Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (90 page)

Well, I just wanted to send this note because it seems in my mind that I sent a shitty card or letter the other night and I thought I'd get this to you before it had to look like a reply or a comeback of some kind for anything you might already be sending. Your guns, as it were. I don't claim to be invulnerable, but the one thing I insist on is that I can't be croaked except when I give the word.

OK for now, and sorry if my letter sounded ugly but I couldn't figure out which of my earlier things you were calling gratuitous because that's one of those words you could call almost anything and for all manner of reasons. Anyway, send one of your drafts and let's see what you're up to, for good or ill.

HST

Thompson's friend Hacker, editor of the
National Observer,
was in the hospital, recuperating from a heart attack
.

May 3, 1965
San Francisco

Dear Dave:

[ … ] Things here proceed worthlessly. My total income for the year thus far is $500. Needless to say, that virtually cuts booze out of my budget. It's my private suspicion, by the way, that you wouldn't have had any troubles if you hadn't given up booze. It tends to flush out the system, including the arteries—no matter what the quacks try to tell you.

I sent Tom Wolfe one of my drunken, night-life postcards the other night, offering him the use of my private army in his fight against the fags, but he will doubtlessly toss it off as the work of a loon, so I'll count on a look at your material whenever you can send it. Needless to say I'm all on his side but I don't want to come out publicly, as it were, until I've read the piece(s). He writes so close to the edge at times that it wouldn't surprise me if he strayed into bad excuses now and then, but so far I've never seen any evidence of that. I've already asked Cliff [Ridley] for a shot at his book, coming out soon, and definitely look forward to it.

My recent work here has dealt with topless dancers, garbage in the bay, marijuana, karate and a generally non-publishable hellbroth of vagrant interests made possible by the part-time work of my faithful wife. Last night, in the course of my research, I smoked off a large reefer and went groggy for something like 12 hours. It was like drinking a gallon of stale beer, the same effect. I've never had much use for the stuff, mainly because it's never done anything to or for me—even in pipeloads—but last night's action was my last. I am lazy and unproductive enough on my own hook, without the help of a weed.

Anyway, I'm sorry as hell to hear about your heart thing, but like you say, it doesn't sound real dire. It seems to me that they could just lift out that fatted-up section of the artery and replace it with something synthetic.
I think the quacks have a vested interest in keeping us all scared half to death. My advice to you is get out of the hospital and whack off a bottle of John Powers Irish; that should get the life-juices flowing again, and knock out all the stops. For the moment, you sound pretty lively, although I can't say much for your handwriting. I knew something was wrong with you the minute I tried to read the first paragraph; it looked like the work of a man far gone with
delirium tremens
.

In closing, all I can say is don't let the bastards scare you. We are tougher than they want us to think.

HST

Ken Kesey and Dick Elman had told Thompson that Scowcroft gave grants to aspiring writers
.

May 13, 1965
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Dick Scowcroft

English Dept.

Stanford Univ.

Palo Alto

Dear Mr. Scowcroft:

I've been putting off writing you because my letters have wrought more ill than good, recently, but after a bit of a layoff I figure it's time to take a chance again.

Dick Elman suggested I contact you regarding the possibility of gaining funds to keep The Man off my back while I rewrite a novel called The Rum Diary. All he said was that you “help give out money for creative writing grants.”

I would certainly like some and could put it to good use. At the moment I'm free-lancing as little as possible while trying to turn out as much fiction as possible after a long layoff—nearly three years. For a year and a half of that time I was the
National Observer's
accredited correspondent in Rio de Janeiro. Then back to Colorado, mainly for the
Observer
. I just sold a piece on the Hell's Angels to
The Nation
and I guess it will run soon. And I've sold articles and fiction to
Rogue
, although that was a long time ago when I was living in Big Sur and doing the first draft of The Rum Diary. I'm 27, married, one child, broke, holder of many pawn tickets, fighting eviction, etc. I guess you've heard that story before.

I've never given much thought to grants but now that LeRoi Jones has a Guggenheim I have to consider the possibility of a new era, for good or ill. So if you're sitting down there on a bundle of loose cash I'd appreciate any and all advice as to how I might lay hands on some of it.

Thanks,
Hunter S. Thompson

Blackburn, an editor at Pantheon (a division of Random House, Inc.), had expressed interest in publishing “The Rum Diary.” The “fringe book” she suggested Thompson write eventually developed into
Hell's Angels.

May 17, 1965
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Dear Mrs. Blackburn:

Thanks for your letter of the 12th. I was beginning to think the FBI had put a seizure-type mail watch on me. After my last letter to Lyndon I see no reason to believe I am not under constant surveillance; the next time he comes to California I expect to be locked up for a few days.

And be all that as it may. I was pleased and somewhat puzzled at your “fringe book” suggestion. I'm not sure what you mean. The idea interests me but I'm leery of actually saying “yes” because I have no idea how you people work in the area of expenses. In the past I've agreed to do articles that simply cost too much. Nearly all of them, in fact. So if I seem a little uneasy here it's not because I don't like the idea but that I'm not sure what grounds we're dealing on.

I could, for instance, do an outline for a book on Hard-Rock Diggers, Carny Hustlers,
Braceros
[migrant workers], Hell's Angels, Aspen Philosophers, free-lance foreign correspondents, ski bums and Kentucky Mountain disc jockeys—but that would cost a hell of a lot of money and require a bit of travel. I know because I've been there, as it were, and I know who pays for the drinks when a writer shows up and starts buttonholing “fringe types” for information. The other way is to play it like John Howard Griffin when he wrote
Black Like Me
. But that wouldn't be possible in a book dealing with entirely different types—and besides, as I said, I've already been there. And it's no fun. (As a matter of fact I'm still there; on Saturday I was evicted, tomorrow I'll sell a pint of blood for $10, and on
Wednesday I'll shape up at 5:00 a.m. to deliver circulars with a gang of winos for $.60 an hour.)

All I'm really getting at here is the question of who foots the bill. I see no sense in doing an outline for a book I couldn't deliver. But if you're willing to pay my expenses for a while, that's a different thing—and it would also be a giant factor in determining what kind of book I could do.

The nut of it is that I'd very much like to do the sort of book I think you have in mind, but I can't possibly do it on my own hook.

As for the novel, I completed it three years ago and now find it generally embarrassing. What I've been trying to do for the past few months is rewrite it, but every time I get settled down to the job I have to zip off on some wholly unrelated article, just to pay the rent. So again, the problem is funds. My angst is permanent, I think, and I've learned to live with it.

The novel, however, will be finished sooner or later. There is no real question on that score—although now and then I have my doubts and that's when the angst really bothers me.

There's a possibility that I could send all or part of it to you for a quick look, but I'd have to go over it again to make sure I want it read at all. Parts of it are fine and require little work, but other parts are worthless—such as the first 100 pages. I am also starting up a new one, a very different thing, which began from a phrase in a letter: “… a telegram to the right people, explaining my position.” I could send a few pages of that too, but they'd probably frighten you.

In all, I think the best bet right now is The Rum Diary, although I can't really tell about the “fringe” thing until I know how you operate on expenses. It might be that a “fringe” book would buy me enough time to finish the novel. Or perhaps someone will simply send me a barrel of cash; I have a secret faith that this will happen—like Gatsby and his goddamn green light. And you know what happened to him.

So … send a line and say how it is on your end. Keep in mind that I'm interested and even eager to get dealing on something, but my position right now is like that of a man being carried off by wolves and shouting to his poker companions: “Go right ahead boys, deal me in, I'll be right back.”

Or, like Bobby Cleary
¹⁴
was telling me that night in Missoula: “That's the way it goes, first your money, then your clothes.”

And that's my wisdom for tonight. What's yours?

Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson

On May 2, President Johnson had raised the number of U.S. troops in the Dominican Republic to fourteen thousand to “prevent another Communist state” from arising in the hemisphere
.

May 18, 1965
San Francisco

Dammit Clifford, I've been sitting here for three hours working on a piece pegged generally to the Dominican situation, but no matter how good it looks I'm faced with a near certainty that you wouldn't run it anyway, so I finally had to give up. Politically, it's a pretty apolitical thing, based on my feelings that there should be no question as to whether this “revolution” is Communist-controlled or not. If we had competent ambassadors and political attachés in these countries, plus adequate press coverage, we would know the score without any doubt and avoid this general angst concerning the wisdom of our actions down there. I've read everything I can get my hands on from the D.R.—including Chew's Embassy copy—and I'm damned if I know even now. My instinct, of course, is to assume that the 58 Communists are no more than a red herring, but on sober reflection I know there's a possibility that the revolution is in fact a front for a Castro takeover.

My argument is that we could avoid these quandaries by not waiting until the crisis breaks to figure them out. It's on the day-to-day level that the Reds are beating us in LatAm. Hell, by the time they light the fuse they know how it's going to burn, while we apparently don't. So, as usual, we're on the defensive, leaping from one massive reaction to the other—while the whole ugly business could have been headed off a year ago if we'd had a decently staffed embassy down there. Hell, when I was in Brazil I knew the names of any Communists likely to be part of a rebel command—and if I didn't recognize a name I could find somebody who would. But not through the embassy, and there's the rub. Now that I've started paying taxes I'm personally offended at the idea that some worthless clerk is being paid good money to sit down there in a plush office and do nothing at all. Of course the situation varies with the different personnel from one embassy to the next, and that's what I was writing about before I gave up.

Well, what the hell. Is there any sense in my continuing to submit stuff? What happened to the A. B. Guthrie review? The Kurt Vonnegut thing? How do we stand on the money front? There are several things I could do for you but I can't work up much enthusiasm for writing stuff I figure is going to bounce anyway. Have I been put in the “Crazy Red” file? I can't
find anyone who agrees with what I write or think these days, so I guess I must be getting closer to the truth. [ … ] I'm beginning to understand why Castro went Red, and the fact that I feel saner than ever probably means I'm losing my mind. Send word of some kind. Any kind. And also say if my (above) thesis interests you in the form of a piece.

Sincerely,
Hunter

Thompson was impressed by a CBS News special Kuralt hosted on U.S. intervention in the Dominican Republic
.

May 31, 1965
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Charles Kuralt

34 Bank Street

NYC

Dear Charley:

In keeping with the
déjà vu
consistency of my life in this city of stale realities I was wondering today what had happened to you—and then Sandy noticed your name in a blurb for the CBS Dominican special. I had planned to watch it anyway, after seeing the NBC job the other day, but it was comforting to flip on the box and see your face for a change. I thought you had gone up to Maine and bought a trout farm, or something equally sane.

Anyway, it was a damn good job. Somehow, you have developed a sort of [Edward R.] Murrow image, a gaunt and baleful presence that implies authority, credibility, a tone of reluctant judgment on the actions and affairs of less candid men. Sevareid, by contrast, came off as just another failed icon, gone soft in the gut from too much dealing with “unimpeachable sources.” [ … ] Quint
¹⁵
seemed sharp and sensible, but entirely too young for anyone who remembers Eisenhower to take seriously. I think you have to be at least 35 in this country before anyone will believe a word you say, no matter what it is.

All in all, I think the film was a more valuable thing than NBC's, although their on-the-scene footage was incredible. Yours had a perspective, a point of view, that theirs lacked. Scenes like the lawyers marching and
the talk with the Marine privates at the checkpoint were worth ten minutes of filmed combat. And of course Imbert
¹⁶
on film is his own prosecutor. [ … ] In a nut, I was damned impressed by the thing. So much so, in fact, that I'm beginning to feel the old action mania, the compulsion to get where things are happening. I wish to hell I could have been in Santo Domingo, but of course the
Observer
would not have printed my stuff. They sent their society reporter down there and he sent back transcripts from the Embassy. I wrote and told them as much, but they didn't answer. I believe our divorce is final.