Alyce Miller
                     

In the next batch of letters, there was one that stood out from the others.  It was a xeroxed invitation, on orange paper, folded and stapled, announcing a pre-Halloween gathering at seven thirty in the evening at the home of one Anita McGuire.  There was a hand-penned note under the cheerful pumpkin face, which said, "Dear Hooper, instead of stretching myself on the rack of blind-date anguish, I've decided to throw a pumpkin-carving party so we can meet in a social context, among friends, without pressure.  R.S.V.P.  Hope to see you!  BYOP!  (Bring your own pumpkin)."

Hooper was amused.  A woman with a balanced sense of humor.  He phoned the number on the invitation.  A friendly recorded voice said, "Hi, you've reached Anita. You know what to do at the beep."  He left his acceptance on the answering machine. 

The day before the party, Hooper picked out a pair of jeans and leather sneakers and a sporty shirt.  He tried the clothes on, studying himself in the mirror.  Methodically, he added his black leather jacket, then a red tie with blue and white ping-pong balls on it.  He viewed himself from all angles and was satisfied with what he saw: a middle-aged man who could easily pass for ten years younger, tall, well-built, no disfiguring marks, not handsome, but not plain, solid looking, pleasant smile, with all his hair.  This last fact was nothing to sneeze at. Hooper gave himself the thumbs up.

The next evening, en route to Anita McGuire's, Hooper stopped at a large lot near Irving Street where pumpkins were being sold, and paid an extravagant sum for a pumpkin four times the size of his head. 

Anita lived in a stucco duplex out in the avenues, an unremarkable and foggy section of the city just below Clement Street. Hooper parked in front and walked up to the front door.  He juggled the heavy pumpkin in one arm, and rang the bell with his free hand. 

A buzzer sounded, and Hooper let himself into a carpeted stairwell. A small table sat to one side; in a vase a single red rose stretched itself upwards.  A sign, Hooper thought, and bent over to sniff the red rose, which turned out to be made of silk.  But still, a beautiful rose!

"Come on up!" called a cheery voice.  A face appeared over the bannister at the top of the stairs. It was round, framed with brown curly hair, and punctuated by a wide white smile.

"I'm looking for Anita?" said Hooper, a mixture of excitement and shyness stirring inside him.

"Sure, I'm Anita. Come on up."

Hooper heard faint hummable jazz and the sound of voices above.  He mounted the carpeted stairs.  It was Dizzy Earl Fatha Hines on the CD player.  Good sign.

Anita greeted him at the top.  She extended her hand. 

"And you are ..."

"Hooper ... "

"Nice to meet you."  She pumped his hand.  Slim, tall, small chest.  Someone who would age well, maybe, if she wasn't anorexic. Casually dressed in loose gray cotton slacks and a gray tee shirt and rabbit ears. Her eyes rested appreciatively on the over-sized pumpkin.  "Wow," she said. "You've got a huge one."

Hooper followed Anita's rabbit ears down a carpeted hallway into the living room where several guests had already gathered.  They were each holding what appeared to be soft drinks in clear plastic glasses.

"Here, you can set your pumpkin here." Anita indicated the dining room table off to one side where five other uncarved pumpkins sat faceless and uncut.

Hooper's pumpkin immediately dwarfed the others.

"Holy shit!" a man close by him exclaimed.  "That's one hell of a mammoth vegetable."

Hooper turned to face the speaker, a man about his own height, unremarkable, balding, wearing a white open-necked shirt and a sports jacket. 

"Or are pumpkins fruit?  I never can remember.  I know tomatoes are actually considered fruit, it has to do with the seeds or something. I'm Bud Franklin."  The man grabbed Hooper's hand and pumped it hard. "That's some pumpkin."

The other guests had turned and were staring at the pumpkin.  If Hooper hadn't known better, he might have mistaken the looks for hostile.  Then he heard Myrna's voice in his ear, just remember, they're nervous too. 

"So," said Bud, his voice a tad too loud, "are you a friend of Anita's?"

"Uh, not exactly.  What I mean is, she and I are just meeting for the first time."

"Oh, is that so, well ..."

Anita interrupted to hand Hooper a clear plastic glass full of dark carbonated water. "Help yourself to chips, too," she said.  She took a quick head count of the room just as the bell sounded below.  In a moment two more guests arrived, two very good looking men, each of whom dutifully placed a pumpkin on the table.  They were quickly followed by a buffed out fellow in his late twenties, with a pony tail and skin tight biker's pants and gloves.  He announced to everyone that his pumpkin had survived a trip across town balanced on the handlebars.

Hooper tried moving away from Bud, but Bud followed. He'd pulled a red clown nose from his pocket and attached it to his face. 

"You know, " said Bud, "you've got to live life fully, make every moment count ... take me, for example, I was diagnosed with the Big C five years ago . . . . but I've beaten all the odds.  Some say I'm a walking miracle . . ."

"Wow," said Hooper.  "That's great." He looked around. "Excuse me a minute Bud."

"Sure, Hooper."  Bud turned agreeably to the biker and introduced himself.  "Say, guy, do you think of pumpkins as fruits or vegetables?"

Hooper went in search of Anita who was in the kitchen tearing open another bag of chips with her teeth.  The rabbit ears had fallen to one side of her head.

"Hi, can I help you put out any hors-d'oeuvres, or anything?" he offered.

"This is it.  I wanted to keep things simple.  You could take one of these bags of chips out to the table and empty it into a bowl."

Hooper glanced around the spacious, airy room. "So, do you live here by yourself?"

Anita hesitated.  "Why do you ask?" 

"I didn't mean anything by it, just making conversation, you know, small talk."

"I hate small talk," said Anita, uprighting her ears.  "But, yes, I live here alone right now, though I have my neighbors below me.  We're very aware of one another around here. We have a neighborhood alert, and the cops can get here in 3 minutes flat."  She thrust the chips at him.

Was she suspicious of him?  Hooper carried the sack of chips out to the living room.  Nowadays you had to be careful what you said apparently.  Anita came up behind him with more dark carbonated water in a plastic bottle.  Hooper tried again.

"This is a great idea--you know, a party and all, to kind of get everyone comfortable. Take the edge off a potentially humiliating experience."

Anita's eyes narrowed.  "Yes," she said, "that is the point." 

Bud was now telling jokes to the biker and an older man with white hair who reminded Hooper of his torts professor in law school.  Hooper looked around the room.  About a dozen or so guests had now collected.  It was only then that Hooper realized that everyone there, with the exception of Anita, was a man. 

Anita glanced down at her watch, then tapped the edge of the dining room table briskly with a spoon.

"Attention!" she called. "Attention, everyone! It's almost eight o'clock. I thought we should get right into the pumpkin carving.  There are knives and spoons and plenty of newspaper to spread out on the floor.  Try not to get the insides on the carpet please.  I just had it shampooed."

Like obedient children, the guests retrieved their pumpkins and newspapers, and spread themselves out on the floor.

"Wow, who brought that monster?" someone asked.

"Jesus Christ, are we talking steroids?"

Hooper's pumpkin was suddenly the center of attention.  Hooper hung back, not wanting to claim it.  But Bud took care of that.  "The big pumpkin belongs to this guy right here, old Hooper."

A dozen pairs of jealous eyes rested on Hooper, or at least that's what he imagined.

"A last-minute choice, the only one left on the lot," he explained apologetically and shrugged.

"Sure," said Bud.  "I bet you hunted around all week for that big one, trying to make a good impression."

Hooper considered leaving right then.  But he heard Myrna's voice in his ear: Don't give up too fast.  See the thing through.  Bud's an Eeyore. Keep your eye on the prize.  He entered into the spirit of cooperation and dutifully collected his utensils and the newspaper.  If he could just keep a hold on the irony of it all.

"Good luck," said Anita, as if this were a contest, and suddenly everyone was digging into pumpkins with great fury.  Hooper found himself a spot on Anita's living room carpet next to a striking dark-haired  man with Mediterranean features. Hooper's mother's ancestors had not come  far from the Mediterranean themselves. He felt a sense of familiarity.  This man could be his uncle Mustafa.

"Niccolo," said the man, shaking Hooper's extended hand.  "I run an air duct cleaning business.  Suck the dust right out. And you?"

"Personal injury attorney."

"Oh, boy," said Niccolo.  His voice was heavily accented.  "I could have used you about three months ago when I touched my kitchen sink and got a shock that threw me to the ground.  My landlord refused to take any responsibility, even though other tenants had told him it had happened to them too.  Hey, I bet you make a bundle, wheelbarrows of moola and all that."

Hooper never discussed his income with anyone.  "I do okay," he said, flipping his ping-pong tie over his shoulder to keep it safe from flying pumpkin innards.  "Boy, it's been years since I carved a pumpkin."

Go to part:  1,  2,  3,  4,  5

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Copyright 2002, Alyce Miller

nidus is an online publication supported by the Writing Program at the University of Pittsburgh's English Department.