Halloween bashes were so noisy and over the top on Beacon Hill that there was a long quiet lull for weeks after. It was like the party engine had run out of gas. Friday evenings leading up to Halloween had been on the sordid side. Now they seemed quiet and repentant.
Certainly, there was enough trash to be removed and graffiti to paint over. There was also that telltale sour smell of drinking gone bad that hung over the neighborhood. It generally took a heavy rainstorm or two to wash away.
At the Folkie Palace, the holiday featured the canonization of the apartment’s long-time spiritual advisor, the Monk. Yes, there were failed Jesuits students among the residents, but only the Monk had lived monastically and kept to a modified version of his order’s rule. The event was celebrated on Halloween by ritually carrying the Monk around the neighborhood on a platform made from old pallets. He had been equipped with a censor full of beer which he used to bless the faithless.
In the kitchen of the Folkie Palace, the party committee was considering ideas for future holiday spectaculars. An exploding Turkey for Thanksgiving that would shower the neighborhood with candies? A Christmas time face-off with the neighborhood communists; their anti-Christ against our Saint? and a floating Cthulu float signaling the end times for the New Year.
It was hard trying to insult everyone, but the Folkie Palace crew tried hard. Onward.