“I went to the crossroad/Fell down on my knees/Asked the Lord above ‘Have mercy, now,/Save poor Bob, if you please’ - from “Crossroad Blues” by Robert Johnson

It’s 3 PM at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio, and students are getting excited. Loud cars blare Classic Rock and Urban R&B, tailgates are spread open with alcoholic beverages and sweaty tank tops, and random white males scream with chauvinistic, noisome pride about how they are going to “GET WILD!!!!!!!!!” and “PARTY!!!!!”

Removed from the machismo scene, a guy is talking on the phone with his girlfriend, begging her to go out with him for just this one night. If only she would forget what an idiot he’s been in the past and spend time with him tonight. He’s got great things planned.

Just tonight, babe. Please?  But what is tonight? Why does it bear such unruly importance? Why are these students as excited as senior citizens on Bingo Night?

Answer: Halloween. The Halloween Party at OU is a legendary night of booze, babes, and shameful antics, where police close off the entire stretch of Court Street (the official party street on campus) and give students carte blanche to party hard and drink harder. It’s a perfect representation of the American Enterprise of Higher Education.

I attended the event dressed as a reporter for Too Shy To Stop, a lame excuse for the sake of good journalism. In attending the event, I witnessed the typical college party scene, a perfect recreation of the Animal House aesthetic. One particular crossroad, though—the intersection of Court and Washington—caught my attention, as Halloween night transformed the humble crossing into a land of spirituality, nostalgia, and…severe expectoration. Suffice to say, it provided the most interesting setting for my Halloween experience.

As I approached the confluence of the party at the ripe hour of 9:15 pm, a massive current of costumed students were already in action, flowing in all directions and enjoying the party. There was cross-dressing man in a pink dress and blond wig; Fred Flintstone; the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man; Waldo; a guy inside a shower, complete with a rod, curtain and faucet; Captain America; approximately 15 jokers from The Dark Knight; Sarah Palin; Ronald McDonald; Penguins; Alligators; and Jason from Friday the 13th—walking on stilts. It was a very creative bunch, a collective wave of repressed creativity pummeling the senses and vanquishing doubters to the undertow.

Throughout the evening, there seemed to be a consistent pattern regarding the sexes. Men dressed in either childish costumes or blatant feminist/sexist garb (the mantle of the college party—especially one with alcohol—is quite forgiving). Women dressed across gender, but on a much lower degree. The most creative example of this was two girls dressed as Abe Lincoln. Still, modern patriarchy stood tall, as the vast majority of women dressed in low cut, sexy outfits that exposed both cleavage and buttocks.

Also potent were the couple-costumes, wonders of continuity where boyfriends and girlfriends dressed accordingly. There were duos of construction workers; doctors; the Ghostbusters; cave men & women; cheerleaders; bumblebees; and a Batman/Catwoman combo.

I methodically worked my way through the crowds, observing more costumes and overhearing little splashes of dialogue.

“My keys and wallet are gone!” gasped one girl in a bumblebee outfit.

“I told you, we should have come earlier!” complained one guy to his girlfriend. “It gets CRAZY here!”

As I walked north on Court, absorbing the sights and sounds that surrounded me, I halted for a brief pit stop—in front of the Chase Bank at the crossroad of Court and Washington.

The Chase Bank is a large, brick building, with tall windows that stretch to the upper floors. At ground level, these windows have small, slanted ridges, which are uncomfortable for extended sits but ideal for quick breaks. Resting on a ridge, I turned to my right and saw two old men sitting on the ridge next to mine. Both wore jeans and windbreakers and massive bifocals. One wore a baseball cap. Their faces looked drawn and worn, but not with worry; rather, they looked aged with experience, possessors of a youthful exuberance to live out the rest of their days with absolute zeal.

“I’m curious,” I began. “What are two guys like yourselves doing in a place like this?”

“Oh, we come here every year to watch,” said the first man, whom I later learned was named Ed.

“Really?”

“Yep, we come here every year and sit in this same spot.”

“As a kid, I would walk down this same street,” said the other gentlemen, this one named Tom Rose. “Back in those days, I’d bring a nickel and buy half a pound of candy.”

Tom was 85 years old. While Ed never did reveal his age, he looked to be mid-70s, maybe even pushing 80. 80, it turned out, was a banner year for Tom.

“I was in it!” Tom proudly declared, pointing to the mass of costumed-college students. “I took two eggplants, you know what those are, right?”

“Yes, I do,” I responded, with a chuckle.

“Well,” Tom continued, “I took these two eggplants, and I put them right here.”

Tom made a v-shape over his crotch.

“Right here, over my testicles. And then, I had a pair of women’s pantyhose hanging from them. I was a hit…”

His voice trailed off. He looked at the ground, and for a moment, gazed into the crowd. His eyes bore a tint of sadness, an inkling of longing.

“All I can do is look now,” he finally said. “But you can dream…” He said that with a smile.

We continued talking. A girl walked by with pink, fuzzy high heels that were a cross between Frankenstein and Sex and the City. Ed pointed as she walked by.

“They’re just having a good time,” he said. Suddenly, Tom sprang to his feet with surprising vigor and began moving closer to me.

“I have a story for you about that,” he said, his voice now possessing a newfound strength. “You know how when babies are born, doctors smack them on the butt?”

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

“Well, they told you that was to help them breath, but in my research, I learned the real reason they do it. The real reason is, when you’re born, your brains are in your ass, and they smack ‘em up into your head—that didn’t happen with some of these ones!”

Later, a guy stumbled past us, his eyes rolling towards the sky and his face a sickly white. He was dressed as a silver refrigerator. Finally, the inevitable happened: his head cocked down, aimed, readied, fired! He vomited, a translucent stream of liquid that splashed onto the sidewalk and ran into the street, filling the cracks between the brick pavement. The smell of bad alcohol slowly decorated the air.

“That’s the first one!” exclaimed Tom. “Can’t you smell the alcohol?”

“Yeah, I can,” I answered.

Moments later, a girl dressed in a sexy kitten outfit walked smack-dab in the puddle. The light splash noises were a referendum on her purity for the evening.

“EWWW!!!!!!!!!” she screamed.

Tom smiled.

A student dressed in a black trench coat and black hat walked past us. In his hands was a giant bong, probably six feet tall and five inches thick. As he strutted down the sidewalk, he proudly boasted to whomever looked his way, “You guys know! C’mon, you guys know!”

“Yeah, I do!” Tom answered, much to the joy of the student.

“Now that’s something I’ve never seen before,” said a woman passing by.

Thanking Tom and Ed for their time, I finished my notes and took a step forward, away from the crossroad of Court and Washington. Before I could leave, though, two men approached me. The first was a middle-age man with dark hair and a goatee. He wore glasses and a dark, long-sleeved shirt, and his face carried a stigma of inundation. The second was a younger guy, probably mid-20s, but the face and the hair cut of an adolescent (we’ll call him ‘the boy’). While the first man’s age lessoned his apparent nerves, the boy seemed flat-out spooked. Both had small, yellow leaflets in their hands.

“Are you taking statistics?” the first man asked.

“No,” I said with a chuckle, “I’m taking notes. I’m a journalist covering the event for an online magazine.”

“Oh, really? See, we’re with the Christian Ministry. My name is Maunty and this guy”—Maunty pointed to the younger man—“may have some interesting information for you.”

“Ah, all right,” I said, unknowingly signaling a green light for the boy.

“See, I graduated in 2005 and I grew up in a house that wasn’t religious and I did drugs my whole life and if I hadn’t discovered Jesus I’d probably be one of those guys,” the boy said, pointing to a group of drunk students.

He then detailed how he had been thrown in jail, how he had prayed that Jesus show his presence if he did exist, how Jesus had saved him, and how in two years as a Christian he has corrected his wrongs.

“Life is fragile; handle with prayer,” the boy concluded.

Maunty said he was there with 27 other Missionary. Originally from Indianapolis, they also attend Mardi Gras and the Indianapolis 500.

“We start in the worst parts (to spread the word),” Maunty said. “We’ve been doing it since 1990.”

I thanked the two men for their time. As I was walking away, once again Maunty blocked my progress.

“You know how your school has witches?” he said.

“Yeah, I’ve heard the rumors,” I replied, being aware of the longstanding urban legend that the Athens community is haunted.

“I’ve seen ‘em.”

“Oh, really?” I said with an ironic overtone.

“Really” he said, stern and serious. “Real witches.”

I then left the crossroads, but only for a moment. Walking south, I saw a group of five students. Four where carrying a large wooden coffin on their shoulders, drunkenly singing hymns. Following them was the fifth member, who played a dented, demented trumpet. It was like a college recreation of the funeral scene from The Godfather Part II.

I crossed over to the west side of the street, wondering if it would be as rewarding as the east side. Resuming my stroll north, I encountered two guys dressed as Winnie the Pooh and Tigger, a baker’s dozen of hoe nurses and Swedish nannies, and a large assortment of guys acting as a Jamaican bobsled team. When I finally returned to the crossroad of Court and Washington, this time in front of the Athens County Courthouse, I saw another Missionary. And this one had a microphone.

“Jesus loves you,” he said into the microphone. He was a tall man, probably early 30s, with a buzz haircut and chiseled facial features. Though he stood in an awkward pose of nervous energy, his voice was a strong, deep tenor. In one hand, he held his microphone; in the other, he fiercely clenched a Bible.

He continued, preaching of the love of Jesus and reciting the various gospels. Students largely went about their business, eyeing the Missionary with a look of casual indifference before going on their way.

“Less talking, more drinking,” a boyfriend said to his girlfriend as they passed by. This process continued for a few minutes, until the Missionary met his first legitimate challenger. He was dressed in a dark purple suit with a red shirt. He had a purple top hat, raggedy blond hair, and a beard that would’ve made Leif Erickson proud.

“There is NO GOD,” he said, his eyes widening with passion.

“There is a God,” the Missionary responded, “he gave us the Bible. The Bible is his word.”

“There is. NO. GOD.” Leif’s eyes burned, he curved his back forward to get closer to the Missionary.

“You have to read the Bible,” the Missionary said. “It is the word of God. This is the best selling book in all of world, by a large margin. People understand its message.”

This circular process raged on for another few minutes, with the Missionary deflecting the angry protests of Leif. Then, a third player entered the ring.

Dressed in a bright green neon body suit that covered his head, hands, and feet, the man bellowed in a disturbing, intoxicated voice. He was like Orson Welles as a frog.

“Why are you here?” he shouted. “Nobody cares!”

The Missionary continued addressing Leif, ignoring the background protests of Orson. Growing frustrated with the Missionary’s temperance, Orson disappeared—but only for a moment. Emerging out of the darkness, Orson began violently swaying his hips in a sexually suggestive manner towards the backside of the Missionary, his hands flailing out in front of him, his voice screaming in orgasmic pleasure.

“Is God stopping me? Is God stopping me?” he wailed. The entire time, the Missionary continued to speak with Leif.

Orson continued his sexcapades until he discovered a lady-friend of his was watching. Quickly composing himself, he embraced her with a hug. Turning around, he said once again to the Missionary, “NOBODY CARES.”

Though I ventured further north, I quickly returned to the crossroad of Court and Washington. I was curious at whom the Missionary was speaking with. Now, there was a sizeable crowd organized around the Missionary. Orson was gone, but Leif remained, arguing his points with the same kind of viral protest. Aiding him, though, was a new challenger to the Missionary’s corner: the Devil.

He was a short man dressed in black. He wore a black suit, a red shirt, and a black tie. He carried a cane. His face was smeared with red, sparkly face-paint, and on top of his immaculately shaved head were two subtle, dark red spikes.

“If God is real may he strike me dead now,” Satan said, his voice lacking the intensity of Leif’s but surpassing the anger.

“God is a real God,” the missionary responded. “God is a real God, and God is a just God. But if you don’t follow God, you will burn in the fiery pits of hell for all eternity. Do you know how long eternity is?”

“Not like that matters with him!” said a voice in the crowd. Looking around, I noticed a remarkable difference in the crowd, which was now more of an audience for the Missionary’s public defense of faith. They were like the mob of the Coliseum.

Before, students who passed by would give the Missionary little thought. Now, they gave added attention to the Missionary’s spiritual jousting with Satan and Leif, shouting words of encouragement for the dissenting side while mocking the Missionary.

“My ancestors,” Satan said, “had their heads chopped off because of your God. Did they die a just death?”

A friend of Satan’s approached him.

“Who cares man, let’s get drunk,” he said.

“Oh, I just like fucking with him,” Satan replied, with a snicker.

“Let’s…look at the Bible,” the Missionary said. “Let’s…let’s look at the Bible.” The Missionary’s confidence seemed shot. His voice waivered. He fumbled with the pages of the book, desperately trying to find a passage that supported his just God.

“See, now your voice is cracking,” Satan declared.

“No, my voice isn’t cracking…I just need a new microphone…” the Missionary said.

“Are you taking notes?” a woman to my left asked.

“Yeah,” I said, with a nervous laugh. “I’m a journalism student here at OU, and I’m covering the Halloween party for an online magazine.”

“Oh, ok,” she said. “I wanted to ask…what do you think of this?” She nodded towards the spectacle.

“Well, I can certainly respect the Missionary’s bravery.”
“Oh, God yes.”

“But at the same time, I have to wonder if he’s going to achieve anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, aside from the people who are arguing with him—who he is never going to convert—it seems like most of the students are just ignoring him.”

“Yeah…I think you’re right.”

I stuck around for another few minutes, observing the party in other sections of Court Street. As I walked south to leave the party, I noticed the Missionary was crouched on the ground, packing up his microphone and speaker system. Satan and Leif were nowhere to be found. Walking away from Court, I saw my last costumed student of the night, a man dressed in a skater outfit reminiscent of Tony Hawk.

He turned to his girlfriend and said, “Don’t pet the police’s horse…you’ll get in trouble. I’m serious!”