh.
“Have you ever seen a person fall into a bog? They are never ready to swim, they panic and flail and drown,” he said menacingly. “It’s nearly as funny as tripping a toddler.”
I felt nothing but disgust for the creature in front of me and I knew my moment was coming.
The bottle fell as Jack stood. His vine arms reached out to entangle me but I was ready.
In one motion, I scooped a handful of baking soda out of the bag and hit him bang in the mouth with it. The sick green flame of the Jack-O-Lantern died. The body of Stingy Jack suddenly halted, and its momentum rocked the now lifeless form forwards and back.
I steadied Jack’s form as I wiped the baking soda off his jagged pumpkin face. Then I tested the vines. The vines were as vigorous as tree limbs and would last until the party.
For a moment I just studied the form that had been the avatar of Jack. He was a marvel. The vines made an incredibly detailed man. I took one more moment to appreciate the vision of hunger and menace that were new to my Jack-O-Lanterns features and then got on with my work.
I decorated around Jack. Straw bales and pumpkins created a remarkable tableau. By the time I finished, Jack looked like the king of the pumpkin patch. I leaned a large sign next to Jack’s feet.
The sign said ‘PHOTO WALL’ in a large block script.
Element Three is a Photo Wall.
People LOVE photo walls, which are also an excellent way to advertise party-planning services. And, if you can trick a malicious spirit into creating the centerpiece of that photo wall, even better.