Halloween Treats for Two Childless Cat Ladies

Most essays become irrelevant over time. This one howled to be brought back from the dead, rewritten, and given new life.

DEAR SENATOR VANCE,

Every Halloween, in the elevator of our NYC apartment building, there’s a sign-up sheet for residents willing to welcome pint-size treat-or-treaters. It’s never a long list, just a smattering of names of people without kids who are pressured into opening their apartments, so desperate parents have a few places where their kids can beg for candy.

And each Halloween (as well as Christmas, Hanukah, birthdays and summers abroad), heteronormative, America-loving parents cast me and my ilk in their favorite role, that of the Beloved Guncle. They know that being gay means I’m malignantly selfish (it goes with the bouffant wigs and size-13 high heels, so I’m told) and eschewing kids for disco nights and Fire Island days. And that means the mountain of disposal income I’ve squirreled away is once again burning a hole in their pockets. (Somehow it escapes them that we childless cat dames happily pay for schools, bussing, summer camps, and health and social services for their tots with our taxes.)

Anyhoo, I’m guilted encouraged to sign up and be the guncle who dresses up in some fabulously whacked-out costume straight out of Madame Tussaud’s House of Horrors and hands out high-sucrose booty by the Dutch oven-full.

Bearing the shame of the childless, I’ve gone so far as to come up with schematics of how I’ll transform our apartment’s gallery into a chamber of torment rivaled only by The Walking Dead, with synthetic cobwebs, red Karo-syrup blood, and a gnawed hand or two poking out of the coat closet for added effect.

Inevitably, though, All Hallows Eve arrives, and I’m ticked off because once again, time got away from me. The only things I have to hand out are a few fuzzy Mentos from my winter jacket and a couple of tiny bottles of vodka I swiped from a flight attendant.

So there I sit, silent in my darkened apartment, slumped in the Queen Anne chair, glowering. And as the cacophony of shouts and bangs on the door crescendoes, I hurl invectives at the sugar-crazed mafia of six-year-olds in the hallway because they’re making me feel guilty for my thoughtless, childless ways. And for interrupting my bingeing of “American Horror Story: Delicate.”

Some years, I slink out to the nearest deli, fearful I’ll come face to face with a co-op board member in the elevator who’ll look at the sign-up sheet bereft of my name and then skewer me with a slow-burning gaze that says, You will never be able to get a potential buyer for your apartment through the co-op interview. Ever.

But this year, I’ve devised a simple way to assure that we, a democracy-flouting childless cat-broad couple, will throw open our doors for the kiddies in the building—even for little Lili, the petulant six-year-old next door, who I’m certain will grow up to be a leather-clad dominatrix with tattoos covering 80 percent of her body. It’s a little game called Reach Across the Aisle. I win, you win, and the kids are none the wiser.

So Mr. V., if you want me to be a functioning member of society who has a stake in the future of our country, let’s negotiate. I’ll give the fruits of the Fruit of your Looms a multimedia phantasmagorical display they’ll never forget. I’ll even go one better: I’ll give up my membership in CCLAAP (the Childless Cat Lady Association of American People). All you need to do is see to it that my trick-or-treat bag is bulging with the goodies below.

ONE
The first demand is easy. “Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight…” Oops! Oh, Senator V., you know us bubble-headed gay boys! All we think about is the “min-folks.”

I meant to say, this Halloween gimme lots o’ empty-calories. Nix the apples and oranges, with or without razor blades. And for the love of all that’s sacred, keep your whole grains, vegetables, and healthy snacks. I don’t want nutritious foods, and neither do kids.

Proof: As soon as you give them money, what do they do? Buy a hot school lunch? Nope. They’re out in the playground jonesing for sugar. They blow it on candy, junk food, and Mickey D's. I guess as a feline-loving non-man, I’m no better, so pile on the Twix!

TWO
You know me, I never learned my lesson. So, yes, please deliver yet another big, fat lobe of foie gras on Halloween afternoon. (This would be my—what?—fifth or sixth liver baby?)

I know, I know. There’s been a supreme reversal of opinion from those in the highest place in the land. But did you know six out of every nine American believe the policy makers should keep their noses out of our kitchens, because it’s none of their business what we put in our bodies? And yet, boom! In some states, it's criminal to eat those luscious lobes. I hear people are even crossing state lines to get their little problem taken care of. Maybe I should do the responsible thing and get my gastric tubes tied. Aw, who am I kidding? I'm just a fat, lazy liberal who likes sitting around watching my stories on TV and eating. So bring it on, Capt’n Couch!

THREE
A never-ending supply of “Must Have Macarons” from Pierre Hermé in Paris, on rue Bonaparte, naturellement. But not so quick! These must be flown over on a fully remodeled vintage Concorde directly to JFK airport no more than 8 hours after baking. This won't be a problem, especially since I know you’re not losing sleep over that pesky climate change thingy anymore.

FOUR
My kitchen re-renovated. This is an expensive one, I know, which is why I think this should be a party effort. (Maybe a “Party party?”) If all of your butch baby daddies get together and work with our co-op board and Sam, our super, you can knock it out in time for Thanksgiving. I’ll even bake a few dozen of my famous pumpkin cakes with maple cream cheese frosting as a thank you. (Tip: Miele, Traulsen, and Viking appliances make me very, very happy.)

FIVE
What good is a new kitchen with a bad view? The water tower on the roof of the building next door is the only thing standing between me and a view of Central Park. Moving it about 30 feet south would benefit me in so many ways. Think of it as a kind of redistricting, which, if I’m not mistaken, you’re familiar with, right?

SIX
This one's going to sting a bit, but I think you’re used to little pricks. But isn't ridding the world of one childless cat lady worth the pain? I thought so. I want (deep breath) a copy of every single banned book in this country—first editions only, of course.

SEVEN
And so we get to the last item. I call it my Personal Project 2025; my biggest and farthest-reaching plan that’ll snuff out the old liberal Daveed in favor of a highly constipated and conservative David.

As I said above, I’ll give up my childless cat-lady status forever. I promise to be a useful, contributing member of our society instead of the sissified, barren lump of a human that I am. I agree to invest in this country, its future, and in its future generations. Not by my creative output (Silly arty stuff! Who needs the NEA?), my intelligence (A gay with a brain? Dangerous!), or my contributions to ridiculously enabling organizations that feed, house, and care for the less fortunate (Everyone has bootstraps, so pull yourselves up, people!).

I'll make the ultimate sacrifice. The One and I will give up our status as childless cat ladies and father quadruplets via surrogacy. (Hell no to IVF!) But only on one condition: You step in as godfather to our four little patriots when we pass, which, considering I’m 64 and obese and The One is 67 with a bad ticker, is pretty much around the corner.

You’ve got the heart, deep-pockets, and compassion for it, right? I mean, who better to mentor, pay for, raise, and teach the next generation of orphans than their beloved Uncle J.D. himself?

Oh, and…Happy Halloween, Senator!

Respectfully,

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