I mention to Andrew Gallix that I’ll be in London for a few days - maybe we’ll run into each other, have a couple of pints. He says "I’ll contact some people, make it a get together." Next thing I know, I’m meeting all these famous writers, editors, publishers; at the British Film Institute no less.
Get there, walk around lost, see a mime performing before a seated audience outside one of the buildings. A sign says ‘entrance’ with direction arrow. Go up three flights of stairs, find myself at street level facing the Thames. Go back down, fellow says - the main entrance is that way, under Waterloo Bridge.
Long tables, benches, outdoors, crowds of people drinking, talking, early evening. Spot Matthew Coleman and others at one of the tables. Walk over and sit down. "Hello" he says, wondering who the hell I am. "Hello" I cleverly respond. Suppose it’s the accent or the clothes "you...must be Mike, from South Dakota." Tells me he’s just finished his novella. Out celebrating last night, woke up in some hotel but didn’t know which one.
Introduces me to the others, among them Lee Rourke, Andrew Stevens, a pretty girl named Kate who’s taking notes in a memo book. Coleman asks what I’ve written. Tell him I submitted a piece to Scarecrow but haven’t heard back. "Goddamn Rourke" he says "I read all these submissions, pass ‘em along, and...nothing." "The next issue" says Rourke "will be out...sometime soon."
Vim Cortez shows up. I tell Coleman I also submitted something to The Paris Bitter Heart's Pit. "I don’t remember it" says Vim. "But you said you liked it" I remind him. "Then I must have" he says.
But I learn some things - Guiness isn’t half bad, Stella Artois is terrible, but lager’s great. Damn good stuff. Joseph Ridgwell wants to argue about the genocide of American Indians and the plight of the poor. We disagree, but all in fun. Calls me "an old geezer." I challenge him to a foot race. "Ees taikin ‘is coat off" I say, in my best Ian Hunter imitation. But that’s twenty-some years ago, maybe I am an old geezer.
Ridgewell insists you have to read Mark SaFranko. "Everything else is just doggerel." People come and go, rounds of Guiness and lager. Andrew Gallix shows up. I give him a couple of books by Levi Asher, Bill Ectric, Henry Baum. Tell him I wrote them under various pseudonyms. Heidi James comes by. I hand her a copy of my manuscript. I’d sent her an email copy previously. "I don’t remember it" she says.
Ridgewell starts to read it "the title sucks; I can tell you that right off." Vim Cortez moves the party inside to one of the fancy bars. No problem except you can’t smoke inside London pubs. A tragedy. Lawrence Seftel informs me that you can’t smoke in LA or New York bars either. Damn, glad I live in Dakota. Also tells me he just sold his screenplay to a Hollywood producer. Man, some really creative people here.
Later Richard Marshall recalls his first submission to 3:AM Magazine, years and years ago - interview of Richard Hell. "The real genius" says Marshall "was that Gallix immediately recognized the importance of that article." "You should come back to work for us" says Gallix.
But it’s getting late. Coleman’s eyes are half-shut. "They always are" he says. Ridgewell tops it off with a bottle of champagne, glasses for everyone. Then the lights come on. I stumble out, looking for a bathroom. Lost again, trying to find a tube station. Now I know what it feels like for bleary-eyed riders on the underground. But what a night.