Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (15 page)

Well, away from this wishful thinking, and back to your desire to be able to distinguish between a lesbian and a prostitute. It may be awhile before we can manage it, but I'll clue you in as soon as I can. Except in the case of bisexuals, it's relatively simple to tell the difference. Fortunately, there aren't many places where large numbers of both species are known to mingle, so as I said, it may be awhile before I can find the time and the place to educate you. Still and all, it should make for an interesting evening.

You continue to amaze me. How you managed to develop all these weird traits and curiosities without my noticing you, I can't understand. I wasn't aware they grew people like you in Louisville and I often find myself wondering just what will become of you. Naturally, if you actively attempt to satisfy all these strange urges and curiosities of yours, you will become cynical and hard. Although that would be one of the most unfortunate of all possible things, I can't quite see how to prevent it.

And now, before you begin to wonder where I got the idea that your head is full of strange longings, let me explain that it is just one of my assumptions. Most of the things I have in mind, you've never told me. Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think so.

Actually, I don't know you very well at all. Now that I reflect a bit, those few nights at Owl Creek are about all I have to base all these judgments on—those and what I know of your activities since those days when I first watched you in the HJH gym. I can still see you—Susan Haselden, captain of volleyball team number two, flouncing about in a baggy blue gym suit and looking for all the world like a Babe Didrickson
⁸
in the making. At times (many, many times) I regret my youthful stupidity. Selah.

This about wraps it up for now. I'd like to say that I'll see you soon, but I never know. At the moment, there are discharge rumors in the wind. [Secretary of Defense] Charlie Wilson has decreed that the AF must shed 20,000 men by New Year's Eve, and I'm working desperately to get my name on the list. If all the chips fall right, I'll be burning uniforms within two months or so. The very thought of it makes me almost hysterical with glee. Maybe I can get the Everly Brothers to write me a song.

Then too, I may get up that way on October 6th, when Eglin plays Fort Knox. That too is vague and the truth of the matter is that I have no idea what will happen between now and Christmas. If I don't get a discharge, I'll probably suffer a mental collapse and be confined: a cheering thought, at best. […]

And now—the cat in the wall says that's all;

morbidly,
Hunter Thompson

TO VIRGINIA THOMPSON
:

August 28, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida

Dear Mom,

The surprisingly rapid approach of autumn, heralded in the
Playground
area by slightly dipping temperatures and the inevitable Labor Day clearance sales on beach supplies, has a peculiar effect on those people whom the headshrinkers tend to bunch together and label “insecure.” There is something about the coming of fall that makes people conscious of their own insecurity. Just as squirrels step up the pace in the annual nut-gathering
festival, human beings begin to think a little bit more seriously about the prospects of the winter ahead—and most of them show some sort of reaction. Mine, in this case, is writing a letter home.

This is not to say that I would not have written a letter if the weather down here had remained balmy and summer-like—but only to explain the occasion of this letter and let you know that—even though I haven't written for some time—I've been thinking about you.

Right now, the hour is late and many things have happened since I last sent a missive of information winging your way. I am tired and I may have to cut the letter short, but I'll do my best to bring you up to date.

In a nutshell: I am now back in the Communications Squadron and there is a possibility that I may get out of the Air Force before Christmas. I am still working for the
Playground News
and, for the past two months, I've led an almost incredible life—for an enlisted man in the AF. If the discharge does become reality, I have been offered a job with a local advertising firm—if I decide to stay down here for awhile and decide to leave the
Playground News.
And, Campbell
⁹
says he can get me a job on the
Atlanta Constitution.

Naturally, all this hinges on the all-important discharge.

As you may have read, Charlie Wilson has decreed that the AF must shed 21,900 men by December 31. If there is any reason why I shouldn't be among this group, no one on this base seems to be able to find it. After an interesting and sometimes amusing two-year experiment, the AF and I have come to the joint decision that we were not made for each other. Based on the impressive array of facts, circumstances, and findings, this decision has been reached with a minimum of active malice on either of our parts and is supported by the willing testimony of all those who know us both.

My present position as a radio repairman is, of course, ridiculous and cannot possibly last very long. Although up to now the AF has refused to change my AFSC [Air Force Security Classification] (the primary reason for my return to the radio shop) I have good reason to believe that they will change it soon. My dangerous lack of knowledge concerning the equipment will undoubtedly lead to some change. It is then that the discharge will become a probability, rather than a possibility.

I will keep you posted more frequently than I have in the past month or so. […]

I wish you would ask Memo to write more often—she is the only one in the family (Jim excluded) who does not enclose some sort of bill in her letters.
¹⁰
I'd like to know how both she and Jim are getting along and how Jim
fared at the KMI camp. Since you people stopped writing several weeks ago, I've sort of lost touch. […]

As for other incidentals, my social life has been made far more pleasant by the acquisition of Xanadu and an attachment to a young lass named Sally Williams. The attachment has led to several rather strained and hectic situations—due to the fact that Sally is a Colonels daughter and the mother of a four year old boy. If I get my discharge, she may come to stay with me for a while at Xanadu. It will definitely be different.

As you can see, several months in the social whirl of this moralless community have made me slightly decadent. Although not without an element of danger, it has been an interesting experience. I may have to ask you to send me some of my money to register for school next week. Although they aren't offering many interesting courses next fall, I will probably end up with one called “International Politics.” If I can't find another one of interest, I will take piano lessons.

As a parting note—I suggest that you get hold of a book called
The Outsider
by Colin Wilson. I had intended to go into a detailed explanation of what I have found out about myself in the past year or so, but find that I am too tired. However, after reading that book, you may come closer to understanding just what lies ahead for your Hunter-named son. I had just begun to doubt some of my strongest convictions when I stumbled upon that book. But rather than being wrong, I think that I just don't express my rightness correctly. But enough—more on this later. Write if you find the time and let me know what you plan to do in the way of occupation. LOVE.

Hunter

TO KRAIG JUENGER
:

Thompson had recently begun a passionate affair with Juenger, a former Miss Illinois fifteen years his senior. She was separated from her husband at the time.

October 17, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida

Dear Kraig,

For the second Monday night in succession, I find myself settling nervously into my chair at the
Playground News
sports desk, with absolutely nothing done for this week's edition, hundreds of stories to write—and beginning a letter to Kraig. Ah weakness: thy name is Hunter.

As you predicted, I found your letter when I arrived tonight. I've already read it three times and I'll probably chalk up number four in a matter of
minutes. Between that pianist in Washington last weekend, your telephone call, and this letter, I'm going to play hell getting anything at all done either tonight or tomorrow.

And, on top of everything else, I talked to one of the “discharge honchos” today, and received the assurance that immediate steps would be taken to root me out of the ranks at once. My new technique—that of expounding at length on my religious and political beliefs—worked like a charm. When I'd finished, he concluded with this remark:

“I don't know exactly what it is about you, Thompson, and I didn't understand much of what you said; but I can see at a glance that there's not much sense in trying to make you either act or think like an airman should. I'll let you know within two days—twenty-four hours, if possible—how soon you can be discharged.”

And that's it in a nutshell. I don't know why I tend to make it sound humorous, because there's very little humor in it at all. It demonstrates, probably more clearly than any other single incident in my life—just how far I've strayed from the popular ideologies of our time. To go back—or to hesitate—would be unthinkable. And yet, in going on, I can see that I shall be permanently apart from all but a small and lonely percentage of the human race, in all but the most superficial respects. But, after publicly embracing a philosophy to gain a desirable but admittedly superficial end, I could hardly live with myself for any length of time if I were to turn my back on that philosophy after it had served my purpose.

But I don't propose to bore you with this sort of thing at this stage of the game. It merely serves as a prelude to what I'm about to undertake—a short explanation of why there are “things I would like to say, but haven't.”

In short, Kraig, I don't think you really have any idea who Hunter S. Thompson is when he drops the role of court jester. And, for that reason, I'm afraid I'd be building you up for another fall if I were frank enough to tell you how I feel about you. I don't mean to say that I'm egotistical enough to believe that I have the power to make you feel one way or another about me. But on the other hand; if I were to attempt that, as I'd like to—and succeed—I'm not quite sure that either one of us would be any better off. And, rather than pursue any course of action which might eventually hurt you, I'd rather not do anything at all.

But let me tell you, before I leave this sombre subject, a little about myself: a very little—but enough.

First, I do not live from orgy to orgy, as I might have made you believe. I drink much less than most people think, and I think much more than most people would believe. I am quite sincere about some of the things which people take very lightly, and almost insultingly unconcerned about some of the things which people take most seriously. In short, I am basically
antisocial: certainly not to an alarming degree, but just more so than I appear to be.

And finally, the more I try to explain myself, the more apparent it becomes that I'm not doing a very good job of it. That's why I wish, in a way, that we were not this far apart. It would be much easier to sit on a blanket on a beach and talk. I've always thought that letters were a very poor medium to convey any sort of serious meaning, and this effort only confirms my suspicions. I do it very rarely, and I'm not likely to try again for some time. I hope, even though I haven't done a very good job, that, if nothing else, I've gotten across to you that there's something more to old Cuubley than the part of him which shows above the water-line.

But I think anything else I can say on that subject would be useless. Despite anything I might say, the truth of the matter is that I think about you constantly. I need neither songs nor radios to remind me of last Thursday and Friday nights, and I can think of very few things I'd rather do than spend a long string of nights with you on that stretch of beach.

I think I've already said too much, but I hardly think that it surprised you at all. And then too, as long as I feel this way, it probably won't be very long until I drop in on you. But don't be afraid: it won't be for a while, and I'll warn you beforehand—probably.

Don't let this letter get you down. I won't do it again; I promise. Hoping to see you soon, I remain, somewhat shaken, but still grinning … Hunty

TO JOE BELL
:

Throughout his early twenties Thompson considered novelist Ayn Rand a kindred spirit. He often lent copies of her books to friends.

October 24, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida

Dear Joe,

Two reasons for writing this: one, to let you know that I've finished
The Fountainhead,
and two, to tell you that Ayn Rand's new book is called
Atlas Shrugged.
I thought you might be interested.

To say what I thought of
The Fountainhead
would take me more pages than I like to think I'd stoop to boring someone with. I think it's enough to say that I think it's everything you said it was and more. Naturally, I intend to read
Atlas Shrugged.
If it's half as good as Rand's first effort, I won't be disappointed.

You might also be interested to know, as I was, that she has never married. Maybe she has the courage of her convictions, or maybe it's something
else. I don't know—and I doubt that it matters a great deal to her whether I care or not.

To discuss
The Fountainhead
would be useless—even more so with a person who understands it than with one who doesn't. It is nothing more or less than a re-affirmation of a principle, a principle so vital, so absolutely timeless, and so completely personal, that to drag it down to the level of a conversation piece would serve no purpose but to cheapen it. I can understand your mis-directed enthusiasm in showing the book to someone like O'Dea,
¹¹
but I think you might just as well have tried mixing bourbon and Coca-Cola to make a mint julep. One and zero doesn't make two.