Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (29 page)

The black Jaguar.
(P
HOTO BY
R
OBERT
W. B
ONE
;
COURTESY OF
HST C
OLLECTION
)

1959

PRINCE JELLYFISH GOES TO THE CATSKILLS … FIRED FROM THE MIDDLETOWN DAILY RECORD … SOWING THE SEEDS OF A STRANGE AND FATAL COMPULSION … DON QUIXOTE FLEES TO PUERTO RICO …

I'd been living there for about a year when the basement began to cave in. The combined pressure of spring rains and melting snow was too much for the rock-dirt walls, and they crumbled like rotten river banks in a flood; collapsing, slowly but surely, into a mud bog that grew an inch or two deeper with each passing day. The landlord, too lazy and too blind to make the repairs himself, declined to take action for almost three weeks. It was only when the mud began to bury the hot-water heater that the indolent old bastard agreed to do something about it.

 

 

TO ANN FRICK
:

Thompson spent the holidays in Louisville dating hometown girls, but none of them measured up to Frick. Tired of the ambiguity in their relationship, he became determined that she move to New York.

January 7, 1959
57 Perry Street
New York City
(the first Hunterletter of the new year.…)

Dear Ann,

I pause in the midst of what should be my best story to date—if I don't sell something soon I may give up the ghost altogether and turn to beachcombing—to inform you that I have lately come to doubt your existence! Something drastic must be done about this, for I find it increasingly difficult to have faith in what might possibly be a figment of my imagination. But perhaps I should explain instead of rambling on in this desperate key.

When I got back to New York this last summer—and later when my mailbox began yielding excellent Annletters—I had no difficulty in measuring all the girls I ran across against the time-tested “Tallahassee standard.” They all fell short, of course, and after a while I found that my only problem lay in getting hold of you some way in order to make SURE I was right. This worked well as long as I stayed in New York, for all the world knows that the Yankee species of american womanhood is distinctly second-rate. A problem arose, however, when I got to Louisville.…

Upon returning to the womb for my annual holiday visit I found that, while most of the girls I used to date have literally gone to waste—withered, dulled, dissipated, etc.—a small but choice minority of them were head and shoulders above their northern counterparts and therefore surprisingly acceptable to my somewhat jaded eye. I was fairly happy for a time, feeling that women were worthwhile after all, but then I fell to using my “Tallahassee standard” again and the trouble began. I was dumbfounded
to find that, although Bluegrass womanhood far outclassed the Yankee variety, they somehow fell obviously short of the mark you made and then re-made during my short but numerous visits to the land of the orange moon and the spanish moss.

If all this is true and I have not deceived myself, then obviously either I should be in Tallahassee or you should be in New York; anything else would be folly. HOWEVER, I have but ONE DAY and several letters to put flesh and blood in the “Tallahassee standard” over the course of the past year and a half. I have an excellent memory and a prodigious imagination, but memory and imagination can do only so much. IDEA—AFTER MUCH THOUGHT: why don't you come to New York with your friends in February? Something is going to have to be done because I don't know how much longer I can carry a vision around in my head which makes a “reject” out of every girl I run across. (Now all I need is to go back to New York and find one of these “so long, it was nice while it lasted but I've decided to settle down” letters from you. That would definitely complete the cycle.)

At any rate I plan to be back there by this Sunday. I should add that the Thompson fortunes are once more adrift in treacherous seas: I gave up on
Time
right before Christmas and decided that I needed nothing more than a rest and someone to cook breakfast for me in the mornings, so I came home and my stay has been excellent. I'm a little restless now, though, and the time has come for me to rush back into battle. Actually, I was seriously planning to come bounding down your way, but with both Laurie
¹
and [Tom] Sealey gone I'd have had to impose on your hospitality and I didn't think that would be the best thing. The next month or so should be wild and woolly and I don't know how much longer I can stand New York so how about sending me the latest news on your pending springtime visit? I'll be in New York by the time you get this, so drop me a line as soon as you can. The idea of going back to look for a job in that madhouse is enough to give a man the shakes. So until then, I remain, inconsistently.…

Hunter

TO ANN FRICK
:

Typing with an injured thumb, the result of a Greenwich Village bar fight, Thompson continued to demand that Ann visit New York.

January 23, 1959
New York City

Dear Ann,

I hate to begin this letter because it seems like such a poor substitute for what I'd really like to do. I'm tired of writing to you and tired of talking to you on the phone. I want to see you and touch you and try to convince myself that you're real.

I frankly don't believe it. Your voice comes over the phone and your letters come in the mail, but there's precious little flesh and blood and warmth in any of it. The pictures help tremendously, but they're not very warm either.

This prolonged a separation would normally spell doom for any relationship, but somehow you've managed to retain a firm grip on the top rung. This is a little vague, of course, but I usually find it difficult to be anything but amusing in letters—and besides, I have a sprained thumb which makes typing very difficult.

What I mean to say, I suppose, is that I've fallen into some kind of “condition” where you're concerned. Whether it's that vague something called “love” or not, I really can't say. Whatever it is, though, I'm afraid it's something that's going to have to be resolved one way or another. And for a number of reasons, I'd say it was something that could best be resolved
away
from Tallahassee. Your calls unnerve me, your letters frustrate me, and the idea of having you around for any length of time excites me to a fever pitch. In short—barring some kind of a tragedy—you're going to have to get up this way in the spring. I think you can understand that another Hunter-visit to Tallahassee is not going to accomplish much.

I'm finding it increasingly difficult to write to you because there are so many things I'd like to say that I simply can't say with a typewriter. I'm back in New York for the weekend, but I'll be back in Middletown on Sunday. I'll be up there for at least another week and possibly longer. None of this will be definite for a week or so and there's no sense in my explaining something which may not be worth explaining. I'm sorry I was so useless on the phone the other night, but I've never been very good at making passionate sense across sixteen hundred miles of copper wire. But it was more than good to talk to you and I only wish we weren't so blasted far apart. I think I can make it until spring, but that will be just about the end of my rope as far as waiting is concerned. Plan definitely on coming then.

My thumb is bothering the hell out of me and I'm going to have to give it a rest. Another letter will follow this one when things are more settled.
Until then, write as soon as you can and don't change your hair—I like it the way it is in the latest snapshot.

Love,
Hunter

TO VIRGINIA THOMPSON
:

Fired from
Time
for insubordination, Thompson finally landed a job he wanted, as a reporter for the
Middletown Daily Record
in upstate New York. Eager for mobility, he wrote his mother to wheedle a loan for a black 1951 Jaguar he had found for $550.

January 31, 1959
Middletown, New York

Dear Mom,

Sorry I haven't written, but I've had a definite reason which I'm sure you'll understand by the time you've finished this letter. I suppose that part of it was explained in my telegram, but here's the whole story.

I'd been back here for several days, sizing up the job situation and talking to people here and there, when one of the employment agencies called and said they had a good job for me on a paper in Middletown, New York. I was a little hesitant, but so low on money that I decided to look into it.

Frankly, it turned out to be one of the best deals in contemporary journalism for anyone my age—or, perhaps I should say, my age according to the application form. The key to the whole thing—and the terrifying proposals due to come later in the letter—lies in my “methód of operation” in getting the job. I applied on the grounds that I was (1) a college graduate, (2) that I was 23 years old, and (3) that I've had a great raft of experience as a reporter. None of these are true, of course, and I've been expecting at any moment to be “unmasked” and rushed off the premises as a dangerous undesirable of some sort. This is the reason for my not writing. The idea of writing and telling you all about the great job I had, and then having to write and say I'd been fired, was simply out of the question. I've barely mentioned it to anyone. I haven't even let myself feel the slightest bit elated, for fear of the sudden downfall which might have come at any time. It all boils down to the fact that this whole thing has been a monstrous gamble which has somehow worked. Here it is in a nutshell:

When I came back from my first interview I went down to talk to Lou Miller at the
World-Telegram
and you have the letter I wrote after that. That letter was the last optimistic word or thought I've uttered since I went
back to Middletown to start the two-week trial period. Well, they told me on Thursday that my work had been “top-notch” and that they wanted me to stay—provided, of course, that I got a car immediately if not sooner.

Before I get to that, let me explain what kind of deal this is. The
Middletown Record
is a two-and-a-half year-old experimental newspaper. The only cold-type offset paper (daily) in the country, it's been a booming success and has been written up in
Time, Editor & Publisher,
and a good many other trade magazines. There's only one man on the news staff over 35 and most of the boys are between 23 and 30. The circulation area covers three counties and the paper has three bureaus. Most of the reporters average about 75 miles a day on the road and all of them are photographers as well as writers. Naturally, I told them I was an experienced photographer and miraculously came up with a picture the other day which was good enough for page one (see enclosed). I'll have to buy my own camera later on, but we can't worry about that now.