The Cemetery Date

“Surprise me,” he said.

And so I did.

I waited outside Mile End Station, chuckling to myself.

The Man with the Hair arrived.

He has an enviable fro of curly hair (—tied back tonight). We crossed paths when my students curated his artwork. I clocked him at the opening event, but stayed away; the lavishing of attention on attractive people annoys me, so I deliberately ignore them. However, we exchanged words and details when he collected his work the following week. I proceeded to invite him to an Anti-Valentines Action Dinner at Performance Space, to which he came and held his own. There ensued sporadic virtual communication, until I secured tonight’s date.

To the rattling of wine bottles in my shiny pink backpack, we walked to Tower Hamlets Cemetery.

“What are we doing here?”

“I’m luring you into a raping,” I said. “There’s a knife in my boot.”

He laughed, to which I replied, “You obviously trust me. Following me into the dark forest like this. You don’t know me. I could be capable of something terrible. Anything could happen.”

“That’s true…”

We stopped at a tomb (the tomb of Ann) and clambered (I clambered) to sit on it. I insisted on a moment of silence in respect of Ann before breaking out the wine.

“You can have summer red or White Zinfandel.”

“I quite fancy the white.”

I took several generous swigs of the summer red before hitting him with some poetry.

“This is a poem about staring into darkness: Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore…”

On and on, I rambled over The Raven’s rippling rhymes while he listened (My, what a lengthy poem it is). I also presented him with a bag of pink marshmallows and a pumice stone (“For sloughing dead skin. Fancy a bit of exfoliation at my place?”).

Poems later, we chatted. I asked him to tell me something pathetic about himself, to which he revealed financial impotence, self-consciousness and 39 years of age.

In exchange, I explained that I can be a bitter and jealous person, subject to social anxiety and occasionally reluctant to leave the flat for days. However, “My New Year’s resolution is to be a better friend and I am succeeding in that capacity.”

Other topics of conversation included my desire to be a rap superstar, self-proclaimed writing ability, and my imaginary penis. I had, by this point, downed a bottle of wine on an empty stomach. I suggested we relocate to a “more ominous” part of the graveyard in order to “commence the raping.” Stumbling, we worked our way through nettle trappings to settle into a remote and concealed grave. In the background, we heard the shrieking of the yobs. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you. I’m all over this,” I insisted.

We both had to pee. I think I might have fallen over in my attempt. And I remember thinking, “Ah, yes, I’ll take out my bloody tampon in case he fingers me. A small tribute for the grave I’m pissing on.” I suspect the alcohol flooded my head at this point because I hardly remember thereafter. I seem to recall a rather abrupt end to the date by his volition, and feeling (and concealing) annoyance, but I can’t remember leaving the graveyard.

I arrived home, pissed as ever, to my wife and houseguests and the realisation that I’d lost the mobile phone I’d recently paid £240 to reconnect. Gutted, I proceeded to throw a tantrum—literally, I lobbed the contents of the lounge into the kitchen. I could hardly listen or string a sentence, and ended up face down and fully dressed in bed with the trash bin.

I woke with a start (still mildly drunk and/or hungover) at the crack of dawn. Must. Find. Phone. So I set off with my trusty hound, back to the cemetery in the rising sun and spitting rain. I quickly found my way to Ann’s tomb, decorated in wrinkled sheets of poetry (which I decided to leave for Ann), but alas, no mobile phone.

I’d retained no defining characteristics about the second grave we’d visited and the cemetery appeared wide and winding in the daylight. How could I possibly retrace my drunken steps to find that deliberately hard-to-reach location?

I wracked my brain, but conjured only darkness. “C’mon Lucky, sniff out my urine and bloody tampon. You can do it, hound dog.” An hour passed and nothing. I felt increasingly hopeless. All the graves and trees looked the same. Needle in a haystack. My phone lost somewhere in a graveyard (Oh Ann, you’ve failed me).

I’d recently surmounted a fortnight of phonelessness and £240 reconnection fee, only to lose my fucking phone at the soonest occasion. I was kicking myself for being a lightweight, a lush and a lunatic lothario—stupid piss-taking cemetery date—when I caught a glint of glass (only the neck of a wine bottle!) in the corner of my eye. There. I scrambled through brambles to the very spot I’d graced hours before. I found a couple of empty wine bottles (one intact; one smashed to pieces) and the gift of pink marshmallow peeking atop a wet and leafy grave belonging to a one Mister Clark.

I kicked up the leaves and—unbelievable! —there lay my mobile phone (backlit by a photo of Lucky eating an ice cream cone) in working condition no less! I’d found my motherfucking mobile phone (Clark, I could kiss you!) and dutifully cleared the glass from the grave.

Disbelieving, delirious and dehydrated, I dragged my dog through the still morning and towards home, grasping the soggy handset in my pocket.

I’ve heard nothing of the Man with the Hair. But I’ve been creasing with laughter all day.