Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (20 page)

By the way, do me a favor and ask Col. Campbell if he got that letter to Vanderbilt. I got a letter from them the other day, saying that they'd only received one letter of recommendation (Wayne Bell's).
²
If Campbell doesn't get his in immediately, it won't do any good. Tell John Edenfield hello for me and ask him if he can direct me to some source of gainful employment in his native environs. I'm going to need three fortunes to pay all these parking tickets.

At the moment, I'm concentrating on a young woman who may agree to share an apartment with me. Except for money, the future is bright indeed. But the paper seems to be running out: so I'll wrap it up and say cheerio …

Hunter

TO LIEUTENANT COLONEL FRANK CAMPBELL
:

Campbell was Thompson's most enthusiastic “fan”; in fact, he predicted that Thompson would someday be a “major league” writer, the “Hemingway of your generation.”

January 6, 1958
110 Morningside Drive
Apt. 53
New York, New York

General …

As you can see by my present address, Jerry Hawke's address got to me in the very nick of time: as a matter of fact, it arrived only hours before I left that wretched hole on the Susquehanna. At present, I am entrenched in a 6 × 10 room, paying a nominal rent, enjoying life immensely, and gaining an intimate insight as to the workings of the employment agency racket. I arrived here on Christmas Eve with the sum total of $110. I now have somewhere in the neighborhood of $35. The prospect of a job is vague and ominous. Naturally, I will eventually have to work … I suppose it's inevitable.

On the shelf to my left—every part of this room is within an arm's reach of the desk—lies a rough draft of a Thompson original which will, when complete, expose the employment agency racket much in the same manner as a razor blade cuts into a syphilis chancre. Needless to say, I have decided to write under the alias: Aldous Miller-Mencken.
³
With that name, how could I fail to burst like a Vanguard rocket on the American literary scene? You are, of course, familiar with the bursting habits of Vanguard rockets … vivid, but a trifle unpredictable. And I think that sums it up.

But let us hope that joy still reigns in Mudville … untempered as yet by the revelation that all literary effort is not honest, that all editors are not literary, and that the price of perception is unemployment. Let us remember that “all is for the best in this best of all possible worlds,” that education is a social garnishing rather than a tool fashioned by the intellect, and that “quality” is best measured by those who “use” a product, rather than by those who make it.

I speak, of course, of the world of journalism … as depicted at its lowest ebb by the
Jersey Shore Herald
and at it's highest by
The New York Times.
The scientific definition of sound tells us that a tree may fall in a forest and that no “sound,” as such, will be produced until the noise of its fall penetrates some living ear. Do you know the scientific definition of the term: “journalistic quality”? I don't … but there lingers in my mind the notion that the more pragmatically inclined newsmen of our day are well versed in the scientific definitions of such words as “sound,” “appreciation,” “functional,” and “profit.” And I wonder where such a term as “honest literary effort” fits into the one-dimensional picture we could paint with those four words.

I wonder if I could long work in a field where the demand for quality is determined by the taste and education of a mass not noted for any outstanding qualities save intellectual myopia and monetary greed. And then I wonder what field is not affected one way or another by the mass taste. And I also wonder if I'm trying to rationalize something I don't quite understand.

But fie on these unanswered queries and fie on those who pose them. There are stories to be written, drinks to be drunk, women to be ravished, and … alas, money to be made. We shall ride with the bouncing ball and fight gamely to avoid being on the bottom when it bounces … that is all ye know and all ye need to know. Amen.

By this time, I can only suppose that Fred [Fulkerson] has filled you in on my “adventures” in the noble burg of Jersey Shore. Most notably, they included a wild and somewhat unfortunate fling with the vivacious young daughter of one of the staff writers, several near-fistfights with both the editor and the shop foreman over “who was going to lay out the sports pages,” and finally, a sudden and unexpected disenchantment with the everyday world of journalism.

This disenchantment is greatly restrained, of course, by the knowledge of a possible—although very unlikely—free ride through the portals of Vandy. I take the College Board tests this Saturday at Columbia. Those results will in all probability—if I'm still in the running—decide whether I get the thing or not. And, speaking of “the thing,” I'd be interested to know just what the Vandy people had to say in that letter you got. If you still can't find it, then by all means fill me in on its contents.

I suppose it's a little silly to ask if you have any intimate contacts on any of the New York papers. Although, as I said, I'm not rabid to revel evermore in the world of newsprint, I could certainly use a job where I could put my limited experience to work. Right now, the only job I can wax enthusiastic about is one as a jack-of-all-trades in an art gallery on Madison Avenue. The pay is miserable, of course, but the work might be interesting. At any rate, I'm going to make another stab at it tomorrow. I shall keep you informed as to my work status.

Presuming that I do find a job in the near future, I plan to find a place of my own and really grind out the copy. If I can manage to sell anything at all by September, I'll be in great shape to pay for my ticket to the academic world. And after a few days of struggling with the New York job market, I find that I'd rather build my own figurative ladder than start at the bottom rung of the existing one. But that is in the future: as I said, I'll keep you informed.

Jerry is about to get himself to bed and I'll have to silence this machine. He says to tell you “hello” and all that sort of thing, and has taken to wondering
out loud about your failure to fill his mailbox. What he needs, I think, is a moral shot in the arm. For my part … I need money.

And on that sour note, I close. Until I hear from you, or until the mushroom cloud, I remain, as grim, greedy, and serious as ever.…

HUNTER

PS … I wrote Wasil
⁴
a note while under the influence of drink. Apologize for me, if necessary, for any misstatements or undue familiarity. After all, I depend on Wasil and his brothers in arms to keep my country safe. I am loath to offend him in any way.

Also give my best to Pauline,
⁵
Peter [Goodman], Fred [Fulkerson], and John [Edenfield] … and Pug. Yes, good old Pug: he was the apple of my eye and the pungent salt in my military soup.

And yes, you might inform [Robert] Rosan that a tenement house collapsed today at 180 Riverside Drive
⁶
 … killing and maiming hundreds of Puerto Ricans and other foreigners.

TO HENRY EICHELBURGER
:

Eichelburger was in his third year of studying biology and zoology at Tulane University. Thompson was looking to reap the fruits of an evening he had spent with “Ike” in the French Quarter, during which his friend did nothing but brag about all the women he had conquered one summer in New York.

January 9, 1958
110 Morningside Drive
Apt. 53
New York, New York

Dear Ike,

I trust this missive finds you healthy, wealthy, and striving for the dean's list. I wouldn't have you any other way, you know.

Seriously, by now I'm sure that you've noticed the return address and that you've heaved the called-for sigh of relief at the realization that I'm not about to descend on you again … so let me come immediately to the point.

The point is very biological, and that should suit you rather well. To be brief, I am in New York for an indefinite period and I'm desperately in
need of sexual satisfaction. I seem to remember now that you spent the summer up here in an apartment full of lusty young women. Where is that apartment: I must know. I would also like to know—just as soon as you can get a letter in the mail—any other names, places, addresses, and so forth, which would be of aid to a young rake prowling around this over-populated isle. Come now, I'm sure you must know hundreds of uninhibited women I can comfort in my own peculiar manner. No living human could spend an entire summer here without making innumerable vital contacts. And I am indeed serious: if you know any drunks, bums, whores, etc.—by all means clue me in. I have come to write my way to fame and fortune, and I need colorful material.

I shall await your material by return post.

On the explanatory side, the truth of the matter is that I'm here because I have no money to go anywhere else. I had enough, but it went. I must now work.

For the past month, I've been staying with three law students, one of whom was at Eglin with me. I live out by Columbia now, but intend to move elsewhere within two weeks. If you know any good places to live, fill me in on that too. I'd prefer the Village, of course, but will settle for almost anything cheap: the idea being to save some money to get into school next fall … not that I particularly look forward to going to school, but there are things I could learn more easily in an academic atmosphere than I could in a drunken, left-bank setting of some sort. And then too, there are things I could learn in a left-bank setting which I could never learn in school. But I suppose you know that by now.

As of now, I am unemployed. Within a week, I will have to have a job. I have a tentative one with
Time
magazine, but it isn't definite and I may have to load airplanes or something like that. Anything to get money. And for that matter, if you know of anyplace where I can get a job, by all means let me know immediately. […]

Until then, I remain, sincerely,

Hunter

TO CAROL OVERDORF
:

Thompson had read Sherwood Anderson's
Winesburg, Ohio
while working for the
Jersey Shore Herald.
Anderson's collective portrait of small-town “grotesques” fueled Thompson's disdain for “Rotarian America,” and he had sent his University of Chicago friend Overdorf, whom he had dated over the Christmas holidays while in Jersey Shore, a copy for Christmas. She found it dull.

January 15, 1958
110 Morningside Drive
Apt. 53
Winesburg, Ohio

Dear Carol,

If you think
Winesburg, Ohio
is a vicious satire on small towns, you should have your mind fumigated. And if you think Sherwood Anderson's people are “small town oddities,” then you'd better get out and live a little … and look in a mirror once in a while.

I liked your pithy analysis of aphrodisiac drinks … at least you aren't completely hopeless, anyway. I get the feeling every now and then that you might drown in Lake Michigan.

My mind is cloudy, but not with work vapors. My fortune has dwindled from $110 to $4.46 and days of heavy crisis are close at hand … a period of belt-tightening, blood, sweat, tears, and very possibly … work. Yes, it seems inevitable. We got a magnum of absinthe in from the Azores yesterday and spent a few merry moments early this morning doing controlled skids around Sheridan Square in the Village. I imagine I can last until the absinthe runs out: then I'm afraid I'll have to work. I can't even afford gas for my car anymore.

When I first began to sound out the job market—one or two days in late December—several excellent places appeared immediately. So naturally I stopped looking at once and concentrated on enjoying life until my money ran out. Well, the money ran out and so did the jobs. If there is a jesus, I feel sure he'll come to my aid. God is good.

Yes, all that talk about orgies was nonsense: I just thought it would make you feel better … to think that you'd unwittingly driven me into a sexual frenzy. And unaccustomed as I was, of course, to anything but young boys and clean old men, the entire affair was a bit tedious.

I enjoyed the way you parried my forthright attempt to move in with you … crude as hell, really: and actually you'd have been quite safe if you hadn't qualified your invitation, because I couldn't get to Chicago now if my life depended on it. Well, I suppose I could if I really placed any value on my life, but I honestly think I'd rather sit here and die à la Bodenheim.
⁷
Life is complicated enough—with all this worrying about money—without bothering oneself with thoughts of staying alive.

But I do hope you're enjoying your efforts at earning your daily bread and I hope your apartment has now become a showplace of some sort. I
too will have an apt soon … soon … soon. When I get a job. But I don't understand why you're leaving the bedroom unfurnished … why don't you breed mandrills in it?

And yes I do have guilt feelings about St. Louis: they were thick letters: and I guess I'm a little stupid for not going there instead of sinking into this abyss so willingly. But I will find a way.… I always find a way. I've got to believe that.

So cheerio … stay pure and smile as you wither.

Hunter

TO SALLY WILLIAMS
:

Sally Williams had moved from Eglin, where she had lived with her father, a colonel, to work as a beautician in Mobile, Alabama. Here Thompson toasts life as a “slacker.”

January 17, 1958
110 Morningside Drive
Apt. 53
New York, New York

Dear Looney,

Yes, it's me again: probably much to your surprise, if you're anything like several other people I've written to recently. Apparently, I don't give the impression of being the kind of person one ever hears from again … unless, of course, I happen to need money.