The Night I Met a Ruthless Cunt and Other Old Hallows Eve High Jinks

"She'd love to leave for some place all alone, and she'd love to live far from every face or name she's ever known ... No, I can't say I blame her."

Heavens, Dead End Girl





Halloween is a lame excuse for a holiday once you're past puberty. Honestly, what are we really celebrating? Isn't it just another angle for Walmart to push more products onto us that we don't really need? Look honey, a giant inflatable spider and witch's cauldron. Is it an excuse for college coeds to dress like hookers, and parade themselves around town, auditioning to be the next date rape victim? Let me guess, you're a slutty nurse/cop/fireman/sailor/catholic school girl etc, etc, etc ... not that I'm complaining.

Purists would say it's the one chance we have every year to be someone else for a few days. Better yet, the opportunity to live out some fantasy that's been festering in our skulls for the last eleven months. The parties are always fun anyway. I used to give a shit, and even tried to get into my characters. One year I spent $60 on a Pope get-up, which was a real crowd pleaser, depending on who you asked at the party. I blessed the house, door, table, toilet, the Jagger bombs we were drinking, the various girls I was trying to hit on ... pretty much anything I came into contact with. Some people were definitely offended. Maybe it was the part where I told them I'm actually Jewish and this was the closest I would ever get to accepting JC as my lord and savior.

"Don't worry, New Castle is kosher," I told everyone. "Now let me just bless this chip dip, incase it's been compromised by Satan. The power of Christ compels you!"

This year, the Thursday before Halloween weekend, I had purchased a bare bones pirate costume at Yankee Trader ... real original, I know. For just under $8 I got an eye patch, plastic sword, false gold tooth, and Jolly Rodger wrist band. I added to the look with a pair of old, very worn khaki shorts, a red bandanna, sandals, and a soiled looking, long sleeve thrift thermal. I ripped a spare dress shirt into a vest and wrote 'Captain Plunder' on the back in sharpie to relieve any doubt about my intentions. Shooter bought a flight suit at the Army Surplus store, which was a little tight in the crotch("Totally splitting my pins dude"). He threw on some Aviator shades and called it 'Maverick'. A pilot and pirate, quite the pair; taking the night by air and sea.

On the evening of Friday the 30th, the two of us headed to a house party in German Village. Upon walking in, we immediately scarffed down two Jell-o shots each. We played water pong (it was BYOB, so you just drank some of your beer when someone hit a shot ... lame). The host was a friend of a friend. I was really there to see the latter. Her name was Tatiana, and she fancied herself a writer as well. She loved to discuss only the important things, like literature, music, the arts ... or the finer points of a frosty pint. She was average height, very tan, with dark brown hair and steely blue eyes; definitely exotic looking. She was of Russian decent, but I guessed Italian when I met her for the first time. She was also the type that couldn't be bothered with a costume. When I was still in Gahanna, living with my parents, we often met up for drinks at Butter's. It was a sleazy local joint, in the armpit of a strip center, nestled amongst an aging apartment complex. It was the perfect place to meet welfare moms, divorcees, and local yokels that I had been trying to avoid for the four years I spent away at college. The only reason we went there was because it was where all the restaurant people in the area went, and we were both servers. It really is a post in of its self, but I'll save it for another time.

The party was fun enough, but most of the guests seemed to be old friends. We polished off most of the case we brought and had more then our share of shots, but we still didn't really feel at ease. I knew the host, Tatiana, and Shooter. Shooter knew me ... and that's it. He isn't really the outgoing type, unless he has to be or someone else takes the lead. I found myself shaking a lot of hands, guessing costumes, and having contrived conversations. My favorite look was Ash from Army of Darkness and his zombie fiance. Soon we realized almost everyone was engaged or already married. Even Tatiana was there with her boyfriend. Great. So we were at a couples party. Awesome. The older I get the more I find this happening. It's certainly a far cry from the shindigs I used to frequent at the University of Kentucky. Some fucking party; let's talk about wedding plans, babies, and what type of wall paper we're thinking about for the bedroom. No thanks. We decided to call it a night early; tomorrow was the real deal anyway. Highball was going on right down the street from our apartment, and it was at the top of our to-do list.

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It was chilly in the apartment when I awoke the next morning. We had windows built sometime before WWII, and it showed, badly. As a result drafts came in and out easily. In the summers, when I tried to open them, chips of lead paint the size of quarters popped off, no doubt spraying particles into the air for me to breath; definitely not up to code. My room also faced east, with only thin blinds over the large and ancient edifices, protecting me from the harsh sun during one of my favorite past-times, sleeping in. I was becoming an early riser against my wishes. I have never been mistaken for a morning person, especially when I've been up drinking until 2 a.m. the night before.

Rejoicing on a rare Saturday off (and Halloween to boot!), I pulled on my favorite sweats, hoodie and prepared for a tough day of laying on the couch. Shooter and I knew we wanted to go crazy later, but after smoking some pot we just bummed around the house most of the day. Tony was in Cincinnati visiting friends so it was just the two of us. We watched college football and enjoyed being slovenly and unshowered. Of course the highlight was OSU rolling over New Mexico State 45-0. I loved shut outs the most; defense was always my favorite part of any football game. Shooter's brother Mike stopped by to get a bite on his way back to Chillicothe. We were forced to shower and change, much to our dismay.

We planned to walk the length of Highball; to check it out and find a place to eat. We weren't going to bother with costumes just yet, since Mike didn't have one. The block party was literally right outside our front door, but they still expected us to pay $5 each to 'get in.' Pay them for inconveniencing us; the people who lived on this street, who had no parking for the weekend, who had to deal with a couple hundred extra assholes hanging around. Technically I was already in when I exited my apartment. If I wanted to walk to a restaurant down the block that was extra. Cover for a block party? Screw that noise. We decided to head further north, towards the Gateway, where we had a less than stellar chain-restaurant sub.

After Mike hit the road, it was almost ten, and we hadn't really started drinking or done anything resembling getting ourselves together for the night. We were supposed to go to a costume party in Clintonville, but we kept putting it off and false starting. We wanted to go out, since it was Halloween and all, but the pot made every task seem impossible and unworthy of the effort. That, and it's harder to bounce back than it used to be. Staying out till 2, mass beer and liquor consumption, and poor late night eating habits are a recipe for disaster. Hangovers have a funny way of sticking around now. Five years ago binge drinking three or four days in a row was nothing. Now, going back to back nights was twice as difficult. Finally, by quarter til eleven we were costumed, buzzed, and in route to the party.

Bethany and James were good friends of mine from high school. They started dating after college and recently gotten a place of their own. It was an older house, in good condition, with an up town area code. They had put a lot of work into it; remolding, wallpapering, painting ... the whole nine yards. There were beautiful hard wood floors and contemporary furnishing in most of the rooms. It was a preconceived notion these two would be the next to get married. I had actually run into the pair at a mutual friend's wedding the week before. See what I mean about couples, their parties, and me lately? It's enough to make any single, 25 year old reevaluate things.

Our hostess was 'Flow' from the Progressive Car Insurance commercials and James was dirty laundry, literally ... wearing a specially rigged hamper, cheap and clever. There was an 80's kid, someone claimed to be Lady Gaga (gag), the Twitter Bluebird made an appearance and a few weren't in costume. It was fairly low key, compared to the other party, but I knew everyone there so I was having fun. I found myself losing track of the time as I caught up with old friends. Sometimes it's just like that when you go out; you get a late start and before you know it the nights almost over. In classic shitty roommate fashion, I forgot Shooter knew no one, again, and was probably not having a good time. Before we left our place, he had implored me to make it a quick trip so we could make it back for the end of Highball.

Unfortunately, I had dropped the ball. By the time we got back to our place it was 12:30 and everything was winding down. At least we could wander where ever we pleased without having to pay anyone. Unsure of what to do, we walked into the nearest bar, which happend to be Circus. After a few visits over the course of the past several months, I had officially designated it a Goth bar, for better or most likely, worse. Nothing wrong with stepping out of your comfort zone though. Halloween is Christmas for Goths and everyone there seemed to be in the spirit. The lady working the door was Gene Simmons, with full face make-up, body leather, and spikes. Almost everyone inside was in costume ... or maybe they weren't. Shinny latex, piercings, and heavy eyeliner abound, three hundred and sixty five days a year there, but this was taking it to another level. The musty smell of sweat, alcohol, and bodies rubbing filled the air. I tried not to touch anyone as I made my way to the bar.

"Excuse me Matey," I said in my best pirate voice, pushing my way through the mass of humanity, feeling my costume was very pedestrian in comparison.

While patiently waiting our turn to be served, we noticed a girl sitting next to me that was surely fresh out of Tim Burton's wet dreams. She was pale and tiny; maybe 5"3, part Punk, part Goth, and heavily tattooed. She wore a tight pink Patten leather corset, black Patten leather mini skirt, and five inch thick, knee high, combat boots. Despite the black lipstick, shellacked eyeliner, and skunk stripped wig, she was very attractive, in a living dead girl kind of way.

"I like your costume," I said. "Who are you supposed to be?"

"What the hell are you talking about," she barked in a surprisingly gruff voice. "This isn't a fucking costume."

Well, this was going to be interesting. We introduced ourselves, and she said her name was Victoria. She was the manager of a campus area all-night eatery and a regular at Circus. All her tats were memorable (like the fairy pissing on a rock or the cat pooping in a liter box) but the one that catches your attention the most was the one on her chest. Honestly, I couldn't make up shit this good if I tried. Right there on her sternum, just above her breasts, where Superman wears his S, were the words 'Ruthless Cunt' outlined in pretty purple flowers. Blam! For the world to see. Now if that's not a conversation starter, I don't know what is.

"It's actually a group on MySpace," she informed me, after I asked the obvious questions. "Me and my bitches just roll around doing what we do. We just don't give a fuck." The whole time we were talking she was digging in her butt/crotch, pulling out cocktail napkins, wadding them up, and nonchalantly placing them on the bar in front us, before retrieving fresh ones to replace those she had dislodged.

"What are you doing?" I asked, a little taken aback.

"No panties," she replied casually. "Not worried about leaving a twat spot or anything, I just don't want this seat giving me crabs."

She said this as if she spoke from experience. Before I could delve any deeper, (which I hadn't really planned on doing), the unknowing bartender came by and picked up the pile of napkins with his bare hands. In shock and awe of the events that had just transpired, I was unable to warn the poor bastard. I sat there for what felt like thirty minutes; at a total loss for words, which believe it or not, doesn't happen to me often. Shooter was totally dumbfounded as well. She threw back the shot of Wild Turkey we bought for her without batting an eyelash, hocked a loogie, and spit it on the floor. There was no 'thanks' or 'nice meeting you' as she promptly stood up and strut her way to the dance floor; a ruthless cunt indeed.

Industrial house music and pasty, misogynistic ecstasy users were starting to get the best of us. It was time to be on our way. As we walked south, Shooter seemed to be pretty bummed about missing Highball. I told him not to fret; we still had time to make up for it. Just then we were passing Skully's and I could hear a band playing. On a whim, I asked the smokers standing by the entrance what the cover was. Batman informed me admission was free. No cover Saturday night, with a band playing, on Halloween? The gods were showing us favor, we would be fools not to take advantage.

The place was packed with every type of costumed hooligan. Even the band was dressed up: lead singer as a clown, lead guitar a wizard, bass player a Beetle (not sure which) from the Sgt Pepper's album cover, violinist a witch, and a second guitar player as some sort of swinger but in retrospect I'm not sure that was really a costume. They called themselves the Spike Drivers, and they were jamming the fuck out. It reminded me of a cross between Phish and Stevie Ray Vaughn, with other flavors sprinkled in. Later we found out the band was comprised of local musicians from other bands, a Columbus all-star group if you will. They truly had a little bit of everything: drums, bongos, three guitars, harmonica, an electric stand up bass, and an electric violin/fiddle.

"Weeeellllllll, I'm built for comfort," the clown sang. "I aiiiiinnnnnntttt built for speeeeeeeed."

He came out with his acoustic, and harp on a neck harness for a slow track that reeked of Bob Dylan, much to my delight. We had worked our way to nearly the front by then, and I noticed he had a snake skin guitar strap, very bad ass. Shooter was floored by the skills of the Wizard and the Swinger, who began to duel via guitar solos.

"These guys are the truth man!" he shouted over the noise, almost giggling with delight. His smile was a mile wide. Mission accomplished Maverick.

Drunkenness had taken over from that point on. We hippie danced to the beat like the rest and headed out after last call. Overall I felt the night was a success; another Halloween in the books ... although, with each passing year they have begun to lose their luster. As a child I lived for the sugar fuelled feast that came at the end of October. As a young adult I reveled in the drinking, debauchery and false decadence that presented itself as a great ass in tight, red, boy shorts (slutty devil anyone?). But I find myself at a crossroads now. I grow older, the parties grow staler, and everything just becomes an excuse to get drunk. The magic has gone but we still buy (or make) a costume, dress up, and act a fool, because what other choice do we have? After all it's a holiday, right? Or is it a sham? Either way you make the most of it, even if you miss the (High)ball.

-J.R.