Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

03. William Burroughs, Beat Legend

Carnival of Light

03.

I'd been stuck on my novel for nearly a year, but I still wrote for at least three hours every day, and I had a stack of short stories and finished poems sitting on my desk to prove it. I was determined to find homes for some of those pieces while I finished my novel, so I wrote to publishers, editors, and my independent press contacts, and near the end of February 1966, I met the author of Junkie and Naked Lunch, William Burroughs, personal friend of Sue and Barry Miles.

I chose a black velvet mini dress for the occasion, its square neck and three quarter sleeves demure compared to its hemline, with black tights and black patent leather shoes with gold buckles. No make up. I never wore makeup back then. I trimmed my fringe in the mirror to make it fall just right— not too heavy and slightly split at the middle.

I met Miles and Sue for dinner in Chelsea before we headed over to Burroughs' flat near Grosvenor Square. We were buzzed up to the flat, which opened into a well-lived-in sitting room, hazy and blue with cigarette smoke. Burroughs, a long and leathery man with round black spectacles, was draped across a sofa, speaking to a chap with remarkable sideburns. They both wore suits and had drinks and cigarettes on the go. A younger man with a cigarette pinched between his teeth was laboring over what looked like an elaborate stereo system with a tape recorder built into it. There was a large stack of tape reels and a collection of records organized beside it.

"Alright, Miles, Sue," Burroughs greeted us gruffly. He looked down his nose at me. "Who's this?"

"Beatrix Beauford," I shrugged out of my coat. "How do you do."

"Nice accent," Burroughs observed. "You wanna martini? There's vodka in the freezer. Vermouth on the side." 

"I got it," the bloke with the sideburns stood and gave me a wave. "Antony."

"He makes movies with me," Burroughs grunted, taking a drag off his cigarette. He hiked his thumb at the man near the stereo. "That's Ian."

"Alright," Ian said distractedly, absorbed in his task.

Paul suddenly appeared out of another room, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he examined a bulky piece of recording equipment. He was wearing dark trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows, no tie. He joined Ian at the stereo and they spoke in low, serious voices.

I hadn't known Paul would be there, and seeing him again made something tug at me, urging me to go over to him. I tried not to analyze it. I'd enjoyed his company at Sue and Miles's—he was warm and charming, how could you not like him? And he was obviously very nice to look at. Like right now. He was tall and lean, his hair glossy and black, his face very pretty.

I accepted a hastily-made vodka "martini" – cold vodka and a splash of vermouth– served in a tumbler and watched Paul from the corner of my eye. I had the strongest urge to cross the room toward him.

"Alright, Paul," Miles said cheerfully.

"Alright," Paul looked up to acknowledge us.

He saw me, and his eyes swept over me. He took a drag off his cigarette and stared openly at my legs, licking his bottom lip then exhaling a plume of smoke.

I turned away, flustered and unused to that sort of shameless scrutiny. I accepted a fag from Antony and sat beside Burroughs— I was there to speak to a living legend about my writing. Not to have my legs ogled by one of the bloody Beatles.

"Hello, Mr Burroughs," I offered him my hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Call me Bill, honey," he said gruffly, shaking my hand. He lit a fresh cigarette and sat back. "How d'you know Miles?"