"C" Is for Count Charlie
Margaret and Alan Eppes were not the type of parents who plopped their kids in front of the television all day. In fact, they imposed a strict limit on the their boys' TV viewing. But every afternoon, four year old Charlie and nine year old Don would sit in front of the television at their babysitter's house and watch "Sesame Street."
Don, of course, insisted he was way too old for that "baby show," but he never missed an opportunity to watch Oscar the Grouch after school. And Charlie, of course, loved Count von Count. He barely remembered the first time he saw the Count, but Margaret remembered it well. He had nightmares that night, and when Margaret sat with him, he just whimpered about the scary purple man at Aunt Molly's house.
The next day when Margaret dropped the boys off at the babysitter's house, she asked Molly about the scary purple man. "The only scary purple man I can think of is the Count on Sesame Street. And he isn't scary at all. He does have pointy teeth, but he's always counting things and laughing. I thought he would be perfect for Charlie."
Margaret sighed and shrugged. "Who knows what goes on in Charlie's head."
Don had lingered near the door as Mom and Aunt Molly spoke. He rolled his eyes at how dumb adults could be sometime. He knew the way to help Charlie over his fear. "Don't worry, Mom," he said firmly. "I'll take care of it."
The first time the Count made his appearance that day, Don could sense Charlie shrinking back away from the TV. "Hey, Charlie," he said, smiling reassuringly. "That count guy is a lot like you."
"Nuh uh," Charlie said. "He's big and purple and scary."
"But he likes to count, like you do. Listen to him," Don scooted over next to Charlie and put a brotherly arm around his shoulders. "'Five. Muahahaha," he mimicked softly, tickling Charlie's ribs. "I'll bet you can count along with him, Buddy."
Charlie giggled. "Course I can. Seven. Muahahaha," he tried lowering his squeaky little kid voice so he could sound big and mean and scary, but Don wasn't buying it.
"You got it, Buddy. Way to go! But you're way smarter. I'll bet you can multiply the numbers he says."
Charlie gave him a 'you're so dumb' look, and proceeded to multiply the number the Count said with the previous number. And he'd never been afraid of Count von Count again.
Now, a big boy of four, Charlie made his own decision about who he wanted to be for Halloween. "The Count! I wanna be the Count, Mommy. Can I?"
It was fairly easy to outfit Charlie as the Count. Alan bought teeth, purple makeup and a cape. Margaret slicked Charlie's curly hair back with Alan's hair gel and dressed Charlie in his little dress white shirt and black slacks. Then she covered his face with purple makeup.
Don, of course, a very mature nine years old did not want to dress as Oscar the Grouch, in spite of Charlie's insistent begging. He finally settled on going as a policeman. Margaret found a policeman's outfit, and Don carried the toy gun his uncle had given him.
Alan took out his trusty Polaroid camera and snapped a few photos of the boys individually and together. Finally it was time to go trick or treating. With Alan and Margaret waiting on the sidewalk for them, the boys approached their next door neighbor's house.
Mrs. Titchell came to the door, and with a glance at Alan and Margaret, she said, "And who do we have here? Officer Friendly and Dracula?"
Charlie shook his head vehemently. "No, Mrs. Titchell. I'm the Count. I count things."
"Oh, really? And how high can you count, Mr. Count?"
Charlie pondered the question seriously. "At least a million. Maybe more."
Mrs. Titchell looked skeptically at the tiny boy. "Now, I find that hard to believe. You're not even in kindergarten yet and I know they teach them to count to a hundred in kindergarten."
Charlie looked earnestly at Mrs. Titchell. "I'm not lying. I really can count that high. One, two, three..."
Don sighed dramatically. "Charlie, come on, we've got a lot of houses to visit and Mom and Dad won't let us stay out past nine." He grabbed Charlie's arm. "Come on!"
Charlie pulled away. "Donnie! Mrs. Titchell thinks I'm lying. I gotta prove to her that I can count that high. Four, five, six..."
Mrs. Titchell threw up her hands. "I believe you! I was just kidding, Charlie."
"Not Charlie. I'm Count von Count," Charlie pouted.
"All right, with a name like Count von Count, I know you can count to at least a million."
Mollified, Charlie took a candy bar and thanked Mrs. Titchell.
They ran back to Alan and Margaret, who glanced in their bags and waved to Mrs. Titchell. "What took you so long?" Margaret asked.
"It's Charlie's fault," Don said. "Mrs. Titchell couldn't believe he could count to a million, so he was going to show her."
"She thought I was a liar!"
Alan bent and picked Charlie up. "I don't think she thought you were lying, Charlie..."
"But she said..."
"Charlie," Margaret said, "do you know what it means to take something literally?"
"Nuh uh."
"Charlie," Alan said, "you know how sometimes you tell Don you hate him?"
"Yeaaahh..."
"Well, you don't really hate him, do you?"
"No. I love Donnie."
"But you tell him you hate him so he'll know how angry you are."
Charlie nodded.
"Well, sometimes people say things they don't really mean, just to show they're angry, or surprised, or happy. Mrs. Titchell was just surprised."
"Yeah," Don grumbled, anxious to get the lecture over and get back to the candy, "her son's a big dummy, so she was surprised to see a smart kid."
"Donnie!" Margaret scolded.
Charlie giggled. "Sam's a dummy! Sam's a dummy!"
"Charlie! You stop that. Donnie, look what you started. I think we're going to have to stop trick or treating for tonight if you can't behave."
Charlie stopped giggling, and a look of abject fear crossed his face. "No more candy?" Suddenly he smiled. "I get it, Mommy. You're just saying that so I know you're angry." He wriggled in Alan's arms. "Let me down. Me and Donnie will be good. We gotta get more candy."
"Right!" Don took Charlie's hand. "You don't want Count von Count to just count to one all night, do you?"
As the boys ran off to the next house, Alan put his arm around his wife's shoulders, and sighed. "Life with a genius is not going to be easy."
Margaret snuggled against her husband. "Especially when he's got such a smart big brother. We don't even outnumber them any more."
Alan chuckled and pointed to himself. "One, mwaaaahahaha." He pointed at Margaret, "Two, mwahahaha."