My three siblings were sick with the flu. Vomiting, diarrhea, fevers, chills, you name it. It was very messy.

On the other hand, I felt great. Their sicknesses didn’t bother me in the least. In fact, they might have made me feel even greater.

I was about 11 years old. I liked candy, it was Halloween, and the entire opposing team was on injured reserve. Life was good.

Back in those days, your mom didn’t drive you from house to house. No, it was a real test of stamina, especially in a semi-rural neighborhood where there was a lot of ground to cover. And you generally didn’t get a whole handful of candy at each house. You got one piece.

For my night of panhandling, I was naturally costumed as a bum. Oops, it’s the season of euphemisms, where we pretend that good is bad, evil is funny, and elections aren’t rigged. So, I mean I was dressed as an unhoused person. Which I could easily become if I pissed off my dad again.

I started out when it was still dusk, maybe around 6 pm, and I continued till after 10 pm, well past my bedtime. Since I was all alone, I covered a lot of ground, and it’s also possible that one or two houses treated me twice. Neat trick, that. 

Those single pieces of candy added up in the course of four hours of begging, er, threatening the neighbors with vandalism lest they pay me off with candy (this was before they invented bitcoin).

My victims, er, neighbors, filled my entire bag. I must have collected thousands of pieces of bribe candy, or so it seemed. The bag actually became a burden for an 11-year-old to lug from house to house.

But that night, I was strong beyond my years.  I was a Hercules of candy-collecting prowess. The sugar high from opening a piece of candy once in a while helped.

I finally returned home. My mother caring for my sick siblings barely missed me. It was apparent to her, however, that she would save a lot on groceries the next week. My bag was a little high on carbs and low on protein, but it didn’t matter because it was before the invention of either. (My father used to scold me for drinking milk. “Milk’s expensive! If you’re thirsty, drink water!” Of course, this was before the days of bottled water and before they got the lead out of the plumbing systems. I’m glad to report that the leaded plumbing didn’t affect me a bit . . . bit. . . bittt . . .)

The siblings that night were feeling better by the time I got home, and well enough to ask for a few of the treats in my bag. Of course, I told them no — in the most childish and churlish fashion. I’d earned my loot fair and square by hard begging and not-very-vague threats. (“Nice house you get here, be a shame if it got all covered with toilet paper and leaded water . . . “)

Besides, as I learned later in law school, there’s no honor among thieves or beggars or extortionists or lawyers.

But I was worried that the beggars, er, I mean siblings, might steal some of the treats from my bag after I went to sleep. So, I ate as much as I could, and that was a lot, and left the remaining candy, er, nourishment, in the bag right next to my bed. That way, I could have more if I felt the hunger, and I’d guard it against the thieves, er, I mean siblings, er, I mean beggars.

That night, the flu bug that had plagued my siblings caught up with me. Or maybe it was those last dozen boxes of Milk Duds. At about 3 am, I rolled over and hurled. Right into my treasured bag of extortion proceeds.

The next morning, my mother threw out the whole bag of vomit-covered candy. (My father probably would have kept it, but he was at work by the time I finally saw the carnage.) The siblings thought the incident was very amusing.

I wanted to hose off the candy and keep it. I was sick, sick, sick. And my stomach didn’t feel so good, either.

The lesson is obvious: Hide your stuff really well.