It’s pre-dusk on Halloween as I stand outside watching trick-or-treaters, annoyed our building doesn’t participate since the board voted against it.
Such tight asses they are, making you wonder, were they ever kids before they became such pompous party poopers?
I went trick-or-treating, with Moses actually, but still remember, so when two little twin boys showed up as Smurfs, I spun into action.
Luckily, the one doorman who could have worked for Dillinger, looked the other way as Smurf and Smurf and their Nanny, dressed as a black Snow White, along with Myrtle, the Poodle, wearing a white robe and halo, followed me into the elevator (only in New York). Did I mention they were carrying Goldman Sachs bags? Their father probably owns the entire city block.
When we got to my floor, I called my neighbors who were all home and said, look alive, there are Smurfs in the house.
As they went around ringing doorbells, everyone answered to the joyous sound of…
TRICK OR TREAT!
Patrick the cat came out to sniff at Myrtle, alongside his owner who just happened to have Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups on hand.
Mimi’s two little tenants, just home from a Halloween party, provided Milky Ways and Gummy Bears.
I had Lollipops and gum, while K came out with a carrot cake fresh from the oven.
Even the angel, Myrtle, got a slice.
Suddenly the elevator opens and the super, a big company man, busted us like we were the Bugs Moran gang.
“Whaat’ the hell’s goin’ on hea?”
“Now look whatcha did,” I said, with my hands up, “you made a Smurf cry.”
“Calm down Frank,” K said, handing him a plate and a fork. “No harm done.”
Frank, tripping over Patrick, now happily licking frosting with Myrtle, interrupted whatever he was about to say, so K said, “Relax Frank, it’s a piece’a cake.”