The 1960s Space Race between the USSR and USA exterminated young boys' worship of cowboys and we retired cowboy hats, vests, guns, and holsters to the closet next to toy boats and teddy bears.
During the autumn of 1962, I pleaded with my parents to buy me an astronaut costume for Halloween. My father fulfilled my wish with a gleaming John Glenn space suit complete with a visored helmet. My older brother dressed as a green-skinned Martian and Frunk had fabricated a ray gun from a broken egg-beater. After dinner, we were eager to trick or treat, but before leaving the house I purloined sunglasses from my father's desk.
"Aren't you going to ask Dad for permission?" My brother followed rules better than me.
Our father was escorting my younger siblings around the neighborhood. My older brother and I were on our own.
"He won't know a thing."
"Why do you need sunglasses?”
"They're extra protection from your death ray." I pointed to his weapon. I had seen INVASION FROM MARS ten times. The Martians' main weapon vaporized soldiers into carbon.
"I don't think this is a good idea."
"We'll be back before you know it. What can happen?"
We lived in the suburbs, a land of two-car garages, good schools, and beautiful babysitters.
"I guess nothing."
"Other than getting a lot of candy."
"Chocolate."
"We left our split-level ranch house. My best friend, Chuckie Manzi, joined us on the lawn. He was a young Frankenstein.
"First things first." He pointed across the street. Mr. Martini's house drove a truck for Arnold's Bakery. His wife put out cake instead of candy. I loved the orange spice pie.
It was a moonless night. I could barely see. We climbed the Martinis' brick stairs
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