My friend, who I will call “Dan” because I’m sure he’d get pissed if I used his real name, is one of the slowest and most deliberate people I’ve ever met. But he is also a genius, I believe, especially in the art of Halloween costumes.

Three years ago, I was back from México and ready for a real Halloween celebration for a change. No offense, but hanging out in a cemetery and decorating headstones isn’t anywhere near as much fun as the costume parties, sugar-highs and general mischief associated with All Hallows Eve. I found a costume, an evil, sadistic clown from the Spawn comic book series named Violator, and figured I was good to go. I was set to go out with Dan that night, one of my few single friends, intent on being each other’s wingman as we bar-hopped in our costumes.

I don’t know how it ever occurred to me that I would meet any women with a Gacy-esque vibe and a feces-speckled mask over my face. I startled adults and children alike as I dodged through the groups of trick-or-treaters that lined the sidewalk—I even made one toddler cry. I was proud of my costume. That wouldn’t last.

Dan, who was dressed in a white tank top, pants and white tennis shoes, commented on my get-up. “Nice costume.” I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not. “What are you supposed to be?” I asked. He gestured toward the rear of his car. “It’s in the bag,” he said, and I turned to see a bugling, black, plastic garbage bag on the back seat. I expected nothing less than brilliant from Dan’s costume, but I would never tell him that.

When we arrived in Fremont, our favorite Halloween haunt, Dan got out of the car, unloaded the bag, and extracted hat looked like a huge, inside out pillow in the form of a man. “What the—” My jaw dropped. “Oh, yeah,” Dan smirked. Dan had made a jumpsuit out of white, polyester batting, that, when he slid it on over his white clothes, increased his overall body volume threefold in the form of a big, fluffy cloud.

“Are you a cloud?” I asked.

Some passersby saw us, and hurried up to get a better look at the billowing, white behemoth—and the freaky pedophile clown standing next to it. The sneered as they looked in my direction, and for a moment, I felt that I had achieved something, until I realized that what I wanted to achieve was something else entirely, as Dan’s new friends began caressing him and hugging him and wanting to take pictures with him. One of the ladies turned toward me and sort of half-beckoned to me to join in the photo, but I knew she didn’t mean it, and I growled and shook my latex head.

Moments later, as we walked into the Triangle Tavern, the crowd of party-goers, costumed and un-costumed alike, stood aside to let me pass, some smiling and others frowning, and I began to regain my confidence. But then the shouting began, and the high-fiving, and I turned to see everybody showering Dan, the cloud, with attention. “What are you?” asked the stupid ones. “Are you a cumulous?” asked the intelligent ones. All the ladies were smiling at him, and even the guys wanted to give him a hug. The worst response, if there was any, was a smug, envious smirk by some dipshit who thought he was too cool to dress-up anyway.

I wish I were a cloud, I thought, knowing that every other guy in the place was thinking the same thing. The cloud-effect was incredible, and by that I mean, literally, unbelievable. I’m sure that my face was burning green with envy beneath my grotesque mask. I wish I were a cloud.

The next year, I was. Dan, no longer single, had gone out and made three cloud suits, one for him, one for the girlfriend, and one for whomever else was to join him in his [multi-night] Halloween festivities. When we suited-up (or clouded-up, as we call it) together, the effect was simply twice as amazing—more love to go around. I am almost embarrassed to write about what happened to this cloud, when we floated in to the Triangle. As I boogied toward the bar, I was met with a beautiful young lady, a ringer for Liv Tyler, who immediately steered my off course as she got her groove on for me, almost immediately humpty-dancing on my voluminous thigh. By the time Dan arrived, things had heated up quite a bit, and even he was amazed by the enthusiasm of Liv’s appreciation for the cloud costume. I can’t even describe what happened next…

Since then, I went out as the cloud again, with another friend who chose not to wear a costume at all; Dan and I crashed the Fremont Solstice Parade, almost suffering from heatstroke as we ran and danced with Hare Krishnas, drag queens and militant hippies. And once again, this year, you wouldn’t catch me dead in anything but a cloud suit.

Dan had a new idea for a costume this year, but at times, even genius fails. And although I can identify with him, I don’t feel sorry for him. It was his turn to be on the receiving end of the, I’m with him—damn, I wish I were a cloud!—syndrome. As I wallowed in the attention—yea, homage—that everyone paid me, I noticed Dan’s discomfort at being on the shit end of the stick this time, and I couldn’t help but revel in it. Sorry, Danny boy, but this night belongs to me.

My victory was complete when, on more than one occasion, he confided in me: “I wish I were a cloud…”

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