Just another Lost Weekend
by Joseph Ridgwell
There was this monthly lit reading gig in central London. Although advertised as cutting edge, new writing, etc, it wasn’t. It was the usual mainstream crap. Perversely I sent them some of my more subversive shit, and not surprisingly the stories all came back rejected.
We are living in a time when the majority of those involved in literature have either lost their balls, or never had any balls in the first place. NO, we are living in a time when all the wrong people are involved in literature, the mostly uncreative types, types who cannot see the forest for the trees. Or is it the wood for the trees? Anyway, it’s depressing and I thought I’d found a solution.
Fuck it. So even though I detest reading in public, especially for zero remuneration like this pony gig, I began sending them some toned down wishy-washy shit. Demented, you might say. Yee-ha, but only the demented know how or what, or….. Eventually a piece was accepted.
The reading was at a famous bookshop, something of an institution in London literary circles. I thought of all the famous authors who had read there before and remained unimpressed. They were dead and I was alive and that was all that mattered. I didn’t even consider reading the inoffensive piece. No way. I’d never be able to live with myself afterwards. So of course I had to read one of the rejected pieces. Everything was set for a showdown.
Today’s underground literary scene is a strange thing. It works in mysterious ways. Writers become famous, whilst remaining completely unknown to a mainstream audience. I fell into the semi-famous outsider writer category. The consequences of this obscure fame were that fellow underground freaks often got in contact. In my case it was usually women. I’m not sure what this says about my writing or about woman in general, or even me. Or maybe men did get in contact, and I just forgot all about them. The way I lived, it was hard to tell.
Two days before the reading a groupie got in contact. She wanted to meet. I checked out her photos on the net, young, blonde, sexy, the only downside another wannabe writer. I told her about the reading. She could meet me there, I said. She would, she said. So that was that.
On the day of the reading it was pouring with rain. Heavy rain, never-ending rain, grey clouds everywhere, even the odd nimbus. I hit the bars early. Fucked if I was ganna read sober, a grotesque idea, and something I just wasn’t prepared to do. Five pints later I was ready to rock and roll.
It was a dull crowd. Some fading queens, ugly lesbians, and normal stiffs with nothing better to do with their time. A young American guy was reading. Looked like he had never been tested, no substance. I walked over to a photography section on erotica, and checked out some black and white nudes. The Septic was still reading, but it sounded like he’d swallowed a book on philosophy and only remembered the least interesting bits.
Next up was some debut mainstream novelist, a graduate of a famous creative writing course. They churn out one or two of these freaks every year. The author looked like the greyed out remains of something that might once have been human. As for the writing, forget it, over-crafted vacuous nothingness.
Whilst stifling a yawn I spotted the blonde groupie, my date. She was sat in the front row and looked good, if not a little unbalanced. She kept playing with her hair, twisting a flaxen lock around the end of her nose, and staring oddly. I gave her a wave, which she didn’t reciprocate, strange girl. The lack of recognition made me feel somewhat insecure, but that didn’t last. Then it was time to read.
I stood up, sneered at the crowd, and pulled a bottle of vino from my jacket pocket. The organiser shot me an apprehensive glance. She looked well-fed, contented. Father probably owned the bookshop, or she’d just received some obscure arts grant that no one else in the world knew even existed. It was all gravy.
I smiled at the blonde and raised my bottle. Zero reaction. She seemed paralysed. Then I eyeballed the crowd once more. They looked alive, but dead at the same time, a remarkable feat. I wondered vaguely if I would get to shag the blonde bird. I reckoned it was fifty/fifty. I took a huge toot from the vino and got down to the nitty gritty.
The piece I’d been asked to read was a sentimental story about an England that had long since disappeared. Nostalgia, people seem to love nostalgia, but I say fuck nostalgia, it’s all about the modern. In contrast the piece I was actually going to read was called, Race with the Devil, a no-nonsense, obscene, ball-breaking, fuck the mainstream and everything it stands for type of prose.
Just before starting I smiled evilly at the organiser. Then I read a random line,
‘The scene was crazy, obscene, and hardcore. The black brass pulled out some liquid MDMA. Then we both stripped off. She found a bottle of baby oil and covered our sweaty, stinking bodies in it. We splurged together, entwined in a slippery embrace of death. Then the girl took my shit and blood smeared cock out of her arse and shoved it straight into her mouth. Spurt it all over my face you fuck,’ she snarled. I thrust and grimaced, and stuck both hands inside her gaping slit.
‘Oh fuck!’ She cried.
‘This is it,’ I cried.
Some people got up and left, muttering something about vulgarity. Others looked aghast and shook their heads, but the blonde girl didn’t. She just kept right on staring at me in a weird fascinated sort of way. I lowered the odds of us shagging to 70/30 while I carried on in the same pornographic vein,
‘I could feel it building up from a long, long way, away, maybe even another galaxy or solar system. The girl groaned and took it all, smearing it over her face and tits, licking her fingers, begging for more, but there was no more. Then she pulled out the crack pipe…’
At that point the organiser approached the podium, waving her arms,
‘Stop, stop. That isn’t what we asked you to read, and you’re drunk!’
I took another hit of vino, ‘Who gives a shit?’
Four nerdy looking men flanked the woman. They looked like a quartet of out of work geography teachers. I noticed one of them shaking,
‘I must ask you to stop this at once, this is terrible.’
I raised my eyebrows, ‘What’s terrible lady? Can’t be the story, for that’s an immortal work of genius.’
‘We don’t want any trouble,’ mumbled one of the unemployed teachers.
Fuck it, I was bored, and I’d achieved my somewhat destructive goal to shake the place up, make my mark, and further fuck up my writing career. I smiled at the blonde girl and signalled to the entrance. The girl nodded,
‘Maybe we got our wires crossed,’ I lied effortlessly. Then I took another hit of vino and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand,
‘You’ll never read at an event organised by me again, I hope you know that?’ Hissed the woman.
‘I hope you know that I would never want to read at event like this again, bad for the rep,’
I replied soft and easy.
The woman flushed bright red until I thought she was going to explode.
Then the four teachers tried to usher me away from the podium, one getting in a sneaky rabbit punch to the left kidney. I protested and a scuffle broke out. Some fucker kicked me in the shin. Then a voice called out for security and I broke free. I ran over and grabbed the blonde girl by the hand,
‘Load the literary guns,’ I shouted over my shoulder as we ran out of there.
Outside, the girl looked at me and I looked at her,
‘You’re crazy,’ she said.
‘Possibly,’ I replied. ‘Know of any decent bars round here?’
I awoke in the cold grey light of another hung over morn. Where was I? I was in a bed. Who’s bed? Not my bed. Next to me was a girl, long blonde hair. I wondered vaguely if we’d fucked in the forgotten drunken night. I couldn’t remember any sex action, but it was possible. A former girlfriend once revealed she had fucked me after I passed out drunk. Apparently my dick was iron. ‘Best fuck we ever had,’ she told me with great satisfaction. Strangely I didn’t quite feel the same way.
Anyway, back to the Blonde girl. She was snoring lightly. I scanned the room. It was tiny, like a garret, disorganised, piles of clothes strewn everywhere. Some red wine stains splattered on a white wall. I found a beer can, half full, and took a hit.
The girls white arse was facing me. Not bad, I thought. I manoeuvred closer and began poking. Slowly, the girl began to rouse. She grabbed the shaft of my penis and slid it in. It didn’t last long, a few gasps and groans, and then it was all over. I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
We stayed in bed all morning, drinking flat beer, and re-counting my latest literary fuck up. I remarked on how intolerant liberal people are. How they always react badly to ideas and ways of life that differ to their own. In fact they react exactly like fascists.
When we ran out of drink I went to a shop and stocked up on booze and fags. Outside it was snowing, in April. It seemed like the end of the world. We stayed in bed all day, drinking and shagging. The girl wasn’t worried about condoms, but she didn’t want me to come inside her. She said I could do it in her mouth so I did. Fucked if I cared where it went as long as it went somewhere. The hours passed like ghost stories. Sunday came and went.
The girl kept talking about writing and art and other tedious shit. I pretended to pay attention. Then she showed me some examples of her writing, and asked me what I thought. I didn’t know what I thought; in fact I was beginning to wonder if I knew who I was anymore. The writing seemed like an essay or something, post-graduate shit. I mumbled a few meaningless words of encouragement, and told her to keep at it. I mean why not? It kills time and is far easier than taking a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.
Outside it was still snowing. The snow was pretty, strange, like a white dream. When we ran out of beer again, I volunteered to go to the shop once more. I noticed the girl didn’t appear to want to get out of bed. She’d been in bed for two days, drinking, sleeping, and shagging. The only time she left the room was to go to the toilet. She seemed nice, but crazy, and said some very random stuff. I knew I’d never see her again.
When I left the flat it was Monday morning, just another lost weekend. As I walked along in heavy falling snow I wondered if I might get fired from the shit job. The girl didn’t work, those types never do. When I got to the shop I kept walking. The train station wasn’t very far away.