we accept the freak we think we deserve

or "that time I met an occultists grandson?"

hi! little warning that this is a series of “dumb life stories” that may be creative non-fiction or may be fiction. You decide! There’s no CTA, there’s no takeaway, it won’t teach you anything about b2b sales.

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Photo by Loren Cutler on Unsplash

37 degrees (98.6f for you Americans).

Melting.

“Let’s meet at the pier.”

okay.

On the phone, I walk past a giant 6’4 dark haired dude wearing a silk dress shirt that’s FULLY unbuttoned in broad daylight.

He doubles back. He’s on the phone.

We’re on the phone.. to each other.

I take him in.

Dahmer glasses.

Golf cap

maroon leather shoes.

Jeff Goldblum from Temu vibes.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Hilarious and deeply unsettling. This is surely a bit.

He looks me up and down, smashes his face into mine twice with a “European” kiss and starts the questions, rapid-fire.

“where did you come from”
“do you live close?”
“you’re quite short, did you realise that?”
“watcha craving for lunch?”

“You should wear a hat, love, you’re pale and red-headed.” he tells me as though I’ll be shocked.

We walk along the coast, his car conveniently there.

Five hats in his car.

Five.

He offers me a sombrero. I decline.

He’s replacing all his rs with ws. It feels intentional. Like he’s emulating Churchill.

An intentional speech impediment.

He plops himself on the bench (i then notice the unyielding backpack).

He pulls out two cans of Monster energy drink and I laugh.

“How old are you?” I frown at him.

“36” he slurps.

Spiritually, he’s about 16.

He makes a move to touch me, his hair sticking to his forehead. My attention comes crashing back into my body as I realise he’s trying to… read my palm?

I need water. It’s too hot too much, too weird.

This is officially the weirdest “date” ever. We were due to have lunch but I can’t eat with this psycho. I tell him I need a glass of water. He gestures to his Monster. I ignore him.

“Do you work” I’m asking him innocently.

“I’m a musician, I make music”. Evasive, slurp.

“I don’t believe you” I’m brazen now.

He swills his can of Monster like an aged red and looks back in a way I know he thinks is whimsical.

“I’m a musician, an artist- I wouldn’t say what I do can exactly be categorised…”

“You can just say unemployed” I say, picking at my fingernails.

The Ted Mosby of it all.


Should I just leave him here? Is that rude? This is clearly a big mistake.

To be fair, he’s carrying this conversation in its totality.

Then, the pièce de résistance- he pulls out a deck of Uno cards that I hadn’t noticed in his shirt pocket, weighing it down.

He’s misinterpreting my criticism as playful flirting. We’re like two different frequencies and radio stations. One of us, cracking ciphers. The other of us pirate radio.

He deals me a hand.

I immediately forget how to play Uno and start playing Go Fish.

“you have the air of a magician? Do you like…. do magic?” I ask in earnest.

He smiles then. “I suppose you could say I do magic…. my grandfather was quite into it… a type of sex magic that I practice”.

Oh no no no, he’s actually serious.

I stand up, sweat dripping down the backs of my knees. I’m half standing, half sitting when he mentions Alister Crowley, anticipating a great reveal.

“Who dat” I frown at him.

He laughs. A high, yelping laugh. Then he stands as well.

“No seriously, it’s not a flex- I don’t know who that is” I double down.

“I genuinely can’t tell if you’re feigning ignorance” he scoffs.

I google.

“Okay cool?” I meet his eyes after reading the tldr of his supposed Grandads history.

My brain is yelling-this person is insane, but you’re MORE insane for staying here, for playing weird Uno you big weirdo.

I just want to go home. Get away. Drink litres of water. Delete this day from history.

He’s leaning in to kiss me. I laugh again, more a scoff.

I hold my hands in a cross as though he’s a literal vampire.

The absurdity has me rigid.

He's totally unfazed by my rejection.

“I need to make a sandwich” I declare in a half lunge, ready to head back to my house, alone.

I get home and Google “small talk subjects not boring”. I realise I’ve stolen the hat.