Walking through the graveyard in shoes that don’t fit me properly, looking at the stones leaning here and there…. some face down and others scarred by weather and youths. I cannot help feeling anxious. Everything is the same – old church, young trees, dead mothers and fathers. I got my first blowjob here from a girl with scarlett hair, clutching the cold stone as I felt the twitch and the rush and I looked down and warned her something was arriving fast, at which she took me deeper and wiggled her head and my legs almost collapsed from under me like a broken cherry-picker. Cherry-picker. First time. Get it? Sigh.
A dreadful joke for a dreadful man. I kick a stone around to make sure it isn’t dog shit and weigh it in the palm of my hand. Perfectly smooth, decent mass, perfect missile. The question is, what can I smash? A car window, a church window… what’s the use? I stand in front of an old gas lamp, refitted for electric but still just a black pole topped with a bright vase. I aim, I throw, and the stone misses the glass and hits one of the narrow strips of metal holding everything together. The boneyard echoes with the clang and suddenly the entire town could be sitting up like dogs at the rattle of food, glaring at me. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve tried to be good here. For once.
I go home, drink three fifths of vodka, take the car out to an out of town drive-thru burger joint. The young man with the broken voice behind the broken speaker can’t smell my breath, and between us the communication is so fucked he can’t tell that I can barely speak… can barely see. I almost give myself away at the end, when I rev the engine loudly in neutral, thinking I’m in gear, swearing loudly into the fucking steering wheel to fucking move as cars honk behind me. Then I realise, and I’m away with a screech and a lot of smoke.
In the darkest corner of an unlit car park I eat my meal too quickly and throw it up. I have relish down my shirt and in my lap. I wiggle my pants down to my thighs, whip it out and have a go but I’m too drunk… I still feel sick, and it swiftly curls up and dies.
I’m sat there, covered in sick and food, trouserless and drunk, when I see a flash of scarlett hair near my window. I panic and start to claw at my thighs to make myself decent, and I’m mumbling over and over again; I’m lost… I’m sorry…. I’m so lost… I’m sorry… but she’s not there. It’s a trick of the flashing red and blue lights of a car that is cautiously approaching me to block me in so I cannot escape.