Ben is a second year Journalism and Creative Writing student at Kingston University. He is known by his friends as a Harold Ramis look-a-like, Harold Ramis being the director of Ghostbusters and Groundhog Day, and is considered to have the general aura of a 'wire', which he doesn't take to be a compliment. He has had several short stories and poems published in University magazines and his New Years resolution is to accept mediocrity.

BEN'S INFLUENCES

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CHARLES BUKOWSKI

Click image for Graham Rae's review of The Bukowski Tapes on the New Review section of this site; for biography and poetry by Bukowski on the Beat Page, click here or for related books and cd's on Amazon, click here

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KURT VONNEGUT

Click image to visit The Vonnegut Web; to visit Kurt Vonnegut's official website, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here.

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J.D. SALINGER

Click image to visit the Salinger.org website; for the Letters to J.D. Salinger website, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here

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WILL CHRISTOPHER BAER

Click image to visit Baer's official website; for Geoffrey H. Goodwin's interview with Baer on the Bookslut website, click here or for related books on Amazon, click here

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WILLY VLAUTIN

Click image for an interview with Vlautin on the New Review section of this website; for Vlautin's official website, click here or for related books on Amazon, click here

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JOHN FANTE

Leave a message for Ben on the SITE
FORUM

THREE BEERS AND TWO JOINTS

by
Ben Ashwell

Georgia dragged her matted brown hair across my chest as she rolled off me; letting out a small sigh of what I’d like to think was ecstasy.

She lit a joint and turned on the radio, while I tried to remember what had just happened. We’d shared another two crates of beer and fallen into bed together. I closed my eyes and imagined myself as a kid, laying upside down on a swing and letting the world spin above and beneath me. I was interrupted by the joint Georgia was sliding between my parted lips.

“I’m leaving Joe. I’m going away”.

I’ve tried to recall the tone she said this in but to be honest I was concentrating more on not letting the bed slide out from underneath me than I was on what she was saying.

“Sounds good. Just don’t forget to write”.

“No, I’m serious. My Dad’s sick and I’m going to visit. I don’t know when I’ll be back”.

She normally pissed about when we got stoned. I was too fucked to put up with it.

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow”, she said in the same way she had sighed earlier, turning away to keep the answer to herself.

“Well shit girl, you’d better pack”, I said, not caring much for how morbid she’d become. “Why the fuck are we lying in bed?”

I leaped up and found a holdall in the wardrobe. I started throwing underwear in. “You’re certainly gonna need lots of underwear honey. I hear hospital plumbing ain’t what it used to be”, I announced, doing my best imitation of an American Casanova, something I certainly wasn’t. I was a skinny English alcoholic whose torso hadn’t seen sunlight in years.

“Come on Joe, I’m being serious. I only found out today”.

I looked across the room and saw the honesty in her passive eyes, lurking somewhere behind her black mascara. I cracked open another beer and slumped back onto the bed. She leaned over and kissed my cheek while I sucked the suds from the top of the beer.

“I wish you’d care a bit more. I’m gonna be gone for a while”.

I realised that her saliva on my cheek was now mixing with her salty tears, thin and black and staining the bed sheets. I cradled her like I cared, not knowing that I actually did.

“I’m sorry baby. What’s wrong with your Dad?”

“He had a stroke, playing golf yesterday. Dropped down right there on the course”, she sniffed, wiping her nose on the duvet beneath us.

“What hospital is he at?” I tried my best to put on an understanding voice but the joint wasn’t sitting too well on top of the beers.

“Central Manchester, in his own private room”.

“You said your parents lived by the sea, in Brighton”. All sympathy drained from my voice. I kept hold of her and I felt the skin on her forehead crease against my arm.

“They moved. A couple weeks ago. That’s probably what the stroke’s about.”

She pulled her face up and leaned in to kiss me. Our lips met and I felt her passion like a vice. I didn’t move my mouth, even when her tongue licked my teeth.

“I wish…I didn’t have to…” I waited with baited breath for her to stop kissing me and finish her sentence. “Go”.

I turned my mouth away from hers and let her kiss my neck.

“You’re not coming back”, I exhaled, rather than spoke. She stopped kissing me and looked at my eyes. I didn’t turn to face her, knowing that all I’d see was the same passive look as before; the look I’d confused for honesty.

She turned over and drifted off to sleep, quicker than I was able to get out of the bed. I sat up and listened to her breathing, trying to soak it in. There was no point in waking her, or even shouting. She was leaving tomorrow whatever I did.

The radio was playing white noise and the beer tasted like metal. I drank it anyway and smoked all the weed we had left between us. The only thing I could take from her: three beers and two joints.

The last thing I remember was seeing the time. It was 4.48am.

© Ben Ashwell
Reproduced with permission