It was my first Halloween party as a gainfully employed urbanite. But somehow, I had missed the message that I was meant to go as somebody. Instead, I just thought dressing as foolishly as possible would do the trick—and provide the treat.

And yes, my outfit was pretty darn outrageous and absurd—or so I told myself as I strolled confidently to the entrance of Pete’s apartment. Long-haired wig. Big, ugly glasses and a slap-on Groucho Marx mustache. Tie-dyed T-shirt underneath a rumpled Columbo-like overcoat. Well-worn green cords and a bright-red, old-fashioned Converse tennis shoes.

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” Pete cracked as he opened his front door.

“Where’s the beer?” I muttered.

Pete pointed to his right and grinned. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.