Bernie Sanders Greets Trick-or-Treaters By Ethan Kuperberg

All right, all right, you don’t have to shout. You want a treat or you’ll trick me. Makes sense. Silly? A little. But also? Very aggressive. I like aggressive. You’re good people. Hardworking. You’ve got families. And the fact that you can’t simply earn the treats you deserve, you’ve gotta go around begging, I don’t like saying this, but here’s the reality: it’s an international embarrassment. Everyone on the block knows it. You? What are you supposed to be? A ghost? Very nice. Very cute, with the sheet. I dressed up as a ghost a few times, too, back in Brooklyn. It’s a fine costume. Maybe you’ll get a fun-size Snickers, if you’re lucky. But let me tell you who the real ghost is. The American middle class. And it’s not just a white blanket with some scissor holes in it. It’s actually disappearing. And it’s certainly had enough tricks, let me tell you. By the way, I’ve spent a lot of time living in scary-looking houses. I don’t give a damn about ghosts. What are you? Speak up, I can’t hear you. A vampire? Huh. With the black suit and the fangs? I thought you were some sorta Wall Street guy. My mistake. I apologize. But let’s cut the B.S.—nothing’s scarier than living in an oligarchy. Not even those pointy fingernails. What’s that on your mouth there? Fake blood? You spent actual American dollars on fake blood? Listen to me. Get some ketchup. Squirt it out and wipe it on your mouth. That’s it. Cheaper than any fake blood you’ll buy at a corporate Halloween chain store. You don’t even need name-brand ketchup. Now take the money you saved on fake blood and invest it in a strong national grassroots movement—we’re not asking for much more than thirty dollars. I mean, stand up and organize. For God’s sake, organize. Well, aren’t you a cute little ballerina? Let’s not sit on the fence here—you’re not going to get all the treats you deserve until we start a serious discussion about why you are all walking more blocks for less candy than ever before. You can wave that pirate sword all you want, young man, but I’m telling you it’s shortsighted. You won’t fill up those pillowcases until you demand treats from every house—goddam it, from the entire neighborhood. I hear that some people in the gated community down the road even give out full-size 3 Musketeers bars. But only if they decide that your costume is good enough. Disgraceful. Let me ask you kids something. What do you really care about? Because, let’s be honest, dressing up is a distraction from the real issues. Look at this block. Who’s giving out the candy? A tiny group of individuals. And they’re diverting you with their decorations—the cobwebs, the skeletons, all that candle-in-a-pumpkin hullabaloo. But who’s doing the walking? Who’s doing the doorbell-ringing? Who’s doing the suggestion of tricking? Which, might I add, is something you all must continue to do in such a highly competitive neighborhood economy. Who’s doing the work? You are. The unequal distribution of treats is the great issue of our time. And I’m sick of— Hey, stop crying. You, little boy dressed as a banana, what’s with the tears? Sponge who? You’re a sponge-blob with a square dance? I’ve never heard of such a thing. I thought you were a banana. Look, I’ve got no time for made-up nonsense if we’re going to save the middle class. And neither do any of you. As for treats, I’ve got a loaf of bread, only one day old, I’ve got a couple of Altoids, and if anybody wants they can pet my cat. ♦ The New Yorker

Roman Holiday By Paula Diperna

With some time to kill waiting in Rome for a bus to Abruzzo, I was planning on a nice Sunday lunch in the city center. I took a taxi from the station to the Via Margutta. The cab approached my destination and the streets were throbbing with tourists. I was suddenly gripped by the need to get far away. “Never mind, let’s leave,” I said to the taxi driver, who had been gently threading his way through the ancient pathways of the eternal city. “Let’s go instead to the Piazza Bologna,” I said, which was near the bus station. “I’ll have lunch there.” “But do you know that’s the other direction completely?” the driver asked. I said so be it, and I would explain en route. I explained that even though I was a tourist, I preferred not to be surrounded by them. I added that I was headed to Abruzzo to visit relatives. His face broke into a huge smile, “I also have relatives there, signora.” With that, he unleashed a cascade of helpful hints: Abruzzo was “wild and known to be tough but gracious;” the bus station could be dangerous and I should be very careful. The driver took me to a restaurant in the Bologna neighborhood. He kindly put my bags on the sidewalk and we said goodbye. The day was unrolling perfectly, thanks to this fellow. When I later told my relatives about his niceties, they said it had to be a miracle. Ten days later, I was back in Rome, this time with a full-day. I had no agenda, but a Dutch couple I had met had raved about a sculpture they had seen by chance — “Il Pugile,” a first-century A.D. bronze of an exhausted boxer. So contagious was their passion for it that I decided I should see it too. My hotel concierge spent about 30 minutes on the Web trying to locate the piece. He found it, but when I got to the museum, the guard told me the Pugile was elsewhere, in another museum on the other side of the city. Not to be thwarted, I crossed town. The Dutch woman had eloquently called the piece “a kind of time machine, defying any moment.” And she was right. The spent hero sat slumped, hands wrapped, nose broken, head turned in amazement at his survival, it seemed, though one couldn’t actually tell whether he had won or lost his match. I couldn’t take my eyes off “Il Pugile.” I, too, was awed by its silent drama. Still reflecting on my good fortune of receiving this tip from strangers, I stepped onto the street, and decided to go back to the “wrong” museum, which I had given short shrift. I hailed a cab. The driver squinted with disbelief at me, me at him. “You!” we exclaimed in unison. Here was the very same fellow of my Sunday afternoon escapade nearly two weeks ago. He went on about destiny: “Signora, this is impossible. It has never happened to me before in all my years of driving. Do you know how many cabs there are in Rome? Eight thousand at least! Only fate could have brought you to my cab again.” Indeed. I’ve never gotten the same taxi driver twice in any city, and it seemed incredible that a search for Sunday lunch had somehow connected Abruzzo, a random Dutch couple, “Il Pugile,” me and him. Ever helpful, he recommended I not miss the Caravaggio paintings at San Luigi dei Francesi, which was near where I was headed. He dropped me off and again we said goodbye, both delighted with the turn of events. Friends have asked me why I didn’t take his name, but I think it’s because our calling card is not who we are, but the indelible joy and memory of the unexpected experience we had shared. Paula DiPerna is an environmental policy adviser and author who lives in Cooperstown, New York. International New York Times Photo