Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (106 page)

Scott Meredith

580 Fifth Ave.

New York City 36

Dear Scott:

This is to formalize a decision that I made quite a while ago, to wit: that I'd like to terminate our relationship as soon as possible. I know the contract says you can hold me until December 15 of this year—and I have enough money to hold out until then, if necessary (by that I mean I can go without writing anything more)—but in the interest of common sense and decency you can do us both a favor by cutting the cord amicably and at once.

I've given this thing a lot of thought and if you're curious about reasons I think you can find most of them in various letters I've sent you. The main one, of course, is that I don't believe you exist. I've said that pretty often before and maybe you thought I was kidding, but I wasn't. I've never seen you or heard your voice even on the phone, and the only time I came to New York you were too busy to see me. As far as I'm concerned my “agents” in New York are a tribe of people, totally unknown to me, who for some reason are allowed to use your name. Every letter I get from your agency is signed by a different person … and the last one somehow cut me out of $1000 from the
Ladies' Home Journal
, telling me I wouldn't have enough time to do it when I'd all but finished the piece. Beyond that, I'd agreed to write the goddamn thing three days before your man got around to telling me about the offer.

Don't bother to send me another letter like that last one … telling me what a stupid, naive, ungrateful prick I am, because none of that has any real bearing on our relationship as writer and agent. I am probably worse than you think, as a person, but what the hell? When I get hungry for personal judgment on myself I'll call for a priest.

As for the two-book contract Devaney arranged before quitting your agency, I have yet to run across anyone who doesn't consider it a rotten contract. It is, in fact, a wretched, predatory document, and the fact that you seem to be the only person in New York who thinks it's a good deal for me (according to your letter) is a main point in my decision to end our relationship.

Further, I have no intention of being bound by that contract and I've told Random House that I don't want any more of their advances. This was something I was very anxious to deal with when I came to New York, but Devaney didn't want any part of the argument and you weren't available. I managed, on my own, to negotiate a better deal on the
Hell's Angels
contract, despite the fact that you told me it couldn't be done.

My only project for this summer and fall is The Rum Diary. I made this decision two weeks ago and noted it in the enclosed letter that I didn't mail in the chaos of moving, sickness, deadlines, etc. All I want right now is a bit of peace and quiet: some days to write at night and bang around on my bike during the day. The Rum Diary will be finished sometime in the fall and I suppose, considering the terms of the contract, that you'll want some kind of percentage on it. If you want anything beyond a token fee, however (for getting me into a contract that I have to break), I suggest you weigh the advantages of a small financial return against absolute certainty of a lifetime (mine) of bad advertisements.

Anyway, the point I mean to make about The Rum Diary is that it's the only book that's going to be delivered on that stinking contract … and if it weren't already written, needing only a quick rewrite and a lot of cutting, I wouldn't even deliver that. Maybe you're right … that I really am a lucky low-life bastard to even be allowed to stand in line for the literary dole … and in that case you'd look a bit foolish hanging onto my coat-tails for ten percent. But do whatever you want, and by all means let me know … along with sending those checks (less your fee, of course, for the French and Brazilian rights). As for the
Harper's
piece, I'm still working on it. That's about it from this end. Fire at will. Sincerely.…

Hunter S. Thompson

TO TOM WOLFE:

May 24, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado

Dear Tom.…

I'm back here in one of those square-shaped states, digging in for the duration of the crisis with an invalid, pregnant wife, a new bike and so many bouncing checks that not even a best-seller can pull me out.
Hell's Angels
sales are tailing off at about 25,000, of which I got 10%. Not a hell of a lot of money for two years of my life, but I can think of worse ways to make a living. It beats the hell out of writing for the
National Observer
 … we parted company over the Goldwater convention and the Berkeley FSM demonstrations. I don't miss that gig at all.

It's 4:00 here and I want to get this off before you move out for Da Nang or someplace like that. For christ's sake take it easy over there; the whole war isn't worth a rat's ass, much less yours. I'm going to register next year, for the sole purpose of voting against Johnson, regardless of who runs against him. I won't go into any life details until I'm sure I have the right address. Is this it?

Mine (the Owl Farm) is more or less permanent, but the Random House address is OK too. I have a novel to finish by the end of the summer and another non-fiction book that we haven't figured out a subject for yet. If you have any solid ideas about these anti-social types you mentioned—like any good contacts in some specific area—let me know and I'll ponder. Life in the Rockies is good, but I don't want to go stale. Maybe I'll see you in Vietnam; I'm trying to get
Esquire
to let me do a profile on [General William] Westmoreland. Send word on your movements, dates, etc.

Ciao,
Hunter

May 27, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado

Dear Mr. Shecnk [sic]:

Or however you spell your name—my apologies, of course, for not getting it right. Anyway, I wasn't particularly bothered by the cheap, pompous and self-serving tone of your review of my book in
Ramparts
—but when you did it again on McBird I figured you were really looking for an argument with the people that you might, in some better world, have agreed with—so allow me to introduce myself as the man who's going to take your head off at the first good opportunity. It will probably be a while and—oddly enough—I don't feel any sense of personal animosity about it—but you strike me as a bellowing, greedy phony—in the same discount league with Tim Leary and Alan Watts—and that automatically makes you fair game.

Again—nothing personal. But since you persist in your old-womanish view of almost everything—and especially because of your obvious lack of decency, graciousness and humanity—which translates as a common form of cheap meanness—I can't avoid the obligation to deal with
you … the Dean Rusk of the underground. I look forward to reviewing your next book.

Sincerely.…
Hunter S. Thompson

FROM CHARLES KURALT:

June 1, 1967
New York

Dear Hunter,

The $110 I'd rather just let hang there. Of course it was my money, but I don't need it. I need a hell of a lot more than that because the IRS just counted up all the days I
was
in the country in 1960–1963 when I told them I wasn't in the country at all. As for this specific $110 I would rather drink it up all at once with you some night, or at least carry in the back of my mind the promise of same.

The book is good, really good. I read it at a sitting, and read the best parts again. You write damned well, which I guess I knew all along but of course I've never had a chance to read extended Thompson before, and it really pleased me. The notices I've seen were all great, the ads were big and imposing, and withal, a
succès d'estime
, and I hope as big a success financially.

I am so late in replying because I have been covering an expedition to the North Pole, 40 below, frozen beard, muskox stew, the whole thing. Two months of it and I just got back. Came back through San Francisco and thought to call you, only to realize I couldn't remember the street or your phone number, and on thinking about it decided in your literary success you'd probably forsaken that Chinaman anyway. Owl Farm, very well. I may come see you … there or in California. As soon as we finish editing The White Hell or whatever we end up calling it, I'm going to do a tour around the country doing rural stories for Cronkite in a kind of
Travels with Charley
vein, only Charley, come to think of it, was a dog. Anyway, I should like very much to have an evening together. I have thought of a lot of things to tell you over the months, and I want to hear about your confrontation with the Publishing World. I had occasion to say Hunter Thompson,
Hell's Angels
on the radio before I left for the Arctic, by the way, so consider Selma Shapiro repaid for her two copies, East Coast and West Coast editions.

I think it is nice that Sandy is pregnant. Petie, who has always been one of your champions (against the
Los Angeles Times
cabal as I recall) and who also liked the book, says hello.

As ever,
Charles

June 5, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado

Don Erikson

Esquire

488 Madison Ave.

NYC 22

Dear Don:

Here's another quick idea, and if somebody else has already done it I plead ignorance. I was thinking of a piece on the Reagan-Kuchel split in California, but I just read a
Chicago Daily News
piece saying Reagan is going to call his dogs off Kuchel in 1968 so he can face the GOP convention as the “man who restored unity to California Republicanism.” This would preclude a vicious primary fight for Kuchel's Senate seat.

So I sort of lost interest in that one … until, way down in the story, I saw where Kuchel's 1968 campaign is being handled by Spencer-Roberts—the same L.A. public relations firm that handled Reagan in 1966 and Rocky [Nelson Rockefeller] in the crucial 1964 primary. And it occurred to me that maybe Spencer-Roberts might make an interesting article, for you or somebody else. Think about that.

This is obviously a high-powered outfit; its operations influence national politics on the highest level—and the only time they get any press is a few weeks out of every election year. Who are they? What are they up to? And why? And what are the implications of a super-successful Public (political) Relations firm?

Anyway, it looks like a good seed. What do you think? I'm not offering it to you, just casting around for interest, bids, rejections, etc. I see it as a piece for about January 1968, so there's no hurry in getting on it. But if you like the idea, let me know and we can talk seriously about it. I haven't mentioned it to anyone else (editors), and I probably won't for ten days or so, because I'm scrambling desperately to finish a long-overdue
Harper's
piece. I sprained my wrist about two days ago and today I nearly tore my leg off trying to ski down a mountain on a motorcycle. Beyond that my wife has become an invalid and my lawyer flipped his wig on the coast and came out here to avoid being committed, causing me no end of trouble.

So I won't be ready for any new travel for a few weeks, at best. Send a line when you have time. Thanks.…

Hunter S. Thompson

June 6, 1967
Woody Creek, Colorado

Dear Godspeed.…

Your note came today. Good. I've blown every deadline I've had for the past two months and it's good to find somebody with a schedule as fucked up as mine. The action here for the past two months has been unbelievable. All at once I got evicted, my wife went into a lingering two-month miscarriage and my lawyer came out from San Francisco and flipped out so badly that two sheriff's deputies took him one Saturday night 200 miles across mountains to the state loony bin. I'm still dealing with that; he was picked up with a pound of grass and then tore up the jail. This is the black-suit tax lawyer. Those people are going under. Beware—they're going to take us down with them. You too. I've heard their plans.

As for [Art] Kunkin, I sent him a dirty screed and fuck him if he doesn't publish it. Larry Lack
¹¹
wrote and said they would; he also said the review was “gratuitous character assassination,” which hardly matters. But I guess I don't understand that kind of journalism. Anyway, I got that out of my spleen so don't worry about it polluting anything I write for you. Or maybe not much … I still want to talk a bit about old beatniks. We'll see. As for acid, thanks but I'm suddenly OK. There's so much dope in the air that I'm beginning to wonder if maybe Owsley
¹²
hasn't struck a bargain with Pat Nugent.
¹³
People keep showing up at the house with all kinds of drugs. They bring light-boxes and guns. And motorcycle parts … all of it for sale. And now Ralph Ginzburg
¹⁴
is sending a Kerista
¹⁵
team out for my impression. And my lawyer is in the loony bin. I came out here to hide from all that. All these people are hippies, very hairy people, full of flower power … they want to sell me things like surplus army carbines and stolen machinery, along with the acid. Where have all the holy men gone? [Charles] Starkweather was right, and [Charles] Whitman too.

Anyway, for a good many reasons I can't explain, I've been writing a completely different piece for you (sort of an extra), but for the same kind of reasons I'm writing it under a phony name. Jefferson Rank. The local vigilantes would croak me if they knew. And the hippies might do worse. They're moving
in, huge tribes, bent on taking over the county. Death stalks the back roads: people are being torn apart and jammed in unmarked graves. It's a secret civil war. And Jefferson Rank is on the scene, absorbing the whole story—wild shrieks in the night, dog packs, flutes screaming in unison, ugly behavior. There may be a story in it. I'll get the other first, but keep this one in mind. It will scare the shit out of any hippie who plans on a trip back to the land. The siege of Woody Creek will go down in history as the Watershed of Dope. Take my word for it … or rather the word of … Jefferson Rank.