Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (93 page)

The reason I've been tardy in replying is that I've been dealing hard and fast for the past two weeks on a book contract, which I finally signed Saturday. For the next few months I'll be doing a book on Motorcycle Gangs, but in the process I'll be moving around the state quite a bit and might be able to get some stuff for you that I couldn't reach otherwise. (Hell, I see here where I've sold you badly short at “$30 for a short piece.” At eight cents a word, 750 comes out to $60, which is slightly better. Now if you wanted 2000 words … yeah, the old story, eh?)

The view right now from my end is that I'd like to do a piece or two for you and I'll do what I can, but since I have a deadline on the book I can't afford to spend much time on anything extra unless I get decently paid for it. I can't guarantee you that three days in Salinas will produce a good Fuck the Growers story, but I suspect something like that would come out of it. As a matter of fact I happen to know a lettuce grower in Salinas and he's a Fascist lunatic, but we'd need a few details before I'd be willing to sign my name to any such testimony. At a rough guess I'd say the story I have in mind would be worth a minimum of 1500 words, which comes to $120 by your count, since I figure it would cost me no less than $25 a day for three days and that's scrimping. On the other hand I've always prided myself on being christian, so I'll do it for $175—of which $75 will go toward expenses.

This is really pretty cheap dialogue, eh? I don't mind haggling about $7500, but going to the mat for $75 is pure ugly. I leave you to ponder the meaning of it, and—in looking back over this note—I see upstairs that I appear to be calling Paul Jacobs a “dilettante.” Not so; that was a jab that didn't come off, but what the hell.

Anyway, send word. And what became of my “Grounds for Eviction” poem? I expected to see it on this week's cover.

Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson

When the
National Observer
refused to run Thompson's review of
The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby,
he forever severed his ties with the magazine. He did, however, send Wolfe the carbon of his review along with this letter
.

July 6, 1965
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Dear Mr. Wolfe:

I owe the
National Observer
in Washington a bit of money for stories paid and never written while I was working for them out here, and the way we decided I'd work it off was book reviews, of my own choosing. Yours was one; they sent it to me and I wrote this review, which they won't print. I called the editor (the kulture editor) the other day from the middle of a Hell's Angels rally at Bass Lake and he said he was sorry and he agreed with me etc. but that there was a “feeling” around the office about giving you a good review. I doubt this failure will do you much harm, but it pisses me off in addition to costing me $75, so I figured the least I could do would be to send the carbon along to you, for good or ill. Unfortunately, I wrote it with the
Observer
format in mind and my normal comments would be a bit louder in all directions. But I understand you used to work for the
Post
so I figure you know that score.

Anyway, here's the review, and if it does you any good in the head to know that it caused the final severance of relations between myself and the
Observer
, then at least it will do somebody some good. As for myself I am joining the Hell's Angels and figure I should have done it six years ago.

Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson

At Wolfe's request Thompson sent him a copy of his Hell's Angels article
.

July 14, 1965
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Dear Tom—

Here's the
Nation
piece. A guy named Whitworth did something on them for the
Trib
a few Sundays back; that's probably where you heard about
mine. If and when you have no use for this copy, please ship it back. I'm writing a book on the Hell's Angels & other cycle gangs for Ballantine, and copies of this piece are in big demand among the troopers. It is my big In.

In the same mail with yours today came a wild fang job from the
Observer
, calling me every kind of sneaky shithead for sending you that carbon. They seem to fear some kind of action from you. I suspect their revenge will be to cut me out of the upcoming
Observer
anthology. The guy who compiled it told me I had seven pieces in it, more than any staffer. And that—after this episode—will never do. Hopefully, my cheque is already vouchered; I will cash it at once with the Dow-Jones office out here, thereby coming back at them like a scorpion.

Definitely look forward to seeing you out here and will lay in some John Powers Irish for the drink-out. When do you plan to be in San Francisco? At some point in August I'll be down in LA, check on that end of the cycle action. But my schedule is loose, so give me an idea of yours and I'll plan to be here. You're welcome to the extra bed in my writing room if you feel up to the drinking that would inevitably ensue. My number here is 664-xxxx, listed under “Owl,” not Thompson. OK for now, and thanks for the good letter.

HST

Thompson prepared to head to Los Angeles to write on the motorcycle clubs there
.

July 20, 1965
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Dear Carey:

In my letter of April 25 I made an error which I would now like to correct. I said that “by June, all the FSM [Free Speech Movement] leaders will be either in jail or the army, and Don Silverthorne will be Chancellor [of the University of California at Berkeley].” I should have set a September deadline on both predictions. Sentencing began this week for the Sproul Hall sit-ins and I suppose you saw the results. Steve DeCanio, who figures in my non-student story, drew 60 days, not suspended. He was over here at the apartment Sunday night and didn't seem worried at all. I tried to reach Silverthorne today, hoping for a comment on rumors of his pending appointment, but he can't be reached. […]

I had a very off feeling today when I realized that most of the people I've done stories on recently are headed for jail—and I haven't been writing crime stories. On my list to call when I woke up this morning were DeCanio, Ken Kesey, and Sonny Barger, president of the Oakland Hell's Angels. DeCanio was sentenced yesterday,
²⁰
Kesey is out on some sort of complicated appeal, and Barger goes on trial August 18 for attempted murder.
²¹
I think there has to be some sort of a story in this—perhaps a reflective, opinionated creed of some kind, or a nervous warning that the front lines are getting closer every day. For instance, I counted myself lucky that some FBI types didn't check by my place prior to Johnson's visit and ask how I'd like to take a ride up to a swimming camp on the Russian River for a few days, congenial company guaranteed and all meals free. I say this because about a month ago I wrote Johnson a pretty wild-eyed letter, canceling my application for the governorship of American Samoa, a post I've coveted for some time. Larry O'Brien was carrying the ball for me until he quit. Then I figured Johnson wouldn't have the imagination to appoint me on his own, so I bowed out with a great skirting of anti-administration rhetoric.

Well, my point in writing this letter has nothing to do with the above. I merely wanted to know how I might get hold of Laslo Benedek.
²²
I'm going down to L.A. sometime soon to check that end of the cycle action and I thought it might be nice to check with Benedek, Brando and Lee Marvin for some motorcycle gangs. For they had quite a bit to do with publicizing the cult and I think their ideas might make interesting reading. But I have no idea how to reach any of them and I recall you saying you knew Benedek. Send me an address if you can.

I'll also check on the hot-rod action in L.A. That is the capital. As for Non-Student, I am holding the galleys as long as possible because I know I'm going to have to do some rewriting and I don't want to do it too far prior to publication. Send a line when you can.

Thanks—HST

Thompson had been commissioned by
Playboy
to write on Ken Kesey and the Hell's Angels
.

August 9, 1965
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Dear Mr. Fisher:

Here are a few notes, questions, etc. on the Hell's Angels action:

How about fotos? The Angels themselves keep a vast scrapbook and they'd be more than willing to submit a selection, but the
Post
is ahead of us on this (unfortunately I gave the
Post
man a hell of a lot of help—but not realizing I'd soon be competing with him) and we'd have to wait until we see which ones they use, if any. I know a lad in L.A. who has some pretty good stuff, but some of that went to the
Post
, too. The papers here have some decent crime-type photos; the
Chronicle
, in particular, has one very good set, and I know the police reporter who helped them get it. I might even try some myself. I'm good, but spotty. Anyway, let me know.

Also, I'd like to have an official-looking letter from you, saying I'm doing the story for
Playboy
. Last night I was grabbed by the gendarmes at Ken Kesey's loony bin in La Honda. (I introduced him to the San Francisco Angels last week and he decided to have a party for them; the locals flipped and the road in front of Kesey's house was swarming with cop cars.) They stopped everybody either coming or going and went over the cars for possible violations. My tail-light lenses were cracked, so they cited me, and would have taken both me and Allen Ginsberg to jail, I think, if I hadn't been sporting a tape recorder. Ginsberg was so enraged by the harassment that he might want to write an ode about it. If it interests you, I'll ask him. Anyway, neither my woodsy garb nor Ginsberg's foot-long beard made the right sort of impression, and a letter from you might have saved me $25—which I think in all fairness should go down as an expense item, since the incident will go into the article.

On the subject of expenses, how much would you people be willing to go for towards rental of a big bike? I think I should ride with these boys for a few weeks, to get the feel of it, but as it stands now I won't be able to afford it until I get my second hunk of money from Ballantine, which won't be for several months. So far I haven't found a place that rents big stuff, so I might have to buy one—a junker of some kind, but good enough to hold up for a month or so. If it comes to that, would you be willing to contribute, in the form of expenses, toward the purchase? And how much? Let me know on all this stuff ASAP. Thanks,

Hunter S. Thompson

August 10, 1965
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Dear Willie:

It's raining like hell here and I'm seized with one of those 3:00 a.m. desires to get back to my roots, etc. My desk is a mountain of shit and I just found the letter you sent from Puerto Rico, pinned to my wall, blank side out, with the address of a wrecking yard on the back. I have no idea why.

Anyway, it seems like a hell of a while since I've heard from you. The last I heard, you were sitting in the Cafe Riviera, waiting for some loony to rush in and hurl a sack of lime in the place. I'd like to have been there. What the hell are you doing? I see your name in the
Observer
even less frequently than mine, which is to say, nada. I had a bad wrangle with them on a Tom Wolfe review, and we said a mutual fuck you, with me about $500 ahead. I should have got off that dead man's train two years ago, but I was too lazy.

As I think I told you, this Hell's Angels thing has just exploded for real on me. In addition to the book contract, I just got an assignment from
Playboy
—turning down a
Cavalier
offer in the meantime—and now even the
Stanford Literary Review
wants a Hell's Angels piece. Yesterday a producer from the Merv Griffin show called me, asking if they could do a half-hour on the Angels. I said probably not, and turned him over to some crazed monster with a full beard and shoulder-length hair who was at that time sitting in my living room, jabbering into a tape recorder. After a few minutes the man hung up, but I'm sure he'll call again. My luck on this is that the Angels dug my
Nation
piece, and now consider me the only straight press type they know. So I'm in a position to deal with other people more or less savagely. The one exception was a guy from the
Saturday Evening Post
, here last week for a cycle story, whom I helped way too much for my own good. But in any case, he's a very decent guy and if you ever get to Princeton, look up a man named Bill Murray. You'd get along.

Also, before I forget,
Pageant
finally ran my Big Sur piece in the current (September) issue. Pick it up and comment. I may be approaching the point where I think everything I write is great, just because it's published.

My action here consists now of dealing exclusively with motorcycle thugs—almost to the point of becoming one myself. As a matter of fact I am now pressing
Playboy
to pay for a bike, so I can ride with these guys and get the feel of it. Ballantine, as far as I can tell, expects me to take the expenses out of the $6000. All I've done for them so far is sign a contract and cash their check for the advance, which leaves me at the moment with $22. I haven't even sent them an outline.

As things stand now, I have a (to be revised) piece due at
The Nation
by September 1, also a book review for them on the same date. Also a 5000-word piece to
Playboy
by then, and a short but pithy thing for
Stanford Literary Review
. The first half of the book is due September 15, and so far I haven't written a word. This is in fact a kind of showdown for me; the
Playboy
piece, for instance, carries a $300 guarantee, and they're not the sort to overlook a failure on that level. Nor would Ballantine be happy to write off $1500. In short, if I blow the action, I'm done, And I never even asked for it. All I wanted was a $1500 advance on the novel, with no guarantee at all. The moral here, I think, is never knock
The Nation
just because they pay $100. All that stuff I wrote for the
Observer
apparently died on the vine, but this one job for
The Nation
paid off in real gold. If you get any kind of socio-political story out of Albany, call Carey McWilliams and say I sent you. He's a hell of a decent editor; for $100 each, he has to be.