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6th street: the hunted address
“Did you go wandering around 6th at night? Don’t do that, it’s dangerous!”. Every Austinite (or anybody that has lived in Austin longer then me, really) keeps telling me to stay out of the infamous (and creepy) street. On the other hand, the same voices of wisdom mention great parties, crazy gigs and wicked pubs with shiny eyes and when I ask them in my most Austinite impersonation “wherat?”, a chant of “6 Street” follows loudly and proudly.
There’s something mystical about the weird bars and restaurants, crowded bus stops and cracked pavement. In a backwards way, it’s a dangerous place at day and a hedonist paradise at night; favorite destination of the vagabonds, homeless, and mad men when the sun shines bright, I can still feel the goosebumps in the back of my neck and the adrenaline pumping thick thought my veins just like it happened in the rare occasions I had to take the bus at 6th with Brazos.
Between a huge guy singing a touching blues in a scary fashion at the top of his longs, staring at some distant (maybe imaginary) landscape, a toothless panhandler trying to squeeze my change out of me by invading my personal space and smarts remarks concerning the length of my skirt, I was pretty convinced I would never step my feet on the gum covered pavement again.
But life proved me oh so wrong; following my phone GPS in the hard quest for good movies and good food, I ended up at the Ritz (6th with Trinity), the coolest movie theater I have ever been to (there, no costumer is tortured with old Popcorn. They sell real food!, as far as the concept applies for American cosine), and the Iron Cactus, a real Mexican restaurant, with nice waiters and delicious, spicy food.
Is stuffing myself with onion rings while I watch the coolest movies and eat Mexican without worrying about food poisoning a good reason for me to master my phobias and fight my way through the wild crowd? Hell yeah!
Besides, after the first impression shocks subside, wandering around the 6th starts to become really amusing. It’s like an old Kinder Surprise found hidden in the fridge between the green milk and the black tomato; it may taste sweet of rotten, but there will always be a surprise.
At night, though, all bets are off. The shabby pubs acquire a new glow and the cool college students start to take control of the streets. On October the 31st though, there wasn’t just the students, but every roudy Austinite, every disorientated tourists and every vagabond, squeezing themselves inside bar, pubs and restaurants or just contributing to the general mayhem on the streets.
The journey towards the fun was a adventure all by itself; the E-buses where so full, the zombies, stripers and Jedi warriors had to fight their way inside and squeeze like tuna fish inside, while the bus drivers decided to celebrate the Halloween spirit by driving like Harry Potter’s Knight Bus.
The real cops (a group of guy dressed like Swat troopers almost convinced me) were looking at the crowd with a mix of concern and annoyance, trying not to be carried away by the uncontrollable herd or react to what, in any other day, wouldn’t be acceptable. The drunk and loud couldn’t care less.
Maybe because of the alcohol fogging the ability to rationalize, the party goers ignored the police officers and mercilessly disrespected the three sacred rules of costumes: #1 to dress like a cowboy doesn’t count in Texas #2 carton boxes will never be on the hell runway #3 absolutely nothing (really, nothing!) bought in a sex shop qualifies as a Halloween costume.
If it were possible to estimate which costume was the most popular, it had to be something between the Taxi driver with the microscopic skirt, the police officer with the huge cleavage or the Firewoman wearing almost nothing besides the coat. Disney princess’s dresses were, too, widely butchered into sex shop versions. Apparently, the fewer the fabric, the less they felt cold.
Falling in another category of disturbing not as popular, were the really creepy outfits; too realistic masks, 3D make-up of open wounds and liters of the fake blood. Though outnumbered by fluffy and “sexy”, the zombies, vampires, killer clowns and cursed toys were the true winners as far as creativity, execution and commitment with the true Halloween spirit goes.
The prize they wan for all the time and money invested on the creation of the terror being the million-dollar question “can I take your picture?”. At this request, the undead eyes glinted with joy and pride, the ghosts hugged the Teletubbies and the vampire fluffed her hair before striking a pose.
Under all the masks, capes and gore (or should I say lace, heavy make-up and hairspray?), the street Halloween was nothing more than a glorified extension of the local pubs and bars that couldn’t handle all the costumers. The obscure and macabre tone, so natural to the 6th street, seemed vanished. Actually, the 6th street never seemed so average.
The stalking footsteps whose owner is never seen, the shadows moving when nobody is looking and the disembodied voices that whisper threats, lost in the cacophony of screaming drunks and techno music.
Halloween is every day at the 6th street, expect for the 31st. Give it another 2 days and maybe the Dia de los Muertos will bring the true skin crawling, neck hair standing creepiness back.
