Friday night, NovySan and I went to Agra for dinnner. On the way, we saw a man in a frock coat crossing the street with a bag of Pollo Loco.
“I wish people dressed like that when it isn’t Halloween,” I said.
Saturday, we met Slackmistress and Be the Boy for lunch at Baby Blues before Randi and Mike‘s pumpkin carving party. I spotted a couple in a Volkswagen van, with a surfboard and sun-creased faces. “That’s not a Halloween costume,” I said. NovySan agreed. “They may have bought that van new,” he said.
Today, I drove to Woodland Hills for something work related (and ate two cookies and an evil little chocolate brownie, dammit), and stopped by Joe’s on the way home for pizza and hummus and a few other things. On the sidewalk outside, I saw a tall, slender woman in her 70s, swathed chin-to-ankles in black velvet and topped off by a white beret (cashmere, at a guess, or angora maybe – her scowl suggested I’d do better not to ask). “What a fabulous costume!” I thought, and then I realized – it’s November 3. If she’s going to a Halloween party, she’s three days late.
Only one thing could possibly have made this encounter any better, and I found it inside. A plump, pretty girl in her early 20s, wearing hotpants and fishnets, with fuzzy white legwarmers to match the old lady’s beret and bits of neon fluff in her long, dark hair, buying liquor and cookies without a trace of self-consciousness.
I don’t think they were together. But, damn, I hope I’m wrong.
