“Nobody’s gonna know what I am,” Robby whined as I tied a knot around the thin rope connecting us.
“Yeah, they’ll know what you are as long as we stick together,” I said trying to convince not just him but also myself. Deep down, I knew he was probably right, but I’d spent weeks dreaming up our Halloween masterpiece—my most ambitious creation yet. This year, my little brother and I were going as a telephone.
I know. Terrible idea. But it was 1978, I was twelve, Robby was nine and our dad’s fireplace store gave us access to endless large cardboard boxes. I was tired of being a princess, pirate, clown, or the ever-popular ‘70s standby– a bum. I wanted original.
My box would be the base of an office phone, with a push-button keypad and two cardboard prongs sticking up on either side my head—the cradle for the handset. My head would poke out through the middle, legs out the bottom, arms through side holes for my candy bag. Best part: Mom couldn’t say no. I could wear a hat, mittens, and my winter coat under the box.
“You can be the handset!” I announced to Robby, like I was offering him the starring role. He had no other costume plans, so he shrugged, “Okay.”
His box would be smaller, shaped like a phone receiver—skinnier in the middle, wider at the ends with dots painted for the ear and mouthpiece. His head would stick out the middle, legs out the bottom. I couldn’t quite figure out where his arms would go. I was twelve. Details.
For the cord that would connect us, I had big dreams–thick, shiny, and perfectly coiled like a real phone cord that stretched and bounced back when you let go. I could see it in my head: the final touch that would make the whole costume realistic.
But after searching the garage and basement, all I found was a frayed yellow rope under a pile of wood scraps. It wasn’t curly or shiny; it just hung there, sad and stringy. Close enough, I thought.
For weeks, I begged Robby to help. “Let’s do it later,” he’d say before heading over to the neighbor’s to play. Later never came. The only progress made was in my head. I’d pictured the boxes painted bright red, the keypad tilted just right, the cord curling perfectly between us, and a handset shaped like… well, a handset. The “how” part never quite came together.
Finally, the night before Halloween, he gave in. I focused on painting the keypad while Robby slopped paint onto his handset. Our paint choices were limited to avocado green or puke yellow from old house-paint cans under Dad’s workbench. We went with puke. By the time Robby was done, his handset looked more like a puke-yellow brick than a phone.
When he tried it on, the box was so wide only his small hands stuck out. He looked like a walking scarecrow. He couldn’t even pick up his candy bag, so I bunched his Scooby-Doo pillowcase into his hand and told him to hang on.
Despite the questionable results, I was proud of our costume. Originality counted for something.
That night, we shuffled out into the dark—me in my puke-yellow base with nine painted buttons, Robby following in his matching rectangle box, the two of us tethered by a frayed yellow rope.
Every house we went to was the same:
Ding-dong.
“Trick or treat!”
An old lady opens the door, smiling. “Oh, what a clever costume—you’re a phone!
Candy goes into my Mickey Mouse pillowcase. She looks at Robby. “And you are…?”
“I’m the hand part of the phone!” he says proudly.
“Oh… okay…oh, I see now. How nice.”
He turns awkwardly, lining up his bag to her. She drops candy into Scooby-Doo.
Next house. A mom with a baby on her hip.
“Trick or treat!”
“Ha! A giant phone—how wonderful!”
More candy for me. A confused pause for Robby.
“And what are you, young man?”
“I’m the hand part,” he says, less cheerfully this time.
Once again, he maneuvers so Scooby-Doo is closer. The confused mom drops candy in his bag and shuts the door.
Third house—Mr. and Mrs. Miller.
“Trick or treat!”
“Well, look at that—a phone! And what are you, Robby?”
“I’M THE HAND PART!”
“Of course you are,” Mr. Miller says kindly. “Julie, come look at the kids.”
Mrs. Miller repeats the question; Robby repeats the answer—now with pure anguish and irritation.
She drops three Smarties into my bag. Robby, once again, jockeys so his bag—tightly held by his small fingers—is in front of her.
“Thank you,” we say in unison, and shuffle off, trying not to tangle in our sad rope.
As we walk down the steps, we overhear Mrs. Miller say, “What a creative costume. I just didn’t get what Robby was.”
“I hate this costume,” Robby mutters. “Why doesn’t anybody get what I am?”
I have no answer.
But that’s the thing, neither of us really knew who we were. We were just kids trying to survive a house that didn’t make sense.
When I look back now, I cringe a little at making Robby wear that ridiculous costume. I just wanted us to have something that was ours—to be creative, to be original, to be connected. What I didn’t see then was that we already were. We were linked by what we’d survived, by our resilience, and by the way we kept holding on to each other. That connection has carried us ever since, and for that, I’m deeply grateful.
