Norm, our editor, is not such a bad animal. Really. Despite his incessant yelling, ranting, throwing things, and general lack of hygiene, he is essentially harmless.  And once in a while, he shows a bit of true generosity to his underlings. Such was the case when he announced that he would be hosting this year’s Alligators In The Sewer staff Halloween bash at his place. Cripes, he even invited Maynard the Phone Boy.

[...What the fuck am I getting myself into?]

None of us had ever been to Norm’s abode before, and he emailed a detailed Google map for us to follow. Good thing, as Norm lives out in the boonies…way out in the boonies. “Better leave home a good 90 minutes early if you want to make it by eight,” cautioned Norm. “Costumes are optional and don’t bring anything. I’ve got it all covered. Trust me.”

“Uh, just one catch,” Norm continued, “no cameras. If I see anyone taking pictures in the house, that device will become a projectile. Got it?”

We get it. No party pictures for the AITS site. Damn.

The drive out was…well…tedious. I don’t get how Norm can commute this every day, though I know he crashes a few weeknights on the couch in the AITS lobby. The route involved leaving the city and traveling well beyond the suburbs, continuing past run-down trailer parks and a number of defunct farmhouses. We crossed numerous rivers and a state line. And, as an added bonus, the final eight miles involved us bouncing along a twisting, rut-filled dirt road, following a slow-moving truck that looked like a prop from Green Acres. We’ll all be washing our cars soon.

Maynard rode along with me, which provided some much-needed comic relief during the arduous journey, as he babbled to himself most of the way. About what, I haven’t a clue. Maynard’s presence serves a second purpose: he doesn’t drink, and near as I can tell, he is capable of operating an automobile without needing a helmet.

Everybody arrived at the scene within minutes of one another, and we parked our cars in the dimly-lit gravel lot behind the house. Being careful to not leave anything valuable in plain sight in our vehicles was the order of the day. This may be the middle of nowhere, but there are plenty of desperate meth-heads out in these hills. You can’t be too careful.

Norm’s rented house is an old wood-framed two story farmhouse with an assortment of abandoned car parts and rusted machinery strewn about the yard. Most of the trees either have been cut down, or are so dead and rotted that they need to be. Weeds choked what was once a lawn. I’m guessing that no real farm families have lived in this house since…Truman. I think to myself about what a great Halloween haunted house this place would be if it wasn’t so  damned remote. Norm could charge admission. As I get closer to the old house my heart palpitates for a brief moment when I realize that I haven’t had a tetanus booster in a long time. I throw caution to the brisk October wind and head toward the door with my co-workers. There’s drinkin’ to be done.

We were greeted on the front steps by our esteemed Halloween host, wearing what appeared to be two large, brown garbage bags conjoined in the middle with duct tape. “I didn’t have time to shop for a real costume,” Norm admitted a bit reluctantly. “So tonight I’m one of the California Raisins!” He looked more like a giant turd with protruding arms, legs and head, standing there on the porch, beaming with that just-kicked-the-neighbor’s-cat look on his face. We’ve never seen Norm act so giddy. There were a few giggles amongst us, but no one had the heart to tell him how absurd he looked.

The only other person in Halloween attire was Tina, who came dressed as a French maid. That alone was worth the price of admission. The rest of us showed up sans-costume. We came to drink.

We headed inside to find Norm’s house in total disarray.  Old magazines, unopened mail, pizza boxes and beer cans were stacked everywhere, with various half-empty coffee mugs sitting on virtually every tabletop that wasn’t already covered with some other junk. The kitchen sink was loaded with unwashed dishes. I didn’t have the nerve to check out the bathroom, choosing instead to take a leak outside whenever necessary. The place looked like a frat house after rush week. It would be condemned by the health department, though I doubt they have a health department out in this desolate area. We ribbed Norm about his…ahem…living conditions. He retorted that he “had at least picked up stuff off the floor” in anticipation of our arrival. Can’t have the guests tripping over things.

Nice of you to spiff up the place for the occasion, Norm.

Really pulling out the stops for this one, aren’t we?

The night’s entertainment was provided by a vintage 1980s boombox, big as a microwave oven, spewing out vintage 1980s garbage from its perch atop a plastic milk crate. An odd mixture of Journey, Cyndi Lauper, Duran Duran, and Adam & The Ants (on cassette, no less!) assaulted our ears and our musical sensibilities. But we didn’t care. This was our chance to finally observe the boss outside of the workplace, in his natural habitat.

Here was Norm, in this armpit of a house out in flyoverland, relaxed and unassuming. No yelling, no throwing things, no petulant hissy-fits. Maybe it was the crappy music, or the warm swill we were pouring down our necks. Perhaps it was that ridiculous plastic bag turd costume. For whatever reason, we were set at ease and shown a rare glimpse of the real Norm. We all talked and drank and generally carried on, uncaring for the time being about the ridiculous world we were paid to poke our cynical fingers at.

Norm laid out in words almost his complete life story, whether we wanted to hear it or not. How he embraced the Internet in the ’90s, and pioneered the specialized field of online subliminal advertising.  It was Norm’s marketing prescience that made him forego the usual popups, flash animation and banner ads typically found on websites, and pursue the virtually untapped realm of subliminal promotion. Inserting  unintrusive, semi-transparent ad images in between monitor refreshes–72 times per second–is absolutely rich. And so were we, raking in beau coup bucks from cellphone companies, casinos, travel companies, and soft drink makers, all for us inserting their banal messages into the millisecond intervals between monitor flickers. It was grand. Until the market started sliding the past few months. But I digress…

This conversation went on and on, and if not for the fact that we were miles from nowhere, we would’ve bailed after 30 minutes of Norm’s tedious droning. But, we stayed and humored the boss. It was his show, after all. If nothing else, there was a sort of twisted curiosity that kept us there that evening, the same kind of curiosity that makes us such good observers of the screwed-up people and events we pepper with ridicule on Alligators In The Sewer. Besides, there was free beer, albeit the cheap stuff, served at room temperature.  And Tina was still there, looking rather fetching in her French maid costume.  Reasons to be cheerful.

Norm continued to ramble on, mentioning something about his two cats, but nobody saw either of them all evening, as the creatures wisely stayed well away from us. I wondered to myself if those cats hate Norm as much as Bug does.

And then, just like a flick of a switch, it all suddenly ended. At about a quarter after eleven, and without any notice whatsoever, Norm stood up and announced, “time for you all to go. Right now. Thanks for coming.” No idea why he ordered the immediate exodus from his home. It wasn’t like he had a date or anything. Norm probably hasn’t been laid in years, and the odds were highly stacked against any change in that status quo. We started to slowly climb out of our chairs and shuffle about, casually finishing our beers and still chattering away in the living room. But when Norm popped Men Without Hats into the player, the room emptied in mere minutes. Nothing says “get the fuck outta here” quite like that noise. Besides, this directive came from a character who routinely hurled chairs and monitors in the office. We weren’t about to defy him.