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Since the days of The Exorcist and Jason Voorhees, I’ve had a subconscious belief that demons and psychos emerge from suburban backyards and basements when all is otherwise placid. On Long Island, the only sounds were crickets and something called “settling.” As in, “Don’t be scared, sweetheart. That’s just the house settling.” To this day, I don’t understand how a house built in 1948 can still be settling. Is the Dakota or Trump Tower settling?
I tried to lift the Chicklet’s spirits with talk of Halloween. Trick-or-treating in a warm Manhattan apartment building sure beats the misery of trudging from house to house in a winter coat that hides the all-important costume. Then, on October 30, a memo came informing new tenants that trick-or-treating was against co-op policy. Appalled at this edict, I defiantly took the Chicklet around the building. But our efforts yielded only a couple of fortune cookies, a handful of pennies and a can of soda. Yet another blow to my “I heart NY” propaganda campaign.
