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Phantom Passing PAGE
TWO Costuming was an ordeal in itself, but the day was just beginning. Mom dropped me off at the bus stop, and I boarded my shuttle across town. The bus ride next to my fellow juvenile masqueraders was uneventful, except that I had to hold my breath through most of it to avoid throwing up into my cape. The day passed quickly, filled with scary word puzzles and history trivia games with Jolly Rancher prize pots. Soon it was lunchtime and we headed to the outdoor tables to consume and mingle. And although I couldn't have seen it coming then, those glossy blue rectangular tables were soon to become the site of my ordeal. My crucible. My Chernobyl. None the wiser at the time, I sat down with my chalupa. For those of you who aren't familiar with this culinary concoction, it is a Mexican-themed dish. I say Mexican-themed, because it seemed to me more like what would be dubbed "Mexican" food if the upper Midwest suddenly became entrusted with the guardianship of Latino culture. A chalupa is a hard corn shell appropriately shaped like a trough, into which ground beef bits are placed and then asphyxiated in a thick layer of melted Monterey Jack cheese. Given its dubious nature, I would love to blame everything on the chalupa. But the feeling snuck up on me only a few bites in, so I do not think we can, in good faith, hold that chalupa culpable. The feeling was standard biological issue. And issue some biology is exactly what I needed to do. Having a movement or pinching a loaf (depending on your current social vernacular) shouldn't be a daunting prospect, even to an elementary school student. Certainly not to an Upper Grader. The state provides facilities, and students are encouraged to take advantage of them. I knew my costume would require some precision on the approach (wouldn't do to have doody on the cape), but I was feeling pretty confident as I got up and headed to the bathroom. At this point, I imagine you've deduced correctly that we've been building a recipe for farce. However, an extra baggie of chocolate gold coins to you if you can guess the key ingredient. Think carefully. Go back and reread if you need to. You might want to split the page in two sections and jot down some notes. Ok, time's up. Got your answer? Oops, nope, I'm sorry. But that's ok; I didn't see it coming either. The black slacks. I said earlier "no problem there." I lied. There was a big problem. I couldn't
get them off.
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Make-up.
In a rather bizarre scenario of pre-production gone rampant, the
costume also featured a grotesque facial touch. Somehow our creativity
got the best of us, stole our car, drove it to a costume supply
store, and used my mom's checkbook to purchase a liquid scar kit.
Existing at the intersection of simple chemistry genius and Ed Wood
schlock, the kit involved two putty substances that one mixed to
produce a gruesome, frighteningly real scar. Or a turd, depending
on which way it caught the light. Smell like a turd, it most certainly
did. More accurately, like someone puked up a turd, sealed it in
Tupperware, forgot about it, then returned several days later and
microwaved it for consumption; salmonella be damned. I'm not sure
why it didn't occur to us that, irrespective of the scar's potential
to win us a technical Oscar, it was to go largely without praise
situated UNDERNEATH THE MASK. Yes, that's right. We applied the
scar tissue to the left cheek, the same one covered by the mask.
An excellent touch of psychological realism for my performance to
be sure, but one that left me spending the entire day and night
with a foul brown strip of putrescence glued to my face underneath
a non-porous white plastic mask. This mask, I should mention, was
also glued to my face. I don't know how the Phantom himself did
it, but I hope the glue he used wasn't as much of a pissy bitch
to rip off as the model epoxy I was slathered in. 
