PIXIE STIX AND OTHER CANDY WITH SOME STRANGERS

When I was very young some crazy man murdered his son. He poisoned the kid’s Halloween candy. The motive? To collect the insurance he and his wife had taken out on the family. His son was fond of that candy that I always called “Pixie Stix” — and, it was his son’s “Pixie Stix” that was poisoned.

“Pixie Stix” were large plastic straws tab’d off at both ends which contained flavor’d surgar powder. I believe they came in several different flavors. I loved “Pixie Stix” Actually, I was a bit obsessed with them. I adored the rush of sugar and flush of super sweet flavor. This was probably some sort of signal that I would end up loving drugs. But, who knows?

You could enjoy “Pixie Stix” in several ways or methods.

Sometimes, after my Grandmother snapped one of the end tabs open, I would pour the contents into a glass of water and drink it all down in one gulp. Now, that was a pretty cool rush. Other times, Grandmother would pour it into a glass of Tab. The problem with mixing the powder with my Grandmother’s Tab was that it was so sweet I would have to sip it slowly to avoid getting sick. The rush wasn’t as cool but I loved the sweet flavor.

But my favorite way to eat the contents of a “Pixie Stix” was to simply pour large quantities of it on my tongue and let is sort of fizz with my saliva. My tongue would be the color of the candy until I brushed my teeth.

I don’t know how old I was. I suspect I was about six years old. Anyway, when this man killed his son by poisoning a “Pixie Stix” it caused my mother to panic. Which was unusal. However, this seemed to terrify her. And, as I remember it — for a while anyway — they removed all “Pixie Stix” from the stores in that part of Texas. This all came down near the time of Halloween. And, it was this incident that made my mother institute an annoying policy regarding Halloween candy and my beloved “Pixie Stix”

I didn’t enjoy dressing up for Halloween. I never have. However, I did enjoy the candy. The problem was that under my mother’s new rule that joy was stolen. My mother would select my costume. I can remember she would ask me what I would want to be. I would tell her. And, no matter what — I ended up “being” something different than what I had requested. I should note that this didn’t much matter to me. I really only wanted the candy. She would have a bag for me. I remember that year it was a bag from some store like a Casual Corner where she liked to shop.

I was made to dress up in this pre-determined costume and go ’round several blocks to trick or treat. It always seemed that I was the only one who was only accompanied by his mother. I didn’t mind that. We would get in her blue bug and drive to the “better” neighborhood where people had money. She would be dressed in a cute outfit. Her hair would be perfect and she smelled so nice. My mother always looked hot and she was always younger than the other mothers. I enjoyed the fact that the other kids all thought my mom was cool. I also enjoyed watching all the attention she would get from their fathers. At some point I remember thinking that my mom enjoyed this, too. But, I’m not altogether sure. Memory can be a tricky thing.

As we walked from door to door and I would say “Trick or Treat” with my mother urging me to put more “spirit” into it.

“Honey, say it like you mean it! Be happy! How are you going to get any candy?”

The people on the other side of the door would do those usual things. You know, ask me who or what I was. It seems like I was always the same thing for years.

“Clown.”

“Oh! And you’re such a cute clown! What is your name, sweetheart?”

“Matt.”

Silence. “I’m sorry. He’s just shy!” (I was not and have never been shy. I was annoyed, bored, itchy and just wanted my candy!)

Finally, we would be done. We got back in her little car and we drove to the package store which was back in our neighborhood and close to our house. We’d get out and the large lady behind the counter would act like I was a “big” man dressed in something that made her afraid.

“Oh, my goodness! I’m so scared! What are you?”

Silence.

“Tell the lady what you are! Honey? Tell her!”

“Why, I can’t even imagine! Is this your wife, honey?” …I can remember her winking at my mother.

“I am! I am out with my man! Now, sweetie, tell her what you are!”

“Clown.”

“Oh! Clowns always scare me! You know what?”

Silence.

“Matthew Stanfield! You answer this lovely lady right this instant!”

“What?”

And, I can remember this large woman leaning over the counter smelling of Slim Jim’s, “My husband is a clown!” …and, with that she burst out laughing. I remember my mother joining in with a forced chuckle.

“Cool.”

“I’m sorry. He is just a little shy!”

I was then instructed to pick out one big piece of candy.

“Where’s the Pixie Stix?”

“No more Pixie Stix. I already told you what that horrible man did to his little boy and I don’t want you eating that candy anymore.”

I remember some hushed discussion of this horror as I examined the candy boxes. I selected a Chunky Chunk. No good. I was given a Hershey’s chocolate bar. My mother then got us both a bottle of Coke.

“Can I have Tab?”

“No. I am not your Grandmother and you will drink Coke.”

“Would Mr. Clown like a tiny carton of milk?”

“No. He’ll have a Coke.”

I was made to say goodbye.

We left the store.

We got in the car.

And, it was at that moment that my mother began her strange Halloween ritual which would carry on until I was about nine and simply refused to go Trick or Treating. A choice which my mother would blame on all the horrible movies my father took me to see and my endless listening to too much of “that loud Barbra Streisand and Roger Daltrey!” …But, this was the night the ritual began.

“Let me have the bag of candy, baby.”

“Why?”

Sipping her Coke, she reached over and took it. “Now, open up your candy bar and enjoy it! Happy Halloween, sugar!”

And then, she tossed the bag out her window. I could hear all the night’s candy splatter on the pavement.

We drove home. I was upset and made it clear that I didn’t understand.

“It is for your own good, baby! That horrible man has probably given a lot of sick people sick ideas. So, we’ll just have fun dressin’ up and collectin’ the candy! But Matthew, you are never — I repeat — NEVER to eat it! Do you understand Mommy?”

“No.”

“Well, that doesn’t matter. Eat your candy and drink your Coke.”

Her thin arm reached over and turned up the 8-track.

…b-b-b-bennie and the jets