Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (42 page)

Although I'm not sure it will benefit anyone concerned, I think it's vitally important that she understand that the responsibility for her happiness, or lack of it, does not rest with me or whoever else might in the future be the subject of this “vital love.”

You may tell her about this letter if you want, but I think it might tend to bias your words if you do so. Do whatever you think best, for I have no right to swear you to silence without your prior consent.

[…] I may go to Cuba in a few weeks. Money to be made there, also a little excitement. Things here are the same. Sandy is home now, and is cooking a fish dinner. I am drinking wine, writing an article for the
Trib
, and reading many books on Cuba. Let us know what you think about taking this apartment.

Cheers:
Hunter

The McGarrs were preparing to leave Spain and return home to New York
.

August 26, 1960
New York City

Mira, Mira!

Your mass of letters served only to confuse and depress us. The death of Murphy
¹⁶
seemed tragic at first; and then, after some thought, I began to feel it was also poetic in its appropriateness. This, contrary to what you might think, is not a harsh judgment on Dick. I don't subscribe to the theory that every traffic death is a social tragedy and a sob-sister's field day. He did not see his death as a tragedy, because he did not see it at all. In that, he was spared the one genuine element of tragic death—the terrible hours of waiting, considering, pondering, reflecting, and the final realization of his own smallness, weakness, futility, and inability to rise to the heights from which real tragedy must plunge.

Perhaps he never had a chance to climb, but he wasn't breaking his back on the ladder when I knew him, and I doubt he ever would have. He was living exactly as he died: haphazardly, looking for an honest handle, and going as fast as he could in every direction. He was an honest but none too diligent seeker, and I have as much sympathy for him as I would have for myself if I died tomorrow. Dissipated potential is never so sad as when it finally admits defeat, and these are the tragic hours—between surrender
and death. Murphy never surrendered—at least, never in his own eyes—and when he died he was still moving. This is not tragedy, and, in a strange way, I even envy him. If my own death is that sudden and dramatic, I will have been spared more than I deserve.

This is a new typewriter, just bought today, and competence is difficult. Bear with me. Also wine.

We are sending a list of cheap boats. Maybe they will be helpful.

If you need money, say how much and we will borrow it.

Don't worry about apartments. You can stay here, whether we're here or not. The rent will be a bitch, but it will come from somewhere. There is also a chance of getting the place across the hall. Same as this, not bad at all.

This “draft” business is the most deadly item on today's agenda. McGarr, if you aren't capable of tying these people in knots, I'll lose all faith in you. Right now, you're in a good position to deal with them. You're an artist, living in Spain, and you have seen enough to lose all faith in the “American Way.” You will not fight for it unless forced, you think the military uniform of the U.S. is a disgrace to the human spirit, and you literally dare them to draft you. Never touch a form; write long and violent letters, addressed to presidents and commanding generals and such. Don't deal with peons, and never talk their language. Let's face it—they don't need you. McGarr is nothing but a number, just a flabby boob from Queens who'll fill a quota. Balls to this, McGarr! Don't you have enough guts to deal with them? Don't you have better things to do than sit in a torture chamber for two years? Tell them you're queer, communist, Castroist; to hell with the draft board and everything it stands for.

This should take care of essentials. Deal with these & don't worry about the rest. I'll write Eleanor and fill in the blanks.

Cheers,
Hunter

August 28, 1960
New York City

Dear Eleanor:

In a flash of pure irony, Sandy got hold of your letter to me in almost exactly the same way I found yours to her: picked it up, thinking it was hers, etc. Anyway, we've gone into the subject at some length, and our conclusions would take up too much space to be dealt with in a letter. In essence, she is more worried about the “vacuum” than I am. After writing that letter
to you, I held onto it for a day, and thought about what I said. I decided that Sandy has one of the most valuable and unique talents that I've ever run across: she has managed to live with me, tolerate my greedy, vicious and abominable ways, and make me happy at the same time. This honestly surprises me, and I can think of few talents that strike me as more admirable or deserving of appreciation.

So much for that. We shall have to discuss the whole idea at a later date.

I am enclosing a poem which you may enjoy. It is my third attempt at poetry in three years, and I don't expect to attempt another until next summer.

The (white paper) letter was written last night in a frenzy of wine. Rather than re-write it, I'm sending it along as it is.

Semonin will find out on Monday if he's been accepted for a teaching job (private high school, art) in Rome. If he makes it, you will probably see him soon. If he doesn't, he will winter in Colorado.

Sandy goes to Deland on October 1, and I am still beating the journalistic bushes to find somebody willing to pay my way to Cuba. I will probably get there, but I'm not sure how or why.

Fatboy's demand that I give him a quick run-down on the situation in Latin America (The Meaning, Machinations & Inevitable Consequences of Short-Sighted Capitalism in Undeveloped Areas) is more than I can deal with. At the moment, I'm well-grounded in conflicting generalities and embarrassingly naked of facts and details. The
Time
comment on the fall of the Arbenz govt. in Guatemala is essentially correct.
¹⁷
We have supported every dictator in Latam [Latin America], and now we are paying for it. A U.S. military mission was training Batista's troops right up until the day he fled the country and left it to Castro—in spite of repeated protests by Castro supporters in this country. The Batista AF, flying British planes, was using U.S.-made rockets on rebel soldiers as late as 1958. This will give you some idea of why Fidel does not particularly dig our State Department. The story is much deeper than this, and goes back to 1898, when we helped Cuba gain her “independence” from Spain. This, too, will have to be discussed when we have more time. I am enclosing a clipping on PR that is better than nothing.

My novel has now bounced for the third time, and I've decided to break it up into short stories (2 or 3) and try a new one. I have two decent stories circulating (through a good agent) and another about finished. I think the new novel will do the trick, but, as usual, I will have to find the time and the money to write it in peace. God knows how this will come about, but
somehow it will. If I were working half as hard as Sandy said I was, I'd probably have the damn thing finished by now. I have become lazy, pudgy, and more noisy than productive. If I weren't so sure of my destiny, I might even say I was depressed. But I'm not, and there's always tomorrow's mail.

I leave you with that. Also with my poem, my clipping, and my promise to talk you into a stupor when you get back. Let us know what we can do to help. Don't worry about your money; I'm just having trouble getting my hands on it.

Cheers, HST

Thompson couldn't resist replying to a
New York Times
classified ad seeking “writers (2) who dig facts.”

September 11, 1960
c/o Conklin
107 Thompson St.
New York City 12

Z8822,
New York Times

Dear Z8822:

Man, if you only
knew
how I dig facts! Like, I almost sleep with 'em, jack; they groove me in the craziest kind of way. Man, I pound into the negro streets at dawn, rabid for facts. All day I rip and tear through layers of pap and bombast,
wild
to get my hands on the ripe, juicy, factual core of it all.

If you knew this, z8822, you would say: “Like,
man
, when can you start?”

And I would reply, in my cool and savvy way: “Well, daddio, let's get down to the factual core. I need at least $100 a week to keep me in Jack Daniel's; can you swing it?”

Or maybe the
Times
linotype man is a hipster, and you really meant to say, “Writers (2) who will delve for facts”; or “Writers (2) who savvy facts.”

Anyway, it came out, “Writers (2) who dig facts,” and—if for no other reason than that—I thought it deserved at least a query.

I'm 26, vet, single, college grad, experienced general reporter, wire editor, columnist, sports editor, feature writer, photographer and disc jockey. I've just come back from eight months of free-lancing in the Caribbean, and I'm looking for a way to do some salaried writing.

As a competent journalist, I do, of necessity, “dig facts.” I also dig money, Jack Daniel's, and a fast-breaking job. If you think we can do business, shoot me a letter, cable or phone call and I'll give you all the stuff
you'd normally get in a résumé. I object to them on principle, and haven't composed one for three years.

That's about it. Let me hear from you before September 16, because I have a tentative job on the west coast and have to let the man know by then. If I haven't heard from you by noon on that date, I'll assume this letter bugged you more than I thought it would, considering the nature of your ad.

But please return the clipping.

Thanks,
Hunter S. Thompson

Desperate to get out of New York, Thompson and Paul Semonin hitchhiked first to Seattle, then to San Francisco, looking for jobs in journalism. Conklin stayed temporarily behind in Florida working at her mother's travel agency and saving money to go west
.

October 1, 1960
San Francisco

Princess:

[…] When I read your letter last night and found you wallowing once again in the doubts and fears of those days between your San Juan visits, I dropped several more notches on whatever stick it is that measures my faith and my love and sometimes even my hope that we are not all as weak and rotten as we seem. If you, who know me better than anyone else in the world, are so easily unnerved by the futile observations of others, then I can only assume that it is not me, but my presence, that you love—and since I hope to have some dimension above and beyond the physical, it saddens me to see you flounder the instant my body is out of reach.

I have gone as far as I can go when I say I love you more than I have ever loved anything or anyone in my life. If you think a marriage license will make me love you more—or give you any more security than you have now—we might as well go ahead and get one. You should know by now that I would leave you just as quickly if we had six children as I would if we had one or none. The only security you will ever have with me is what you have now: the fact that I want you so much that my mind is never completely with me. You've become as real to me as my need to eat and write and eventually become something I can respect. If this is not enough, perhaps you will be better off jumping from bed to bed in search of security. […]

I have still not decided if San Francisco is good or bad. Whether it is or not, I'm hitting the streets Monday in search of a job. My fortune now rests
at $9; if you have any extra money, please send it along. We stayed Thursday through Saturday at the house of an ex-Louisville girl who is now married to a buyer for Macy's and living well. Today we moved into Clancy's
¹⁸
apt, but he has moved to Berkeley and new tenants are taking over on Monday. After that, we will probably go to the St. Paul hotel in Chinatown, rumored to be the city's cheapest. Paul is out in Sausalito, looking for a houseboat, and Clancy—who is about to get married and go in the army—will get back around dinnertime. I will try to finish this letter in time to work on that story about the rummy in the Village bar.

I would give at least four of my fingers to be able to wake up right now at 107 Thompson, with you beside me, quite naked, and face an evening of love and indolence. The past six months have been so good that I will be forever spoiled. Never before in my life have I felt so happy that I wanted nothing to change, but those weeks in New York are a high spot that I'm afraid we'll never reach again. But as soon as I say that, I recall San Juan & St. Thomas and I think maybe all we need is to be alone and together, with nothing so necessary as a lock on the door.

For god's sake, have a little faith in me, and be strong enough to stay as lonely and frustrated as I am until we can be together. Write instantly.

Love,
Hunter

October 3, 1960
San Francisco

Dear Princess:

Picked up your letter this morning, read it three or four times during the day, and now sit down to answer it although I have nothing of importance to say either.

Deland sounds pleasant enough, but on the phone the other night you sounded like you could barely remember who I was and it left me feeling a little uncomfortable. And your last letter, of course, sounded as if you had lost your bearings altogether. Today's letter was a little better.

I am now sitting in Clancy's ex-apartment, no furniture but one tiny couch and a half-chair, no food, $3 in my wallet, phone disconnected, new people moving in tomorrow, and a full and very sad moon outside the window. It's the first full one I've seen without you since San Juan, and I don't think I've ever been this lonely in my life. Not lonely for people, but
for long hair, little back, warm mouth, Bonwit, Teller, and even little potbelly against me in a too-small bed. It's a strange feeling to have another human so much a part of me, but unless I can get it under control I may go completely to pieces before these two rotten months pass by. (Now smoking my second-to-last cigarette; tobacco long gone.)