SATURDAY MORNING WITH CRANKY DON JOE | Larry Appointed Himself Halloween Safety Director, and Now the Children Are Afraid of the Wrong Person

By Cranky Don Joe

My name is Cranky Don Joe. Cranky DJ to a lot of my neighbors. I am not an expert on Halloween safety, which immediately makes me more qualified than Larry to discuss it, because I understand that the whole point of Halloween is for people to get a little scared. Larry, on the other hand, can read three paragraphs about pedestrian safety before breakfast and spend the rest of the morning explaining why a plastic skeleton needs a warning sign, a motion-activated witch requires a noise permit, and a six-year-old dressed as Dracula should probably be accompanied by a licensed adult. By lunchtime, he will have printed four pages of regulations, appointed himself chairman of a committee nobody asked for, and started inspecting decorations on property that does not belong to him. The rest of us would simply like to hand out candy without being investigated.

I have never understood why Halloween requires so much advance preparation from people who spend the rest of the year complaining that they have too much to do. Every October, otherwise sensible homeowners climb onto ladders to hang plastic bats from their rain gutters, spend good money making their front lawns look like neglected cemeteries, and install mechanical creatures that scream whenever somebody approaches the front door. Some of these decorations cost more than the household repairs people have been postponing since spring; a man down the street has had a broken mailbox since February, but his twelve-foot giant skeleton has been standing perfectly upright since the first week of October. I suppose everybody has priorities.

Then, on Halloween night, these same homeowners sit inside waiting for strangers to arrive so they can give away the candy they bought with their own money. I participate, of course. I buy a few bags of chocolate, put a pumpkin on the porch, and answer the door until the children stop coming. I enjoy seeing their costumes, particularly the little ones who haven't quite figured out what they're supposed to be. Last year, a boy dressed as a dinosaur informed me that he was actually a dragon and became offended when I asked why his dragon had such short arms. His mother apologized; I told her there was no need, as I had apparently insulted a dragon and considered myself fortunate to have escaped with my front porch intact.

Halloween is a perfectly enjoyable arrangement, provided nobody decides it needs improving.

This year, Larry decided it needed improving.

Larry is my neighbor. He is a decent man, generous with his time, and always willing to offer assistance, although his help occasionally creates work that did not exist before he arrived. Last spring, after a thunderstorm scattered branches across several lawns, Larry spent three full afternoons developing what he called a neighborhood debris collection strategy. He drew a map, divided the street into collection zones, and printed instructions explaining where branches should be stacked. By the time he finished drawing the official logistics plan, the rest of us had already picked up all the branches. Larry considered the cleanup a tremendous success and suggested we preserve his plan for future emergencies. Frank, who lives across the street, told him he was welcome to keep the paperwork as long as he didn't bring it over to his house.

On Saturday morning, October 24, Larry appeared at my door wearing an orange reflective vest over his sweater. A whistle hung around his neck, and he carried a clipboard covered with papers. Attached to the vest was a laminated badge identifying him as HALLOWEEN SAFETY DIRECTOR. Beneath that, in smaller letters, he had printed NEIGHBORHOOD OPERATIONS.

I asked whether he had taken a part-time job with the city.

"No, Don. I'm volunteering." "For the city?" "For the neighborhood." "Did the neighborhood ask you?" "Not exactly."

I looked at the badge again. Larry had gone to considerable trouble making it look official: there was a little pumpkin in one corner and what appeared to be a drawing of a municipal shield in the other. I asked who had appointed him Halloween safety director. He explained that he had identified a need and decided to take responsibility. He had emailed the neighborhood association board earlier in the week and had not received any objections.

I reminded him that nobody had replied to the email I sent about a broken streetlight either, but I had not interpreted that as legal permission to take over the electric company.

Larry said he was simply trying to make Halloween safer for children. I agreed that was a worthwhile goal: porch steps should be well lit, electrical cords should not be left across sidewalks, and children ought to be able to cross the street without worrying about traffic. These were ordinary precautions, and I assumed that was what he wanted to discuss. Unfortunately, Larry had spent several evenings researching Halloween safety and had developed ideas that went considerably beyond checking porch lights.

He opened his clipboard and handed me a document titled Neighborhood Halloween Safety and Participation Guidelines. It contained recommendations about decorations, pedestrian traffic, candy distribution, and something he called excessive fright exposure. There was also a form that parents could use to report an unexpected scare.

I read the form twice before asking how a parent was supposed to distinguish an unexpected scare from the ordinary kind on Halloween.

"That's why I'm proposing warning notices," Larry explained. "People should know what they're walking into." "Larry, they're walking up to a house covered in plastic skeletons on Halloween." "Some decorations are more intense than others." "Then the child can go to another house."

He said younger children might become frightened before they had time to make that decision. I could understand his concern, although I thought most parents were perfectly capable of recognizing when a decoration might upset their child. Larry, however, had decided that homeowners should classify their displays according to the amount of fright they were likely to produce.

Friendly pumpkins and smiling ghosts belonged in the first category. Skeletons, witches, and moving decorations belonged in the second. The third category covered sudden movement, loud screaming, and what Larry described as intense supernatural imagery. He wanted homeowners with third-category displays to post warning notices where approaching families could see them.

I asked whether he intended to classify the children too. A boy dressed as a blood-covered zombie could frighten a toddler more effectively than a plastic ghost hanging from somebody's porch. Larry considered that possibility for a moment, then made a note on his clipboard.

I should have kept my mouth shut: I had managed to give him another idea.

He wanted me to accompany him while he inspected the neighborhood decorations. I declined, explaining that I had planned to rake the leaves and spend the afternoon watching football. Larry said the inspection would take only twenty minutes and that an independent observer would lend credibility to the process.

I asked whether an independent observer had the authority to stop the process. He said that wasn't how the arrangement worked.

I should have closed the door. Instead, I agreed to walk with him as far as the corner, mainly because I wanted to see what would happen when he approached Frank's house.

Frank has been decorating for Halloween for as long as I can remember. His front yard contains several plastic tombstones, an inflatable ghost, and a skeleton sitting in a lawn chair wearing a Minnesota Vikings cap. This year, the skeleton held a sign reading STILL WAITING FOR THE SUPER BOWL. I considered it a fine piece of neighborhood commentary, although the skeleton looked considerably more patient than most Vikings fans I know.

Larry walked onto Frank's driveway, examined the decorations, and began measuring the distance between the sidewalk and the nearest tombstone. Frank came outside carrying a mug of coffee and asked what was happening.

Larry introduced himself as the neighborhood Halloween safety director. Frank studied the badge.

"Are you working for the city?" "No. It's a voluntary position." "Voluntary for whom?"

Larry explained that he was offering homeowners a complimentary safety assessment. Frank looked at me, and I told him I had been promised a short walk and was beginning to suspect I had been recruited into a government that existed only in Larry's imagination.

Larry pointed to a large plastic spider hanging beside Frank's front door. He was concerned that younger children might find it frightening and recommended placing a warning sign near the porch.

"What should it say?" Frank asked. Larry suggested: CAUTION: SPIDER.

Frank looked at the spider, which was made of black plastic, about the size of a dinner plate, and had been hanging in the same spot for several years. "Should I put a sign on the skeleton saying he's dead?"

I turned toward the street because I did not want Larry to see me laughing out loud.

Larry explained that the purpose of the notices was to prepare visitors for potentially frightening decorations. Frank asked whether the inflatable ghost needed a warning, since some children might be concerned about supernatural activity. Larry said that would depend on the display. Frank then wanted to know whether the skeleton's Vikings cap should carry a notice about prolonged disappointment.

Larry wrote something on his clipboard and thanked him for his time. As we left, Frank called after us to ask whether the neighborhood association had approved the inspection. Larry said the association had been informed. Frank asked whether that meant somebody had actually agreed to it. Larry kept walking.

Our next stop was a house with a motion-activated witch mounted beside the porch steps. The homeowner had installed a sensor that caused the witch's eyes to light up red and its head to turn toward approaching visitors. Larry was inspecting an electrical cord near the bushes when the witch suddenly shrieked.

He jumped backward, struck his whistle sharply against his own chin, and nearly dropped the clipboard into the flowerbed.

The homeowner opened the door to see what had happened. Larry informed her, while holding his chin, that the decoration was excessively loud. She apologized and explained that the witch was designed to surprise people.

I asked whether she had noticed how remarkably well it worked. Larry gave me a look.

The homeowner asked whether she should turn it off. I told her I had no authority over the matter, but I would personally consider the decoration a complete success. Larry disagreed and recorded the incident on his clipboard as an excessive acoustic surprise.

I asked whether he had included his own physical reaction in the official report. He said that wasn't necessary. I pointed out that he had been the only person frightened during the inspection, which seemed like information worth preserving.

By the time we reached the corner, Larry had identified seven potential problems. None had resulted in an injury, and none of the homeowners had requested his assistance. He nevertheless considered the inspection productive because he had raised public awareness.

I told him that awareness was certainly increasing: people were beginning to look through their window blinds whenever they saw him approaching with the clipboard.

We should have gone home then. Unfortunately, Larry wanted to show me what he had prepared for Halloween at his own house.

Helen was standing on their front porch arranging pumpkins when we arrived. She looked at Larry's reflective vest and asked whether he had finished bothering the neighbors.

He said he had been conducting safety assessments. Helen asked whether anyone had requested one. Larry explained that community safety was everybody's responsibility.

She looked at me and asked whether I had volunteered to help. I told her I had agreed to walk to the corner and was now considering reporting myself as a missing person. Helen laughed and returned to her pumpkins.

Larry began measuring the space between the largest pumpkin and the porch steps. He recommended moving it a few inches to improve pedestrian access. Helen moved it. He measured again and suggested another adjustment.

She picked up the pumpkin, carried it inside the house, and returned without it.

"There," she said. "Nobody can trip over it now."

Larry looked deeply disappointed. I told him the inspection had produced an immediate physical result.

Helen then asked whether he had finished cleaning the garage. He said he was making excellent progress. She reminded him that he had promised to remove several boxes and repair the loose cabinet handle before Halloween. Larry explained that the garage had become part of his official holiday preparations.

Helen stopped arranging the remaining pumpkins. "What preparations, Larry?"

He looked at me as though I might provide tactical assistance. I had zero intention of helping him explain a project he had apparently forgotten to mention to his wife.

Larry announced that he was building a haunted garage for the neighborhood children. He had installed special lighting, sound effects, and several mechanical surprises. Visitors would enter through the side door, follow a designated route, and receive candy when they reached the main garage door.

Helen asked when he had intended to tell her about this arrangement. He said he thought they had discussed it.

"We discussed pumpkins, Larry." "The garage is part of the overall plan." "What overall plan?"

He showed her the clipboard. She looked at the papers, then at the whistle, and finally at me.

"Don, if he tries to put me on a Halloween committee, I'm putting that vest on the scarecrow."

I told her the scarecrow would probably be more effective: it had already been standing quietly on the porch for three years without inconveniencing anybody.

Larry invited us into the garage. I have to admit that the setup was impressive. Black curtains divided the space into narrow passages, orange lights glowed along the walls, and plastic cobwebs hung from the ceiling. A fog machine sat near a cardboard coffin, and a speaker played footsteps, rattling chains, and occasional groans. Larry had spent considerable time arranging everything, although he had accomplished this partly by moving his ordinary garage equipment into a chaotic pile behind the lawn mower.

I noticed my twelve-foot extension cord running along the wall. Larry had borrowed it several weeks earlier. I asked whether he still needed it, and he promised to return it after Halloween. I reminded him that the cord had been intended for a short project. He said the project had grown; I told him that was becoming painfully obvious.

The main attraction was a plastic skeleton mounted inside a wooden box. Larry had connected it to a small electric motor so that it would rise when somebody triggered a motion sensor. He called it the Guardian of the Candy.

Helen asked whether it was safe. Larry assured her that he had tested the mechanism several times.

He pressed his remote control. The box opened, the skeleton began rising, and the speaker produced a long groan. Then the skeleton stopped abruptly halfway out of the box.

Larry pressed the button again. Nothing happened.

He approached the mechanism and leaned over to examine the wiring. Without warning, the motor restarted and the skeleton shot upward, knocking the clipboard cleanly out of his hand. Papers scattered across the floor. Larry stumbled backward in surprise, stepped into a bucket of plastic spiders, caught his vest on a hanging curtain, and pulled half the entrance framework down around himself.

Helen stood in the doorway watching him struggle to free his arm from the black curtain.

"Is that the part where the children are supposed to scream?" she asked.

Larry emerged with a fake cobweb hanging from his glasses and insisted that the mechanism had merely experienced an unexpected technical malfunction. Helen told him he might want to conduct a rigorous safety inspection on himself before inviting anybody else's children into the garage.

He spent the next several days repairing the skeleton, reinforcing the cardboard walls, and securing the wiring. He sent me photographs of the technical improvements and asked whether I thought the entrance looked sufficiently frightening. I told him it looked fine, although I suggested he remove the loose folding chair near the coffin. He said the chair was temporary. I reminded him that he had used the same description for my extension cord.

By Friday evening, Larry had reduced his visitor information sheet from four pages to two after Helen informed him that nobody brings children out on Halloween night to complete administrative paperwork. He had also arranged the garage so that families could move through without crowding the entrance. For once, his preparations appeared to be approaching something useful.

Then, shortly after eight o'clock, he called to tell me there was something moving inside the garage.

He had been checking the decorations when he heard scratching behind the curtains, followed by a heavy thump near the coffin. The lights were off, and he had disconnected the main control system. When he opened the side door, the noise stopped; as soon as he closed it, the noise started again.

I asked whether he had checked his doorbell security camera. He said the image was too dark to identify anything clearly.

"Could it be a squirrel or a stray animal?" I asked. "Possibly." "Then don't go wandering around in the dark trying to catch it, Larry."

He agreed, although I could tell he wanted me to come over. I told him that if he suspected an intruder, he should stay outside and contact the police. If he suspected wildlife, he should have somebody qualified inspect the garage. I was not interested in becoming the first human casualty of a Halloween decoration while helping Larry conduct an investigation.

Helen called a neighbor who knew how to deal with animals getting into outbuildings. They checked the space safely from the doorway with the overhead lights on and discovered that the mysterious noise came from a motorized plastic rat. Larry had installed it on a short track beside the coffin and forgotten to disconnect its timer. Every few minutes, the rat traveled across the floor, struck the side of the cardboard box, and returned to its starting position.

Helen asked why he had forgotten about a decoration he had installed himself. Larry said he had been managing several complex effects at once.

The neighbor switched off the rat and handed it to him. Larry thanked him, then placed it on a workbench. The motor suddenly started again, and the rat lurched forward toward his hand.

He dropped it immediately. Helen told me later that she had decided not to ask him any more questions about the garage until Halloween was over.

By Saturday evening, children were moving along the sidewalks in costumes, parents followed with flashlights, and nearly every decorated house had a pumpkin glowing beside the front door. I had my candy ready and was enjoying a peaceful evening when Larry appeared wearing his reflective vest over a full vampire costume.

He had added plastic fangs and a black cape. The whistle was still around his neck.

I asked whether he intended to frighten the children or direct traffic.

"Both," he said.

I told him he looked like a vampire who had been hired to supervise road construction.

He invited me to see the finished attraction. I said I would stop by later, mainly because I wanted to make sure my extension cord survived the evening.

The haunted garage was already attracting a crowd when I arrived. Helen had set up a candy table near the driveway, Frank was helping families find the entrance, and Larry was explaining the safety rules to small groups of children. The skeleton rose from its box on schedule, the fog machine produced a thin cloud around the coffin, and the recorded footsteps sounded surprisingly convincing.

For the first half-hour, everything worked. Children entered in small groups, the younger ones held their parents' hands, and the older ones tried to pretend they weren't frightened when the skeleton appeared. Larry seemed pleased with himself. He had even stopped asking people to read the visitor information sheet, although I noticed a stack of copies sitting beside the candy bowl.

Then a boy dressed as a pirate arrived with his father and a remote-controlled toy spider.

The spider was black, about the size of a dinner plate, and equipped with rubber legs that moved as it rolled along the ground. The boy had been using it to entertain children waiting in line. Larry noticed it and announced that visitors were not permitted to bring outside props into the controlled environment.

The father apologized and said they would keep it outside.

Frank was standing nearby. He had spent the week listening to Larry's opinions about plastic spiders and had not forgotten the suggestion that his own decorations required warning signs. He asked the father whether the toy spider could move quietly.

The father demonstrated. Frank smiled.

I should have recognized that expression. Frank is normally a responsible man, but he has never been able to resist an opportunity to embarrass Larry.

A few minutes later, Larry was standing near the coffin explaining the attraction to a group of children. The lights were dim, the speaker was playing footsteps, and the skeleton waited inside its box.

The remote-controlled spider entered through the side door. It rolled slowly across the floor and stopped directly beside Larry's shoe. At first, he appeared to be trying to determine whether it belonged to his display. Then it moved toward his ankle.

Larry shouted loudly and jumped backward, striking the motion sensor for the skeleton. The box opened, the motor started, and the Guardian of the Candy rose abruptly behind him with its arms extended.

Larry turned around just as the skeleton reached full height. The speaker groaned loudly. Larry screamed again.

He backed into a folding chair, caught his cape on the armrest, and fell backward onto the floor. The chair collapsed beneath him, and the toy spider continued rolling slowly around his shoe.

For a long moment, the children stood completely still. Then a little boy began laughing, and the rest joined him. The pirate's father hurried forward to retrieve the spider, while Frank stood outside the garage with one hand against the door frame, trying to regain his composure.

Helen rushed inside when she heard the commotion. She found Larry sitting on the floor, his cape wrapped tightly around one leg, while the mechanical skeleton leaned over him.

She asked whether he was hurt. He said no.

She looked down at the toy spider. "Did that thing knock you down, Larry?"

Larry explained that he had been surprised by an unauthorized mobile object entering the controlled environment.

Helen stared at him. "Larry, it's a toy spider."

He said he knew that now.

A little boy standing beside the doorway asked whether the spider had an official permit. Frank had to grab the garage door frame to keep his balance while laughing.

Larry tried to explain that the spider was not part of the approved display. The boy asked whether that meant it was in trouble. His father told him the spider was probably going to receive a formal warning notice.

Another child asked whether Larry was supposed to be the vampire or the person the vampire was frightening.

I had to sit down outside.

The story spread down the block. Children arriving later in the evening asked whether the haunted garage was the place where the vampire had been attacked by a spider. One girl wanted to know whether Larry would fall down again. Another asked whether the skeleton was his boss.

Larry tried to restore order, but Helen took the clipboard from him and told him to concentrate strictly on handing out candy.

He did.

The rest of the evening went much better. Larry showed younger children how the mechanical skeleton worked, adjusted the sound for those who were nervous, and allowed families to move through the display at their own pace. The children loved the decorations, and Larry seemed to enjoy himself once he stopped worrying about whether everybody was following his procedures.

At one point, a little girl dressed as a firefighter asked Larry whether he was a real vampire. He said no.

She looked at his badge. "Are you a real safety director?"

Larry hesitated. "I'm helping." She nodded. "Then why did you scream?"

I was standing close enough to hear him. He looked toward me, but I was busy examining a pumpkin and had zero intention of rescuing him.

He told the girl that grown-ups sometimes got frightened too. She considered that explanation, then asked whether he wanted her to call the fire department. Helen had to put down the candy bowl.

Later that evening, Frank arrived carrying a small envelope. He handed it to Larry and told him the neighborhood had decided to formally recognize his service.

Larry opened the envelope. Inside was a new badge: ASSISTANT HALLOWEEN SAFETY DIRECTOR.

Beneath the title, Frank had printed: REPORTS DIRECTLY TO THE SPIDER.

Larry read it, shook his head, and finally started laughing. He pinned it directly over his original badge and wore it proudly for the rest of the evening. I thought that was decent of him. He had spent the entire week trying to control the holiday and had ended up becoming its most popular attraction. At least he was willing to enjoy the joke.

By nine o'clock, the last children had gone home. Helen was cleaning the candy table, Frank was helping put away the decorations, and Larry was standing in the driveway looking at his garage. The attraction had survived, the children had enjoyed themselves, and nobody had been injured.

Larry walked over and asked whether I thought the evening had gone well. I told him it had been excellent.

He said he was disappointed about the spider incident, but pleased with the overall turnout. He had counted the visitors and estimated that more than seventy children had gone through the garage. He was already thinking about structural improvements for next year.

I asked whether those improvements included fewer administrative forms. He smiled and admitted that Helen had been right about the paperwork.

Then he asked whether I would consider joining a small Halloween planning committee for next October. I told him I would rather spend next October cleaning the gutters with a toothbrush. He laughed and said he was only asking.

On Sunday morning, I received an email from Larry containing his preliminary Halloween report. It included attendance estimates, equipment observations, and a detailed description of what he called "an unauthorized mobile scare device incident." He had devoted almost an entire page to the spider, explaining that it had entered the attraction without prior approval and caused an unexpected reaction from the supervising official.

I called him. "Larry, you've written an official incident report about a toy spider." "It's important to document what happened, Don." "Everybody knows what happened." "Not everybody." "The whole neighborhood knows, Larry! Children are probably telling their grandparents right now."

He said the report was intended to help improve next year's event. I asked whether he planned to submit it to the neighborhood association. He said he did. I reminded him that the association had never appointed him in the first place, but he said that didn't matter because the information could still be useful.

I asked whether Helen had read the report. "Not yet." "Maybe you should let her read it." He said he would.

About an hour later, Helen called me. She had read the report and wanted to know whether I had seen the section about the spider. I told her I had. She said Larry had described himself as "the supervising official" throughout the entire document, which she found particularly amusing considering that the children had spent much of the evening asking whether he was all right.

Then she told me she had printed a photograph Frank took during the incident. It showed Larry sitting on the garage floor with his vampire cape tangled around the folding chair, the mechanical skeleton leaning over him, and the toy spider near his foot. She had pinned it to the front of the refrigerator.

I asked whether Larry knew. "Oh, he knows." "What did he say?" "He asked me to take it down." "Did you?" "No, Don. I told him it was part of our official Halloween safety documentation."

Helen said Larry had objected to the photograph because it made the incident look worse than it had been. She told him she thought it was an accurate representation of the evening. Frank had already offered to enlarge it for next year, although she had not decided whether to let him.

Then she mentioned that Frank wanted to make a wooden sign for the garage.

I asked what the sign would say. She read it to me:

WELCOME TO LARRY'S HAUNTED GARAGE.PLEASE REMAIN CALM.MANAGEMENT MAY NOT.

I asked whether Larry had approved the wording. Helen said he had not. I told her that seemed entirely consistent with the way the neighborhood had been operating all week.

Until next time, Cranky DJ

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