The Ghost and Mr. T

Halloween of 1983 found me dressed as Mr. T. complete with mohawk, beard, vest, gold chains and yes—blackface. Hopefully, you’ll forgive me. I was young, stupid and not the least bit socially conscious. Anyway, here goes...

I went to a party with my friend Hepseba that night. She was my long-time unrequited love since our days in high school. It didn’t matter anymore because I was on the verge of throwing open the closet door and she had a boyfriend.

For the party, Hepseba was dressed as a wispy, spooky ghost in a long flowing gown—and whiteface.

We both managed to get a bit tipsy that night—as one does at Halloween parties, and found ourselves in the backseat of the car as some unknown driver careened from Park City down Parley’s Canyon.

What started out as two high school chums playing dress up ended up as a spontaneous kiss-a-thon. Maybe it was too many screwdrivers. Maybe it was that guy dressed as a mummy showing off just enough belly button. Whatever it was, we were both feeling a bit lusty and got a bit carried away. Later on, as we discussed it, it was the booze. She was also just curious as to what kind of kisser I was (pretty good, she admitted). As for me, I was trying one last ditch effort to preserve my heterosexuality. She was a good, kisser, too—but not good enough to save me. That, as they say, was that.

Anyway, we got to her house and I walked her to her door. Her boyfriend answered the door hopefully oblivious to the fact that my black face and her white face were smeared together in a mooshy grey. “You got chocolate in my peanut butter.” “You got peanut butter in my chocolate”. A little Noxema and no one was the wiser.

I went to another Halloween party the next night where Mr. T was introduced to a pregnant nun with a beard and mustache. Mea culpa for the happenings of that night, too.