The Reason Cows Do Not Like Halloween
by Adam Matcho
The one-piece cow suit was a little short in the legs. The elasticized ankles barely met the top of my socks and the cheap, black-and-white polyester made my neck itch. This would be my work uniform for the next month. Management thought it was a festive Halloween marketing plan. I tied the cow-bonnet strings under my chin, and knew I had to get a new job.
My ears were now pink and floppy. My tail was fringed and hard to control. I could deal with this. The udders, though, were a problem. They were convincing and flesh-toned and hung right at my midsection. I’d spend the month of October with my bellybutton, hips and pelvis tucked behind four shiny pink udders that jiggled when I walked.
This was still, of course, American retail. In the spirit of seasonal democracy, management allowed employees to pick their own costumes. We could wear whatever we wanted, as long as our store sold it. The only condition was, once we picked our costumes, we were stuck with them. Much like the store’s return policy, all selections were final.
I liked cows. The cow costume had realistic, squirting udders. I thought, how lucky. Then I studied myself in the bathroom’s dirty mirror and remembered luck had never been kind to me.
The customers weren’t kind either.
“That is udderly ridiculous,” some man in a Steelers sweatshirt said. His whole family thought it was hilarious. His fat, little son thought so too and went through the store yelling “That is udd-er-ly ridiculous.”
After the fifth time, I thought it wasn’t so funny.
“Dad,” the boy yelled. “That is udd-er-ly ridiculous.” Then the boy, who was probably eight or nine, knocked a bin of body parts on the floor. Hands, feet and arms were all over the aisle and his dad grabbed him by the shoulder and whispered something in his ear.
The boy stopped yelling and got down on his hands and knees and began putting the appendages back in the bin.
I stood there and tugged at the legs of the cow suit, which were now working their way up my calves. I watched the boy. When he looked up at me, I stuck my tongue out at him. I thought he would think it was funny. He gave me the finger.
After they left, I told my coworker, who was dressed as a fairy, about the incident.
“I don’t believe it,” she said.
“It’s true,” I said. “He whipped me off. His dad was right there.”
“Well that is just udderly ridiculous,” she said and laughed.
I decided I hated my fairy coworker and walked to a back corner in the store. I figured maybe I could stay away from people back there among the fake flaming lights and fog machines. My cow suit glowed under the blacklights and I was trying to see if my tail was glowing, too, when I felt a tug.
“Cow. Look mom, a cow,” said the blonde, pigtailed child as she once again pulled on one of my udders.
“Oh, wow,” the mom said as she rounded the corner. “It is a cow.”
The little girl squealed and laughed and started jumping up and down. I smiled and tried to step backwards to free myself from her grip. It was starting to get uncomfortable. She readjusted her grasp on my udder and kept repeating the word cow.
“She just loves cows,” the mother said. “Her pappy has cows and she just loves to help take care of them.”
The woman’s voice became animated as she finished the sentence, as if she was speaking to her child rather than another adult, as in me, a six-foot-tall guy in a cow costume. Her small daughter continued to yank and jump and repeat the word cow.
“Ouch,” I said insincerely, almost like it was a question. The mother looked down at her daughter and gasped.
“Oh sweetie, leave the cow alone,” she said and pulled at her daughter’s arm.
Between the two of them, I thought I would be pulled off my feet. I forced my weight in one direction and the mother and daughter tugged in the other. It was some vile game of tug-of-war with my poor udder caught in the middle.
“Honey, no,” the mom said.
“Cow! Cow!” the little girl yelled.
I looked toward the front of the store for the fairy, but she was ringing people out at the register.
Finally the mother wrenched her daughter’s hand free.
“I’m sorry,” she said three times.
I assured her it was okay and smiled and waved goodbye.
As the little girl fanatically waved back and yelled, “Bye, mister cow,” she knocked over the bin of body parts the boy from before haphazardly placed on the edge of the shelf.
I rushed over.
“It’s okay,” I said and quickly bent down and began cleaning. “I got it.”
“Thank you,” the mother said.
The little girl waved again and I stuck my tongue out at her. She laughed.
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