A Halloween tale, light, in C’ville

My pal Alisa and I had decided to get drinks after work. Happy Hour. That sounded lovely. Not quite a tradition, and yet not a first, we wrapped up our respective what-have-you and headed over to Atomic Burrito. I was more interested in the panko-battered avocado fries, myself. I arrived before Alisa, surprised Atomic was so dead. I sat down at the bar as if I'd done so many times before and, skimming through the Hook laying on the counter as if waiting just for me, ordered those fries and a $3 margarita. The -- what do you call the person who makes burritos at a counter? A burritoista? -- was dressed as Max, plucked right out of Rushmore. Even the shoes were exacting. Jason Schwartzman, eat your heart out. He seemed annoyed when I complimented him on the outfit. I mean, Rushmore is one of my favorite Wes Anderson films. And better still, Atomic was having a Wes Anderson film theme night, complete with movie soundtracks and artists from those soundtracks (namely, the Kinks), which couldn't have made me happier. I asked if he planned on playing some Devo as Mr. Anderson has expressly asked Mark Mothersbaugh to compose music for his films. Earlier in the day I had looked up a Believer interview from September '05 with Mothersbaugh because I was gushing to a friend about how good this interview is. He said he might. Things began to pick up, burritos were made, the Kinks and The Faces fleshed out the atmosphere while we -- Alisa and myself, joined by a guy claiming to be dressed as an "American Suicide Bomber" and his friend -- convinced our burritoista (perhaps I should just call him a bartender) that the TV should be turned off. The "American Suicide Bomber" was skinny, white with long, thin beautiful light brown hair. He was barely covered by a white, ribbed wife-beater, shielded almost entirely by the papier-mâché dynamite sticks strapped to his chest, each the size of a large MagLite, with two large American flags sticking out by his shoulders. I think his name is James. He was quick to inform us he'd won $10 in a costume contest, losing $50 to a woman in a stock Catholic School Girl outfit as Mary Catherine Gallagher. He also said there was more to his outfit: a fake beard and a turban. I was busy trying not to get offended. He said he considered replacing the turban with a crown of thorns. That would've perhaps been more original. He said last year he dressed up as a "Katrina Looter"; the year before he and a friend were the "Twin Towers". Political statements? Maybe. I feel like James is not moved much in the way of reverence. Meanwhile, he kept pounding $1 PBRs. A girl walked in, skinnier than James, wearing shorts and a camisole, covered from head to toe, clothes included, in black and brown paint, with particular attention to her face looking the most disgusting. She had fake teeth which needed to be removed for her to speak. Her real, white ones gleamed: "People keep telling me I have a nice costume," she laughed. "I don't answer I just stare at them." She demonstrated, I started laughing. "Then they ask me if I'm okay." We all got a kick out of it. 'Er, I did. And I suggested she try to get free food. She was surprised at how concerned everyone was for her. Hmm. Surprised humanity exists? Surprised because it was an obvious Halloween prank? Not sure. Throughout, different costumes sauntered in an out: a devil, Ghostbuster and two kids who either always dress this way or were taking advantage of Halloween's goth/glam allowance. Anyway, I had felt poorly that I hadn't planned on doing anything for the kiddies, mostly because our neighbors usually do the trick treating; the others in my house leaving it dark and stealth, way too scary to broach the gate and knock on the door. Instead, I had a nice Halloween; much nicer than I was expecting. And now I think I know how to make avocado fries.