I discovered the true meaning of Christmas dressed as a gladiator in a Chicago park

It is the closest I have ever come to dying. It was 22 December 1995 and I had flown to Chicago from New York to spend the weekend with my friend Matias before returning to London for Christmas. The day started well: Matias was having a fancy-dress party and in the course of helping him shop for canapés I fell into conversation with a sexy, mischievous girl who worked in the local delicatessen. Her name tag said ‘Kelly’.

Afterwards, I mentioned this girl to Matias — ‘Do you know her?’ — and he urged me to invite her to the party.

‘But won’t it look a bit desperate, going back to the shop with the sole purpose of inviting her?’ I said.

‘Don’t be such a pussy.’ He was right: faint heart ne’er a fair lady won. So I returned to the deli and delivered a bumbling, self-deprecating invitation. To my astonishment, she accepted — and she didn’t even ask to bring a friend.

‘No chaperone?’ said Matias, when I told him. ‘You’re gonna get lucky tonight, my friend.’ Kelly duly appeared at the party, wearing a little white toga. ‘I’ve come as a Vestal Virgin,’ she said, unable to suppress a smile. I took that as a good sign, not least because I was dressed as a Roman gladiator. We were in matching outfits.

After a couple of tequila shots, we hit the dance floor. Kelly was a terrific dancer and, as the night wore on, she became more and more tactile. By midnight I felt bold enough to move in for the kiss and she kissed me back.

‘Do you want to go upstairs?’ I said.

‘Listen, I really want to spend the night with you, but my friend is having this party at a bar downtown and I promised I’d show my face. Why don’t you come?’ At this point, I would have followed Kelly to Alaska, so I grabbed my overcoat, threw it over her shoulders and headed out into the Chicago night. It was bitterly cold — the temperature in December can fall as low as -10˚ — but we soon warmed each other up in the back of the taxi. It was shaping up to be one of the best nights of my life.

When we got to the bar, Kelly’s friend’s party was in full swing and she insisted on more tequila shots. One round led to another and, before I knew it, the barman had called last orders. It was now 4 a.m. and we’d become attached to a group of revellers who wanted to go to an afterhours club. They piled into a cab, dragging Kelly and me with them, but when we arrived at our destination I realised I’d left my credit card at the bar. Kelly hopped out of the cab, still wearing my overcoat, and I told the driver to take me back. I’d meet her in the club in 10 minutes.

Needless to say, by the time I got there, the bar was closed. I banged on the door as loudly as I could, but there was no response. Ah well, I thought. I’ll just have to cancel it tomorrow morning.

I jumped back in the cab and returned to the club. When we got there, I gave the driver my last $20 bill and nonchalantly told him to keep the change. I dashed over to the club entrance, beginning to feel the cold.

‘Sorry, pal,’ said the bouncer, eyeing my gladiator costume.

‘It’s OK, my girlfriend’s inside.’ ‘Whatever. You ain’t coming in dressed like that.’ ‘But she has my overcoat,’ I said. ‘It’s got everything in it — my wallet, my phone, my house keys.’ ‘Here’s a quarter,’ he said, fishing 25 cents out of his pocket. ‘Go call someone who gives a f***.’ I was stumped. What was I supposed to do? I could wait for Kelly, but what if she didn’t emerge for a couple of hours? I would freeze to death.

My best bet was to take a cab back to Matias’s house and get him to pay the fare. Trouble is, I couldn’t remember his address and his number was in my phone. There was a pay phone across the street so I called directory inquiries and gave them his full name.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but that’s an unlisted number,’ said the operator.

I asked if I could place a reverse charge call to my apartment in New York. If I could wake up my flatmate Euan, he could look up Matias’s contact details in my computer. Unfortunately, Euan is a heavy sleeper and after eight rings my answering machine cut in. The operator refused to try again. My only hope was to keep phoning my flat and then hang up after two rings. With a bit of luck, Euan would eventually haul himself out of bed and answer it. I called the number, but a computerised voice told me I needed to deposit one dollar and 50 cents before the call could be connected. After that, I could call as often as I liked, provided I hung up before anyone answered. I dug in my pocket and fished out five quarters. It was all the money I had.

‘Excuse me,’ I said to the bouncer. ‘I don’t suppose you could let me have another quarter, could you?’ ‘What for?’ ‘I want to call someone who gives a f***.’ ‘Go f*** yourself.’ It wasn’t bad advice. I was now so cold that if I didn’t engage in some physical exercise I was in danger of becoming hypothermic. In my drunken state, I decided my best bet was to start running. I didn’t know Matias’s address, but I knew he lived on the North Side and I knew what direction that was in. So I hit the road.

Two hours later, I collapsed under a tree in Jackson Park, slap-bang in the middle of the South Side. It was around 6.30 a.m. and at this point I’d gone through Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’s Five Stages of Grief — Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance — and was ready to meet my maker. I sat there with my head in my hands, wondering if a man found dead in sub-zero temperatures dressed in a gladiator costume would qualify for a Darwin Award.

‘Excuse me, son, but are you OK?’ I looked up to see an elderly black woman pushing a shopping trolley. I was so cold all I could manage was the word ‘no’ through chattering teeth.

‘Here,’ she said, taking something out of her trolley. ‘I was just taking this to Goodwill. It ain’t much, but you’re welcome to it.’ With that, she carefully draped a thick woollen coat over my shoulders and went on her way. She was right — it wasn’t much. The elbows had been patched and the buttons replaced so often they were all different colours. But it probably saved my life.

There was a point earlier in the evening when I looked at Kelly and thought all my Christmases had come at once. That proved to be an illusion. For me, Christmas didn’t arrive until 6.30 a.m. in a form that proved infinitely more angelic. God bless that kind old lady.