I don’t recall how old I was.

I don’t recall what I was wearing.

I do recall the following details vividly, though.

It’s Halloween night probably around 1977 and it’s almost 8pm. I and two other friends, Mitch Hart and Paul Naylor, were heading back to the street corner we’d all have to split up at and walk back home alone.

See kids, back then, parents let their kids out without supervision. Go watch Mad Men. It’s true!

Anywhoot, we’re a block away from our final corner, each of us boasting on what kind of candy we got (heavily influenced by the Charlie Brown Halloween Special – “I got a rock…”) when Paul’s eyes lit up like a jack-o-lantern with a flame thrower in it. He grab’s Mitch’s arm and spins him around.

“Go!” he shouts.

Paul and Mitch, being much more athletic than I was (I’m Booksmart!), take off like the wind.

I’m slow. I’m like, candy drunk slow. “Wha…?”

Out of the blue I’m body checked to the ground. My bag goes flying out of my hands. Two teenagers scoop up my loot and run off down the street yelling back at me to stop crying like a baby.

I wasn’t crying when this all happened. I had the decorum to cry at home, alone in my room, thank you very much.