Halloween in Manhattan is an unrivalled social equalizer. What other day of the year can a pedestrian behold a walking cardboard Ipod halt on the corner of Bleecker and Lafayette to converse with a roving pack of samurai in giant purple afros. The ingrained collective boundaries we erect each morning before leaving our apartments instantly evaporate, and for one night we can toss all mandated etiquette covenants out the cab window and treat everyone we see like a boon companion. For that reason alone, it remains my favorite holiday. A good lawyerfriend traditionally throws an epic party at his loft every year, so that evening I gerryrig a last-minute homemade costume and head uptown.
Halloween parties for the young corporate crowd rarely disappoint. With our law degrees, MBAs, embossed business cards and Blackberries, we’re a group of young professionals that normally excels in the art of taking ourselves as seriously as possible. For one night of the year, we can drop the engrafted need for grave dignity and devote our full energies to making complete and utter asses of ourselves. It’s difficult to posture and preen as a master of the corporate cosmos when you’re standing at the bar clad in a white sparkling Elvis jumpsuit and paste-on sideburns, chatting about last year’s unfortunate face paint allergies with a cross-dressing Darth Vader. While the lawyer crowd occasionally pulls geeky inside jokes or simply cops out of the costume game entirely - I saw at least 3 Harriet Miers and John Roberts in the crowd this year, and there’s always that imperious clique who shows up in Izods and Dockers, claiming amnesty from any actual fun - overall we aren’t necessarily as creative a bunch as the management consultants. I’ve noticed that male I Bankers seem to show an uncanny propensity for drag every year- maybe it’s because they encounter so few actual women in the office and work too many hours to ever interact with them outside. This year appears to be no exception.
“Hey there, uh, got any spare tampons?”
I turn around to behold a tall, swarthy figure sporting a blond pigtail wig, his face garish with salmon blush and teal eyeshadow. My eyes travel down to his jutting black push up bra filled with escaping Kleenex and the beginnings of a liberal gut spilling out underneath it, emphasized by a thick line of black hair down the center of his stomach ending at a visible pink thong. His black miniskirt seems in danger of falling off his bony hips, and he’s vertically unstable in a pair of enormous heels. I noticed him earlier, sneering and staggering around the room, working on the record for offending the maximum possible female guests with boorish inappropriate comments. What better night to expel months of repressed sexual frustration with the knowledge that tomorrow you’ll be fully immunized from the previous evening by a warm safety net of drunkenness.
“Excuse me?”
“You know, like from one chick to another. I’m a woman, see?” He holds out his arms to display his highly original outfit, nearly toppling over in his lollipop red platform sandals.
“Ah, I see. Sorry, I don’t have one on me. But I do have Midol - you should try a few, it’ll help with some of that bloating.”
I expect him to sneer and turn away, but he blinks, the barb sailing over his gin-filled head like an overthrown frisbee.
“What’s your name?” He lurches forward, spilling liquid on my cape in the process.
“O, I’m a friend of F.”
“Well I’m Venus the Stripper, pleasure to meet you.” His hand is pasty with spilled alcohol and sweat. I notice that he’s even attempted to crudely paint his fingernails.
“Hi Venus, nice to meet you. Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Sure, go ahead.” He scratches at his exposed belly and reaches back to publicly adjust the thong.
“When you’re not stripping, you wouldn’t by any chance work as an investment banker?”
“Yeah, I’m in M & A at X Bank. Did we meet before or something? Last year’s party?”
“No, it was a lucky guess. Just testing a theory. Thanks.”
Deciding a drink is in order, I excuse myself from our brilliant repartee and head for the bar only to be crushed by a sudden onslaught of Robert Palmer girls seeking refills. For women entrenched in the corporate world (and elsewhere for that matter), Halloween parties involve a near-universal costume selection process: choose a concept, execute it with flair, and above all, find any and every possible way to make it as slutty as humanly possible. I never fail to crack up in Halloween stores, where one can pick out any outfit in the female section and automatically add the word “skimpy” to the title - skimpy pirate, skimpy catsuit, skimpy Alice in Wonderland, skimpy Supreme Court Justice robe, skimpy Mother Theresa. The result of this phenomenon is that women who are ordinarily the picture of J. Crew decorum promenade the streets of Manhattan for one night displaying leather corsets, stiletto boots, fishnet thigh highs, false eyelashes and bunny ears that spend the other 364 days of the year entombed deep in the closet depths behind the navy blue slingbacks, silk charmeuse blouses and herringbone skirts. Call it the irresistible desire of the forbidden, for one brief evening the empresses of conservatism can dress like “those women” they publicly scorn but secretly envy. And for many of us (myself included), it’s a chance to remind ourselves that we can reclaim our sexuality and flaunt our bodies instead of enshrouding them in oversized tweed pants and wool blend blazers for 80 hours a week (or simply look foolish in public, depending on how you look at it).
“Hey O! How are you?” I turn around to discover a college friend clad in a microscopic french maid outfit, complete with visible pink garter belt and enough red lipstick to place her mouth in danger of actually sliding off her face. A few years ago, after graduating Summa in our class, she had promptly jetted to London for a masters in economics and was then desperately wooed by every major consulting firm in the city. Somewhere I remembered hearing that she had just been promoted after completing a major project in Bahrain.
“Hey R, you look great! How have you been? I heard you were living in the Persian Gulf for a while?”
“Yeah I was working on x project abroad - I was the only person in the office who spoke fluent Arabic and French, and the client’s headquarters was in Paris. So they sent me to the Middle East for 6 months.”
“Wow, good for you! How did everything work out?”
“It was great actually, I got the entire project done in half the allotted time, so they immediately bumped me up to senior associate.” She gestures with her purple feather duster and shifts on her 5-inch spike heels.
“Congrats, that’s amazing.” I dart out of the way as Michael Myers and a 6-foot gorilla stumble drunkenly past, likely on their way to the bathroom.
“Yeah it was definitely an honor, I’m the youngest person in the office to have the title right now, but I’m not nuts about the whole consulting thing to be honest.”
“I hear you on that one.” If she’s looking for a welcome ear to bash the corporate world, she’s come to the right place.
“I’m actually thinking of heading back to London for a PhD.”
“Sounds like a wonderful idea - let me know if you move back there, I’ll show up at your door rudely demanding a visit.”
She laughs and leans over to refasten her right stocking. “You definitely should. I love having guests. Assuming you ever get any time off from the firm of course.”
“Yeah well, let’s just say I may be taking an extended vacation in the near future.”
“Great, well give me a call when you do.”
“I definitely will.”