Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (38 page)

Sandy Conklin, Hunter S. Thompson, and Paul Semonin marooned in Bermuda.
COURTESY
OF
HST C
OLLECTION
)

1960

NEW LIFE IN THE TROPICS … NAKED, CRAZY, AND RICH ON LUQUILLO BEACH … THE BOWLING DISASTER, THE BEATING, THE BEAUTY, AND THE NEW YORK HERALD TRIBUNE … ESCAPE FROM PUERTO RICO, DEPORTED FROM BERMUDA … LONG RUN TO SAN FRANCISCO, LONG CHAIN OF FAILURE … BAD NEWS FOR THE SWINE FAMILY …

All manner of fearful deviations thrived in that muggy air. A legion of pederasts wandered the narrow sidewalks of the Old City of San Juan, giggling at every crotch. The bars, the beaches, and even the best sections of town literally crawled with rapists and crab dykes and muggers and people with no sex or sanity at all. They lurked in the shadows and foamed through the streets, grasping and grabbing like crazed shoplifters driven mad by the Tropic Rot!

 

 

TO HOME (VIRGINIA THOMPSON)
:

Just after the New Year Thompson left New York for San Juan, Puerto Rico. His plan was to make enough money working at
El Sportivo (
aka
Bowling News)
and writing free-lance pieces to finance a new novel set in the Caribbean
.

January 14, 1960
San Juan, Puerto Rico

Dear Home:

Damn, how far away I seem—even to me, who is used to being far away. I trust you got my card, and hope this letter will fill you in a bit more.

Still, oddly enough, very little concrete news to report. This could be either the best or (no, not really the worst, because even at its worst it couldn't be too bad) perhaps the most outlandish thing I have ever done. It all depends on how this magazine goes. If it folds, I will be out on a limb; but if it goes, I will be in on a very lucrative ground floor. As of now, I'm very definitely the “number one boy.” Kramer told me tonight that I didn't have to worry about the trial period as long as I kept turning in things like the two stories I did this week. The original plan was for me to work for three months on this ridiculously low salary, and then—if I “worked out”—I would get a fairly sizable raise and a “permanent writer” status. Tonight he said I probably wouldn't have to wait that long. So things are going as well as they could be under any circumstances.

San Juan is a strange combination of old and new. The cost of living here is incredible, yet some Puerto Ricans live on ten dollars a week. Very definitely a dual economy. One night I am having dinner at the Caribe Hilton, the next at a native bar on a street ten feet wide. Bob Bone—ex-compatriot on the
Daily Record
—has been a tremendous help. He's working for the
Star
, the new English-language daily. Kramer is decent, but a little crazy; and the job is so easy and pleasant that I don't see how it can last. I have no hours, no office, one story assignment a week, and I am 98% on my own all the time. The other writer—hired in New York at the same
time I was—is a good lad, but not much of a writer. Perhaps this accounts for Kramer's enthusiasm for me. Whatever it is, I am not worrying at the moment. I've sent off a few queries for free-lance assignments, and if I get those my financial situation should take a definite turn for the better.

The main problem here is clothes. Everything is frightfully expensive and no one on the island can tell me where to get a cord suit. All suits are $60 and $70 and I know they have them at Rhodes
¹
for $25. Would it be possible for you to buy one there and send it to me? Make it my birthday present. All I have to my name now is a very ratty and well-worn tan cord coat that I got at Lad-a-Dad three years ago—too small and a nasty frayed collar. I will send you my measurements on a separate sheet and if you can get the suit for me I will be most happy. Or else I will have to order it from Brooks Brothers or something like that in New York.

[Paul] Semonin should be down here in a few weeks and Kramer said he might want to hire him as a staff artist. Hope so—that would be a good deal. I meant to tell Paul to come by the house while he was in Louisville. He's a real champion, but I don't think you know him very well.

Thanks again for the plane fare. You-all have been wonderful in these periodic financial emergencies. No word yet on the novel, but I'll let you know as soon as I hear something.

All in all, I think this was a wise move. Of course, except for the Jaguar money, that fiasco in Middletown turned out to be a good thing, too. It took a thing like that to actually get me writing.

Before I go, let me give you a typical day. Rise at ten, go to La Rada (very fashionable) Hotel for lunch and interview with owner-chef, spend afternoon on beach with some people from Philadelphia, out to Kramer's house for conference on La Rada chef story, back to quarters to write story and few letters. Time out after Kramer conference to eat dinner with Douglas, the other writer. Then to bed and up again for another grueling day.

That's about it. I'll write again when I know more. In the meantime, let me hear from the homestead.

Love, Hunter

Measurements: size 44 coat; shirt size 15 (neck) 35 (sleeve); pants size 34 waist, don't worry about length; I will find a tailor here and have him put cuffs on the things.

I want a
grey
cord suit—same color Davison has. If possible, send me his now and get him a new one with the money you would have spent for mine. I don't necessarily need a
new
suit; I just need something to
wear
. The same coat everyday gets a little tedious. Yes, that's an excellent idea.
Send me Davison's suit as soon as possible and tell him I'll pay him back by putting him up during spring vacation. On the other hand, that suit of his may be in pretty bad shape by this time. If so, try to get me a new one. If not, send it on. And if you can't get hold of a cord suit this time of year, thanks anyway. It's a queer request, but I just hate to pay $60 for a suit I don't like as well as a $25 cord. And if the grey cord isn't available, get me an olive-drab wash-and-wear. Try also to make whatever you send me wash-and-wear. Laundry here is quite a problem. […]

Love, Hunter

TO DISTRIBUTION MANAGER, BROWN-WILLIAMSON TOBACCO COMPANY
:

Thompson started smoking Kools while a sophomore at Louisville Male High School. He would smoke no other cigarette until 1962, when he discovered Dunhills in Rio de Janeiro
.

January 15, 1960
164 Ave. Flamboyanes
Hyde Park, Puerto Rico

Distribution Manager

Brown-Williamson Tobacco Co.

Hill St. Louisville, Kentucky

Dear Sir:

I regret to inform you that Salems have all but swamped Kools in the Puerto Rico cigarette market. I don't know if this makes much difference to you or not, but let me tell you that it bothers the mortal hell out of me. I've been smoking Kools for close to ten years, but down here I'd have an easier time getting a steady supply of reefers. There are god knows how many cigarette machines in San Juan, and in only three of them can I find king-size Kools. This is working a tremendous hardship on me, and I'm writing you in hopes that you'll do something about it.

I'm quite willing to do my part. If you lack a competent distributor down here, then consider me at your service. Nothing would make me happier than to drive Salems off the market for good and ever. It's without a doubt the foulest cigarette in the history of tobacco-addicted man—a tasteless mish-mash of paper and dry weeds.

But I have yet to run across a cigarette machine that doesn't have
two racks
of Salems. And as I said before, only three that I've found contain filter Kools.

There's no excuse for this kind of negligence on your part. If Kools are deemed too strong for the Puerto Rican taste, then get that hustling huckster
Ted Bates on the ball and have him educate these people. He's not paid to ignore new markets.

As a native of Louisville, and as one of a long line of Brown-Williamson customers—and primarily as a man who
will
have Kools—I deplore this great vacuum in your distribution. As I said before, I will be glad to help in any way I can. At the moment I'm an associate editor of a new sports magazine here and I'll be glad to sell you a full-page ad to begin the campaign. Personally, I don't give a damn if you want the ad or not, but contact me if it interests you.

My primary concern is the frustrating lack of Kools in Puerto Rico. Whatever action you decide to take on this, please let me hear from you.

Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson

RSVP: Hunter S. Thompson

SPORTIVO

Box 64

Roosevelt, P.R.

TO SANDY CONKLIN
:

Sandy Conklin had graduated from Goucher College in Maryland in 1959, then moved to New York City to work as a secretary at Nuclear Research Associates, an organization that monitored atomic testing. Her roommate Eleanor married Thompson's fellow copyboy from
Time,
Eugene McGarr. Just friends at first, Thompson and Conklin soon found themselves in love
.

January 26, 1960
San Juan

Yes, little princess, I know what it is to be “
stirred
physically.” It seems like quite a while ago but it hasn't even been a month. Maybe the time between now and March 11 will pass a little faster.

I enjoyed your letter immensely, even though your new-found “motherly happiness” gave me an uneasy instant. Even so, it's good to know you have a little sunlight.

Life here is excellent—or will be as of Monday when I get paid. Right now the larder is a little bare. Things took a roaring hop here today when I landed a double-decker free-lance assignment. The next few weeks should be busy as hell, with Kramer's work on top of this, and trying to get this beach-pillbox in shape during my spare moments. I'll try to have my schedule under control by the time you get here.

Here is today (one in the new life of HST): Up at ten-thirty, burst out the door and into the Atlantic for eye-opening swim, then walk up the beach (with bearded bartending next-door neighbor) to San Juan Intercontinental Hotel for breakfast—fresh pineapple, toast and marmalade, and four cups of coffee. See gambling commissioner at two for information on casinos—my next assignment. To La Rada Hotel at four-thirty to discuss newfound assignment. Eat in Old San Juan at six-thirty, out to pick up mail in Rio Piedras at nine. Read your letter on way over here, take off clothes and go naked down to beach with pipe and glass of brandy. Smoke pipe, drink brandy, swim, come back in for shower and to write this letter. Afterwards, finish cock-fight feature. Then to bed. No assignments tomorrow. Nothing but water, rum and sun.

It's a life you'll have to see to believe. Nothing can convince me that it will last. At this rate, I might even have my scooter before you get here. Naturally, there are a few nerve-strainers. No hot water in pillbox, no money, constantly riding buses, and old cord coat becoming very ratty indeed. If I were anything but a writer, I couldn't get away with the way I've been dressing down here in this very formal, over-priced Valhalla. But all this will end when I get a grip on my finances. Then? God knows.