The Ramblings of a Disappointed Trick or Treater

We heard that he gave good candy and decided to use the “Halloween” excuse to put antennae on my head and black, construction paper spots all over my body. Whatever the motive, my band of mates and I braved uncharted suburbia territory with the distinct hopes of trick-or-treating at the home of our esteemed president, Lawrence Summers. My problem set waiting forlornly at my desk, I set out with a motley crew: the former British Prime Minister/current sex symbol Margaret Thatcher and a scantily clad Chiquita (of banana fame).

While en route, we decided to take advantage of the special night and stock up on candy at a local residence. Soggy and disheveled (almost all of my spots were ruined after the Prime Minister’s left water-balloon breast experienced a slight leak) we finally arrived at 33 Elmwood. The large, yellow edifice was surrounded by bulldozers and piles of mud, so making our way up to the main doors was no easy feat. After calling out Larry’s name for a good five minutes (as if he’d really answer to that), we settled for the “deliveries only” entrance and belted out the traditional Halloween call: “Trick-or-Treat! Smell my feet! Give me something good to eat!”

Though no one had answered our call, my ever persistent band moved on to an adjacent building on the grounds. Upon knocking, we were informed by a middle-aged man that he had no candy.

In impeccable journalistic form, we pursued this grounds-keeper further, demanding to know Larry Summers location and the number for a cab. The former, he revealed, was somewhere far, far away, and the latter, a mystery.

With no candy in our stylish Margaret Thatcher bag and no snapshots of the big cheese to document our evening, we again pleaded with the gentleman to make our trip worthwhile. Oddly enough, he was less than willing to cooperate. The door shut in our face, we spent a few more minutes on the President’s lawn, pondering renegade photo ops and speculating on the true identity of this self-proclaimed grounds-keeper. He took this occasion to yell us off of his property with an indecipherable Eastern European growl.

It’s true, we didn’t get what we were after that night. Our hopes of sipping martinis with the President by his glowing fireplace dissolved to mere delusions in our tired minds. Perhaps the trip was doomed from the start.