Assignment No. 1

by Joseph Ridgwell

I was in my first week as a cub reporter on the New York Times when the call came in. It was from the commissioning editor. Unbelievably my first ever assignment was to fly to London and find out who was making waves on the underground lit scene.
     Boy was I thrilled, an all expenses paid trip to London to interview what I considered to be the most contemporary and culturally important UK writers. All I had to do was figure out who was the most innovative and original writer operating in those circles, and then bag the interview.
     Although new to journalism I’d graduated from Yale and attended a creative writing course at a leading British University.  It was why I’d been handed the assignment in the first place, but now the pressure was really on.
     First thing I did was scour the various well known and respected litzines, websites, and blogs circulating on the World Wide Web. Six or seven of the same writers cropped up time and time again, but one name in particular seemed to stand out above all the rest.
     The name of this writer was Joseph Ridgwell and his writing spoke to me in a way that the others did not, or failed to. He was like this unstoppable force, his work was filled with raw emotion, realistic dialogue, direct prose, the sentences alive and true. He seemed to be saying what all the others were trying to say, but better and with far greater style and verve. He was also staggeringly prolific.
    But it quickly became apparent that he wasn’t universally liked and his work wasn’t universally appreciated. There seemed to be a love hate thing going on amongst his contemporaries, and descriptions ranged from the Hard Man of British Writing, a Literary Thug Genius, to an Affront to all Women.  Of course coverage like this just made him all the more interesting as a subject, and immediately I knew I had my man for Assignment Numero Uno.
     Fortunately Ridgwell wasn’t hard to contact and he replied to the first email I sent. During a brief correspondence the date for the interview was set and I made the appropriate travel arrangements.
      I planned to meet Ridgwell in central London and have to admit I was looking forward to meeting this writer tremendously. I mean, it wasn’t just that his writing was brilliant, but from photos circulating on the net he also appeared to be a quite a handsome chap. So there I was me, a Yale graduate and cub reporter, about to meet one of the leading lights of the UK underground literary scene. To say I was a nervous wreck would be the understatement of the decade.
     The flight from NY passed uneventfully and on the agreed day I arrived at Charing Cross Station thirty minutes early. Ridgwell finally arrived twenty minutes late, but immediately I knew it was him. He was smoking a cigarette and scouring the crowds with a certain literary swagger, well to my mind anyway. He looked exactly like his photos, but if anything was more handsome in the flesh. As I moved towards him I felt my heart beat just that little bit faster as if I was about to meet a famous Hollywood movie star or something.
      Taking a deep breath, I put on a mask of professionalism before introducing myself,
‘Mr Ridgwell?’
Ridgwell nodded and took another drag on his cigarette.
I held out a nervous hand, ‘Hi, I’m Mary-Lou, representing the New York Times.’
Ridgwell looked me up and down, somewhat disconcertingly, and then grabbed my hand, ‘Come on let’s get away from all these freaks and get a drink somewhere quiet.’
My original intention was to do the interview in a coffee shop or riverside café, ‘But Mr Ridgwell, I thought we could grab a coffee?’
Ridgwell shot me a look of utter disdain, ‘Coffee? I’ve never drank a cup of coffee in my life and don’t intend to start now, come on let’s go!’
    With that we jumped into a taxi cab,
‘Where are we going?’ I queried.
‘To the place where I grew up.’
The place where he grew up?
    The taxi drove through the heart of swank London Town to a far less salubrious area. Eventually the car pulled up outside what appeared to be some sort of English slum. Instinctively I clutched my handbag close to my chest,
‘Are we stopping here?’ I asked worriedly.
Ridgwell nodded and paid for the fare,
‘This is my turf.’
     Once out Ridgwell took my hand and led me through a vast sprawling estate. Rough looking black kids hung around here and there and I was glad Ridgwell was holding my hand as I didn’t exactly feel very safe.
    Ridgwell took me to a run-down and somewhat scary looking public house, in the heart of the estate. It was called, oddly to my mind, The Flower Pot.
‘This is my local boozer, you’ll love it?’ Announced Ridgwell confidently.
I doubted I would love it, but smiled bravely,
‘Yes, I’m sure I will.’
     Inside the pub were several burnt-out looking white and black men, and the odd crazy-looking woman. The décor was like nothing I’d ever seen before, flock wallpaper and a horrible carpet of red and black swirls. In one corner was a small dance area, with a forlorn dusty mirror ball hanging above.
     Ridgwell ordered the drinks, two huge glasses of something called lager,
‘Would ya like some pork scratchings or jellied eels?’
‘Would I what?’
After Ridgwell informed me of what pork scracthings and jellied eels actually were, I politely declined, and felt a wave of nausea hit me. I mean think about it, jellied eels, eew, gross!
     We found a quite corner and sat opposite each other. Ridgwell took a huge swig from his pint and then burped loudly,
‘Now what is it you want to talk about?’
      I had a million questions to ask this strange man, but suddenly my mind went blank and I couldn’t think of anything. To play for time I took out my tape recorder and fumbled with the record button, ‘Why do you write?’ I managed eventually.
Ridgwell took another swig of his beer and looked me direct in the eyes, ‘I write out of sheer desperation and because most of the others are so fucking terrible.’
‘The others?’
‘The other writers.’
     Somehow Ridgwell had me flustered, but I nodded as if I understood and then continued, ‘I’d just like to say I admire your work greatly. Your writing speaks to me in a way that is very powerful.’ If Ridgwell was flattered by my comments he didn’t show it. ‘What do you think about the current state of English writing?’ I added.
     At this question Ridgwell became suddenly animated, ‘English writing has been in the doldrums for decades, in both the poem and the novel. There hasn’t been a decent poet since Auden and there hasn’t been a decent novelist since Orwell. All we have is a group of talented writers who appear to be working to some sort of formula, whereby they manage to produce thousands and thousands of pretty sentences, well-structured paragraphs, and books that mean absolutely nothing. And sadly America appears to be headed in the same pointless direction.’
     ‘What do you mean; America is headed in the same direction?’
‘Well, for decades American writers set the standard for western literature. Writers such as Fitzgerald, Hemmingway, John Fante and Charles Bukowski, but also Kerouac, Capote, Brautigan, Vonneiguit. These guys were far ahead of their nearest English rivals, and the same goes for the women.
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, McCullers, Highsmith, etc.’
‘And what is happening now?’
      ‘Apart from one or two exceptions American writers appear to be losing their way, and the paradox is that a new group of young English writers, mostly influenced by American writers, appear to be the ones breaking new ground.’
‘And that includes you?’
Ridgwell downed his beer, ‘Yeah that includes me, although I’m different from all the rest.’
‘How so?’
‘I’m a one off.’
     After that we sat in the bar drinking. After three or four of the giant lagers I began to feel tipsy. Pretty soon my interview was forgotten along with the subject of literature,
‘Would you like to come back to mine?’ Asked Ridgwell at some point.
I looked deep into his alluring green eyes and, going against everything I’d ever been taught about strange men, I knew my only answer was going to be yes, ‘Ok,’ I whispered.
     Ridgwell led me to a run down apartment block on the edge of the estate. Despite the urban environment it was a beautiful warm summers evening with vast blue skies. I was in a strange state of shock, but as I didn’t appear to be in control of events I decided to be taken along for the ride.
    Once inside Ridgwell’s cramped and somewhat dilapidated apartment he wasted no time in seducing me, not that it took much, for I was already smitten. He went to an ancient fridge and took some beers out. I noticed that, apart from a hunk of cheese and a mouldy potato, there was nothing inside Ridgwell’s fridge apart from booze.
      We sat at the writer’s kitchen table drinking cold beers and chatting. In the safety of his own home Ridgwell began to open up.  He’d left school with few qualifications and embarked on a series of dead-end jobs. He had also been stabbed in the back and played a part in an armed robbery.
     Fearing for his life and liberty he then decided to travel the world. He visited many countries, but the travel experience didn’t impress him, ‘Mostly privileged kids from rich countries, exploiting under-privileged people from poor countries,’ was how he put it.
    After that he lived in Australia for many years. He recalled his time in Australia with great fondness, even though by all accounts he had lived a somewhat hand to mouth existence.
     As he spoke of his colourful past I compared it with my privileged upbringing on the East coast, private schooling, luxury holidays, skiing, equestrianism, and finally an expensive education in an elite US faculty. Despite all this, compared to Ridgwell, it felt like I had been nowhere and achieved absolutely nothing.
    Although completely self-educated, Ridgwell was incredibly knowledgeable on a wide variety of topics. And he liked to jump from one to the other, Quantum mechanics one minute, to the poetry of Christina Rossetti the next. A polymath is what he was and if I was impressed before I met him, now I was in awe!
    We drank more beer and Ridgwell asked a few perfunctory questions about my life and past, but the subject matter seemed to bore him, especially when I talked about my Yale experiences.
   Then, without saying anything, Ridgwell made his move. He leaned over and kissed me full on the mouth. I couldn’t believe what was happening, but acting completely out of character I responded and threw my arms around him.
    We kissed for what seemed like an eternity and then Ridgwell led me into the bedroom. We undressed, slipped under the covers, and somehow slipped into each others arms. Before I knew it we were making love, mad, wild, passionate love, without a thought for protection. It was intense, my body seem to undulate beneath his, and when he finally came it was like an explosion, a series of shocking eruptions. It was then that I passed out.
      I awoke to find myself in a cold and empty bed. Ridgwell was nowhere to be seen and for a moment I wondered if I’d imagined the whole episode. Then I looked around me, at the cramped apartment, the ragged curtains, the abode of a confirmed bachelor.
    I found Ridgwell in the kitchen. It was only ten o’clock, but he was smoking a cigarette and drinking a can of beer. He didn’t look as good as the night before, but still possessed a certain rugged charm.
     He looked at me with a mixture of pleasure and disgust. Then he spoke,
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to leave soon. I’m working on my sixth novel and I can’t afford any distractions.’
At first I wasn’t quite sure I’d heard correctly, ‘What’s the title of the novel?’ I asked brightly.
‘It hasn’t got a title, but it’s about two young men, and what lengths they will go to in the pursuit of freedom.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ I said somewhat inanely.
Ridgwell sighed audibly, ‘There’s a train that will take you direct to London Liverpool Street. I can drive you to the station.’
      Jesus Christ, I thought, ‘He takes me to the badlands of London, ravishes me, and then expects me to find my own way home. What a rotter!’
Ridgwell appeared to read my mind, ‘Discipline for a writer is key.’
I lit a cigarette angrily and sent up a cloud of grey smoke, ‘Ok, that’s fine, I’ve got deadlines to meet anyway,’ I said somewhat bitterly.
    Ridgwell drove to the station like a maniac and I was forced to hold onto the door for support, ‘Why are you driving so fast?’
‘Train leaves in three minutes,’ replied Ridgwell, as wheels screeched and the smell of burning rubber filled the interior of his ancient automobile.
‘He can’t wait to get rid of me,’ was my only thought.
    Once at the station Ridgwell bundled me out of the car and onto the platform. Then he kissed me, roughly poking his tongue inside my mouth. His breath tasted of stale beer and cigarettes.
‘Don’t forget to email a copy of the article,’ he said, ‘I’ll be interested to read it.’
    I stumbled onto the carriage in a daze and found an empty seat. Then I looked out of the window to see if Ridgwell was there waving goodbye, he wasn’t. The platform was deserted and the hard man of British writing, the literary thug genius or whatever he was called was nowhere to be seen. As the train pulled away I closed my eyes, feeling strangely satisfied because, despite everything that had happened, I now had one hell of an article to take back to the States.

 
 

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