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The Dartmouth
March 29, 2024 | Latest Issue
The Dartmouth

The Graveyard Shift

The graveyard is a spooky place to recite poetry with friends.
The graveyard is a spooky place to recite poetry with friends.

’Twas the very witching hour of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes contagion into the world. No, we are not Prince Hamlet, but his words (and some gentle nudging from our editors) drove us into the Dartmouth College Cemetery like Young Goodman Browns to witness the debauchery of students in this labyrinth of death.

We expected — nay, hoped for — bands of squirrels and chipmunks circled around an open fire, performing ritual dances to pay tribute to the blue corn moon. We crossed our fingers for drunk philosophers leaning against crumbling headstones. We even wished for loud, libidinous residents of the River Cluster. Alas, what we found was starlight, the scent of pine trees and white noise. This place was more lifeless than Alpha Delta fraternity’s basement. Too soon? Oh cruel respect, why must you bar our ragamuffins from this hallowed earth, sending nary a “Thriller” extra nor vampire enthusiast our way? All we ask is for just a fraction of the fun our Ouija board predicted for us earlier at Late Night Collis. Come on, just a small satanic cult?

The lack of any of the aforementioned delights led to quite the pity party. It was a grand soiree indeed, complete with a pity pinata, gloom goodie bags and pin-the-tail-on-the-despair. The confetti was our tears. To lighten the mood, we began a few spirited renditions of songs from “Phantom of the Opera,” “Les Misérables” and “Cats.” We apologize to anyone who might have caught wind of us belting the lines “Memory! All alone in the moonlight!” with voices that sounded like actual cats. We give particular condolences to any corpses who dislike Broadway numbers — although, if you do, you’re better off underground, you soul-sucking zombie. Fearing the wrath of angry wolves and wily partygoers, we brought it down a notch and began reciting our favorite poems. Nothing brings out the poetry memorized in high school like a bit of crisp wind and the latent fear that a teacher — or spirit, what’s the difference — could show up at any moment.

Andrew showered the tombstones with the world’s longest rendition of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” complete with dramatic pauses and scampers, and Mary Liza treated them to the funny but biting, “It’s Raining In Love.” Andrew countered with “Jabberwocky,” and Mary Liza responded with “The Bagel.” We decided to stop when we realized we were basically reenacting scenes from “Dead Poets Society” (1989) minus Robin Williams. No captain, my captain, we said to ourselves, and tried to think up a new pastime.

The quickest round of ghost stories showed we had not been paying enough attention at summer camp.

“So then the ghost says, ‘Where’s my golden arm?’” I, Mary Liza, said.

“Then what?”

“She, uh, I think she grabs him?”

I remembered at that point I was supposed to grab Andrew’s arm and say “Boo!”

“Ok, I got one.” I, Andrew, retorted.

“Shoot.”

“A man and woman get married. It’s called commitment. AHHH!”

A terrifying tale indeed. We agreed to table this round of fright and vowed to watch a scary flick later — “Mamma Mia” (2008) perhaps. I mean, have you heard Meryl sing? The horror!

After minutes of aimless chatter, a lone backpacker came whiffling through the tulgey wood, whistling a simple tune just as “The King and I” had taught her. Bored, we decided to frighten this little Red Riding Hood. In our worst ghoulish voices, we cried, “Christine, this is your grandfather. Get me some cream of wheat.”

Startled at first, then annoyed, the student cast us off with a quick “f--k off.”

“Christine, that is no way to speak to your grandfather. But I understand, you’re still going through puberty.”

She didn’t look back. Christine is so temperamental. Youth these days…

After another half hour of waiting, hoping Christine would come back with our cream of wheat or at least an ounce of respect for her elders, a pair of bulky men stomped through. What shall we do with Tweedledee and Tweedledum, we pondered. We decided to have a classic Kingsley-Hartong argument about our imaginary child. As they got within earshot, we began, loudly:

“Karen, I’m pregnant.”

“Stan, we’ve been over this, you can’t get pregnant.”

“Not with that attitude I won’t. Pregnant with self-loathing! Why don’t you support me?”

“Because you’re not the raccoon I married.”

The two fellows, likely wearing headphones, did not bat an eyelash at our lover’s spat. Maybe they, too, were pregnant raccoon lovers.

Feeling deserted, we decided to drown our sorrows in Indian food. Nothing takes the pain away like the new pain of digesting tikka masala and garlic naan. Turns out Jewel of India is neither open in the middle of the night nor willing to deliver to the crypt. Oh well, we thought, we might as well forgo the battle of colon versus saag paneer. Two farts crying out alone in the wilderness and all that jazz.

We remembered that, as Gertrude Stein says, “moving is existing,” so we got off our stuffy rumps and began to explore the nooks and crannies of the graveyard. Shining a flashlight, we caught a glimpse of what we can only describe as a skunk, a bobcat or a werewolf. Perhaps a skunkcat? Or werebob? Or Christine in fur? Christine looks wonderful in fur. Or perhaps a local ne’er-do-well, newly escaped from the 1902 room and looking for trouble?

Just as we were about to head back to Collis for some macaroni bites — the holy trinity in cheese form — we heard a sound. Hark! A quartet of younglings, shuffling nervously through the graves. We rubbed our greasy paws in anticipatory rapture.

“Do we marry, f--k or kill them?”

“No, Andrew, that’s just a game for sleepovers. This requires something worse.”

“Something worse than marriage?!” quoth Andrew, “Kale? Country music?”

“Three words. Andrew Lloyd...”

“No Mary Liza, they’re too young!”

“WEBBERRRRRRRRR!”

Thus began the long awaited, off off-Broadway rendition of the iconic, haunting, downright orgasmic “Phantom of the Opera” (1986). We sprang from the trees, ambushing the neophytes with, “The phaaaaaaaaaaaantom of the opera is there INSIDE YOUR MIND!” Horrified, or perhaps aroused, they fled.

The sun began to rise and our skin shriveled and burned like Christine’s will in old age, that crazy old bag. We crawled back into our respective beds — cave in Andrew’s case — and hummed Broadway staples until the slithy toves gyred and gimbled themselves to sleep.