Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (21 page)

But be that as it may: I hadn't realized I had so many gloomy, cynical acquaintances. Everybody wants to give me religion, sympathy, hope, forbearance, all sorts of idiotic priestly qualities so that I may better weather the storm of unemployment.

To hell with unemployment: I think it's a fine thing. I like sleeping all day and having nothing to do but read, write, and sleep whenever I feel tired. I like waking up in the morning and going immediately back to bed if the weather is foul. In short, I think it's a fine situation for a man to be in: provided, of course, that he has enough money to eat and pay the rent.

I don't … and therefore I must work: but what the hell? Is it anything to cry and pray for forgiveness about? Is it some sort of heinous shame, some great soul-sucking agony for which universal pity is the only cure? Hell no it's not. I get goddamn tired of getting letters telling me to “buck up,” to “keep my chin up,” to “keep trying,” to “pray and be virtuous,” and to read Horatio Alger books. I like being unemployed. I'm lazy. There are
plenty of jobs, but I just plain damn don't want to work. It's that simple: you work in Fort Walton because you're a good sportswriter … you loaf in New York because you're not a good sportswriter. Everything is relative … and I have an ode:

“Ah, lives there a man with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, as he hunched and rolled in his comfortable bed:

To hell with the rent … I'll drink instead!”

Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to unemployment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies and contraceptives … and to the “good life,” whatever it is and wherever it happens to be.

Let us strip to the ankles and revel in everything sensual: let us laugh at the world as it looks at itself through mushroom-cloudy glasses … and I suppose we might as well pay the rent too: for eviction is second only to hunger as the dirtiest word in the dictionary.

So there you have it: a slacker's credo for pleasure. I shall type forty carbons and send them out to all who would send me their sympathy, enclosing the motto for the month: “tithe, for the sake of Hunter.”

I'll let you know when I meet the final degradation … work: it probably isn't far in the future, but I'll do my best to find an easy job. Then you can come and visit with me. I'll probably be here until the summer, anyway, and you probably need a vacation.

So drop me a line and tell me when you'll arrive. Until then.…

 … it's cheerio:
Hunter

TO VIRGINIA THOMPSON
:

Perhaps Thompson's biggest break in journalism came when
Time
hired him as a copyboy. Although he earned only $50 a week, he got the invaluable experience of working on America's biggest weekly newsmagazine.

January 23, 1958
110 Morningside Drive
Apt. 53
New York, New York

Dear Mom,

Since your last letter berated me for not writing, I can only assume that my most recent missive was lost in the mail or that I forgot to put a stamp
on it. But nevertheless, I wrote a long letter exactly one week ago today, bringing you up to date on every facet of my existence and wrapping up all the loose ends I could find.

But things were uncertain then: the financial outlook was deathly black and it looked as if all things optimistic had flown south for the winter. In short, I was none too glad to be alive and hungry.

Ah, but not so today: even the sun is out and the air is warm, and the pendulum has finally begun to swing my way. You see I have a job: granted, I don't begin till the first of February, but that makes only a slight difference. Allow me to explain.

To understand just what a triumph I've engineered, you must first understand the situation here:

First, by New York standards, I've had no experience: anything with a circulation under 50,000 rates in the same league with school papers, by Newspaper Guild standards. So I'm stuck with the “beginner” label.

For “beginners” there are two plums in the journalism field, a copyboy's job on
The New York Times,
and a copyboy's job on
Time
magazine. The salary for both jobs borders on the ridiculous and the competition is almost unbelievable. Seriously, I had to go through three interviews of over an hour each, tell the story of my life in detail, and submit to an extensive physical, before I got the job I did … copyboy with
Time
Inc. And even then, I would have been completely out of luck if I hadn't come in at almost the precise moment one of the boys was announcing his resignation. But I did get the job: $51 a week, half days Wednesday & Thursday, full days (8hrs) Friday & Saturday, and a 12-hour day on Sunday. Monday & Tuesday off.

I'll be working at Rockefeller Center, a choice location by any standard, and will have the proverbial “one foot in the door” in one of the best doors in the business. Whether or not I ever get any further, of course, remains to be seen. The competition, as I said, is a trifle stiff. I've met three of the copyboys so far: one is a Harvard grad, one a Yale grad, and one speaks nine languages. A former copyboy wrote fourteen plays during his tenure with
Time,
and only left when one of his productions landed on Broadway. […] Although they keep a list of copyboys who go on to fame and fortune, I haven't seen the one of those who turn into rumheads. I imagine it's pretty long too.

Time
also pays half of the tuition (up to $300 a year) at any of the local colleges—probably a concession brought on by guilt feelings manifested over a long series of painless paydays. $50 a week, especially in New York, is not one hell of a lot.

Needless to say, if I'm not too late, I'll make an attempt to get into Columbia for the spring semester. I don't know, as yet, whether
Time
will pay
their half at the beginning or at the end of the course. In either case, I might run short of money. And again the perennial question: how affluent is Memo in this respect? Needless to say, if
Time
works on the “reimbursement” principle, I won't have enough to register for anything at Columbia. I might, however, get into a writing course of some sort at one of the other local learning palaces. More on this later.

The past week or so has been full of poverty. My money ran out about ten days ago and times are indeed hard. I'll manage, of course, but not without suffering a few scars on my youthfully optimistic soul. Now I know why people shop at the A&P.

But talking of poverty tends to depress me. If I have any further business with money, I'll let you know later: in the meantime, I'll drop the subject.

Give Davison my congratulations on the All-American selection. It's nice to know that he and his buddy John were together right up to the end. Has Dave made a definite decision on college yet? And how did he like his visit to Vandy? And is there any further news on the Grantland Rice deal? […]

Now that I've found gainful employment, I suppose I'll have to get down to the business of finding a place to live. Today or tomorrow, I intend to journey down to Greenwich Village and see what they have to offer: on my salary, I imagine the selection will be somewhat meager … cold water flats and that sort of thing. But that can be put off until something worthwhile appears: until then, I'll be either here or somewhere in this neighborhood while I seek a place to my liking in the Village.

And by the way, I hadn't intended to “retire” when I left Jersey Shore. I decided to go to St, Louis and merely stop by Louisville for the holidays—not for good. But now I see that coming to New York was a far wiser move for the time being, at least. After I begin working, I'll be about as “on my own” as a person can get: and if I can weather New York on $50 a week, I'll be able to get along anywhere.

So this just wraps it up for now. And for god's sake, don't complain about my not writing. This is the longest letter I've written in months.

Love,
Hunter

TO CAPTAIN K. FELTHAM
:

Nearly three months after his discharge Thompson was still trying to get the U.S. Air Force to issue the $70 severance pay he had been promised. After three more letters farther up the chain of command, Thompson was paid on May 22, 1958.

January 28, 1958
110 Morningside Dr.
Apt 53
New York, New York

Captain K. Feltham

Chief, Finance Division

Eglin AFB, Florida

Dear Captain,

Reference is made to your letter of December 26, promising swift and decisive action on my inquiry of December 18.

To date I have received neither money nor explanation from your office. Although I'm not in the least surprised that nothing seems to have been done after ONLY a month and a half, I intend to be as persistent as your office is inefficient. If $70 seems like a small matter to you, then you have my undivided envy. Unfortunately, I have yet to reach a like level of financial security. To me, $70 constitutes a large portion of my tuition for the spring semester at Columbia: and, not being a happy-go-lucky career airman, I can ill afford to sit around for three eternities while somebody's finance office struggles desperately in its own red tape.

And IF, as you suggested in your previous letter, the USAF does NOT owe me the aforementioned $70, then the staff sergeant who took such pains to misinform me should be strapped up by his genitals and given an intensive “refresher” course. As I remember, it took him close to twenty minutes to explain the situation to me: and, although it sounded illogical at the time, I had no choice but to take his word. Apparently, I shall live to regret my gullibility.

It occurs to me now that a man who could so ably explain the situation on November 8th should certainly be able to do so again. On that day, he sat (with his back facing the door) in the first office on the right … off the first hallway to the right … as one enters the Finance building through the door which faces the Food Service Squadron across the street. He sat immediately inside the door. Unfortunately, his name escapes me at the moment. But, at any rate, might I suggest that he be called upon to explain the situation once again … for something is very obviously amiss.

I regret that circumstances force me to write such an unpleasant letter; but after my relatively polite inquiry failed to obtain any results, I felt compelled to take stronger measures. And if this letter follows my last one into oblivion, I shall feel fully justified in taking the matter to higher authority.

I trust that we will be able to come to an understanding in the very near future. Until I hear from you, I remain,

most cordially,
Hunter S. Thompson

TO ARCH GERHART
:

Gerhart taught English at Louisville Male High School and had been Thompson's favorite instructor there. Although he considered Thompson “brilliant,” Gerhart vigorously disapproved of his “show-off, Marlon Brando swagger.”

January 29, 1958
110 Morningside Drive
Apt. 53
New York, New York

Mr. Arch Gerhart

Louisville Male High School

Louisville, Kentucky

Dear Mr. Gerhart,

Although I've been meaning to drop you a line for quite a while, my procrastination had gotten the better of me until I realized I could kill two birds with one stone. Specifically, I'd appreciate it if you'd ask Dean Kalmer to advise me as to the grades I got on the CB exams. I'm not too pessimistic about the English portion, but the Math section stopped me cold. And although I don't expect to be very pleased with the test results, I'd like to know them so that I can make definite plans for next fall. Thanks in advance for your help: and you might also like to pass the enclosed clippings along to Mr. Milburn. I don't think I need go into my reason for suggesting this.

As Davison probably told you, I stopped by to see you twice while I was in Louisville in early December. You were eating lunch on one occasion and “around somewhere” the second time. Since I had very little of importance to say, you missed nothing except a chance to see how “gaunt and emaciated” I've become. And since several people have told me that it's depressing to see a “thin, serious Hunter,” you're probably better off for having missed me. But nevertheless, if I get back home again any time soon, I'll make another attempt to trade a few conversational gems with you near the old battleground.

As for my present condition, it is hectic and full of poverty. Fortunately, things have begun to shape up and I should get back into the sunlight sometime in the next two weeks. Barring the unforeseen, I'll begin work for
Time
Inc. on Sunday and take up classroom duties sometime later in the week. The Time job is something of a “plum” which not only gives me a pretty good “in,” but which pays for half my tuition at Columbia as well. So from now until spring—and very possibly throughout the summer too—I'll be unfortunately busy. And considering the evil which abounds in New York, it's probably a pretty good thing. Prolonged idleness in this place could well be fatal for one of my ilk.

The
Time
job is one of the lowest on the editorial ladder—a copy-boy—but has infinite possibilities. The classes, “Literary Style & Structure” and “Short Story Writing,” should give me a boost along the road to becoming another D. H. Lawrence. And the minute salary attached to the job, coupled with the terrifying tuition at Columbia, will undoubtedly keep me mired in abject poverty for the duration of my stay in Manhattan.

Events of the past two years have virtually decreed that I shall wrestle with the literary muse for the rest of my days. And so, having tasted the poverty of one end of the scale, I have no choice but to direct my energies toward the acquisition of fame and fortune. Frankly, I have no taste for either poverty or honest labor, so writing is the only recourse left me.