After the harvest of Halloween candy has been gathered by my little workers, my wife and I go through a process of inspecting all of the candy they have gathered. This happens before they are permitted to eat any of it, of course. We’ve all heard the stories about the strange sociopaths that like to poison unsuspecting children or put razor blades in their apples or needles in bubblegum and other horrible things. And they’re not all just stories: a girl a few doors down from my childhood home had her stomach pumped on Halloween after biting into an apple that had a surprisingly bitter, powdery core. It’s the stuff of nightmares for parents.
So, even though we live in a quiet suburban neighborhood and visit people we generally know who live within a block of two of our house, we check. Things that look funny are discarded without a second thought.
Sometimes there are other things that we discard–for example, apparently someone with questionable judgment was giving out some sort of No-Doze-ish candy-like pill. “A cup of coffee in every tablet!” the label proclaims. Sure, that’s just what my kids need. Into the trash it goes.
Marshmallows? Please.
Apples? I know you’re just trying to be healthy, but there must be another way. The main delight my children have is planning how to ration out the candy over the course of the next year, and perishable apples can’t be part of that, nor can popcorn, which is little more than packing material after it cools, IMNSHO. (I just have to take a moment here to boast about the vast pride I have for my children, who can actually muster the self-control to do this–when I was a kid, it took a major feat of willpower for me to save a candy bar from Halloween until my birthday, which as you may recall, is in mid-November…)
Pretzels? Popcorn? They should have their own holiday. A holiday that can be safely ignored.
And the after dinner mints? Look, I know times are tough, but this does not save face. Just leave your porch light off and we won’t bother you.
For some of the items, we skim a few off the top. For example, I have been blessed with two wonderful children who do not particularly like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and blessed with neighbors who regularly dispense them to trick-or-treaters. I know they won’t be missed. I set a few aside for my personal use.
The night after Halloween, I decided to dip into the cache of PBCs. I selected the top one, absentmindedly unwrapped it, and discarded the wrapper. Out of habit, I made a quick visual inspection of the surface. It didn’t look like any razor blades had been inserted. There was a little nick in one corner–probably an injury sustained during its plummet into the bottom of the hard plastic buckets my children used. Something seemed a little different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It was a nameless fear. It passed as the odor of cheap chocolate reached my nostrils.
I took a bite, and then another, and that was it. Reese’s don’t last long, once they get close enough to bite. It takes rare self-control for me to manage to not gobble them down in two or three bites. This one was gone in two. I remember it distinctly. It was the second bite that really got my attention.
Something really didn’t seem right. Something was different. It felt wrong, but it didn’t scream wrong. I knew something wasn’t right, but I still hadn’t quite connected it with the object in my mouth.
I didn’t spit it out. I swallowed it.
And as I swallowed it, I knew. My throat could feel the difference more precisely than my teeth, my tongue, or my taste buds.
I didn’t panic.
I reached into the garbage and retrieved the wrapper. I looked at it, looking for some evidence of tampering. I found none.
I examined the label more closely. Nothing stood out. Everything appeared normal.
I know that memory can be deceiving. I couldn’t rely on appearances. I pulled out another Reese’s from the cache and compared the wrappers. I compared how they were folded, glued, dated, and how the little cardboard tray was oriented.
Everything was the same, but something fundamental was different. It was so hard to see, because it was so obvious.
I saw it. I knew.
Some sick, twisted, nutcase had played a trick on me. Said sick, twisted, nutcase had decided that this year, Reese’s will be available in two sizes: 0.75oz and 0.55oz. I had just eaten a 0.55oz RPBC for the first time in my life, while somewhere, someone is laughing a maniacal, evil, giggling laugh.
I will recover, but I will never be the same. Because I know there’s someone out there like that. Someone who thinks that RPBCs are larger than they need to be.
