Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (99 page)

As for getting to New York, I have given up doing it before September, when the combine will pay my expenses. They will probably house me in the Y and schedule four sessions a day with Women's Clubs. In effect, writing a first book for a publisher is like being a cub reporter on a paper; I am without proven value and am treated like an ill-tempered leech. Random, after all, has Truman Capote, and Ballantine operates like a pawn shop. My only hope is to get a lump sum and invest in AT … T.

Anyway, that's my situation. They've nailed me down. I am seriously considering a newspaper job of some kind. In the meantime I have to rewrite The Rum Diary and would appreciate any overall suggestions you could make. I recall your feeling that it should be junked, but now that it has to be published do you have any ideas? I'll probably tear it up completely. They don't seem to give a damn how I do it, since they've put it in a “joint account” with the other books—which means that any losses it might incur will be taken out of my other earnings. In other words, I might end up paying to have it published. Everybody's covered but me.

My reaction is naturally to make it a good novel, and not just a wasted gesture. Any suggestions from your end will be appreciated. The work will take all summer, and that means I'll be here until September. At that point I mean to move—but who knows where. Something will have to happen then. I am fed up with this mole's existence out here, but right now I can't say what direction I'll be moving in the fall. But by that time I'll be in your area and we can talk. You may be right about me and the east. I can't imagine living there; it's too mean and crowded. The whole country is that way.
The great experiment has failed. The Vietnam thing is the beginning of our end. I want to get out of the country before I get locked up. The problem is I don't know where to go.

Your own action was not well covered in your last letter. The most cogent note was the mention of the Ink Truck Log
¹¹
becoming a novel. I don't know how you mean to do this, but I think you should try. At this point I think we should all write at least one book about how it looks, or maybe even how it is. There is no way to do this with journalism. I've already had to drop two true accounts in my book because of possible (or very probable) libel suits. The contract stipulates that I will defend all legal claims and pay all judgments. Fiction is the only way to get around this roadblock. Objectivity is impossible in journalism.

Well, I'm getting wasted here and my head is wavering. Rest assured that nothing is happening. I sleep until 2 or 3 every day and go to sleep at dawn. Not much else. Except that my motorcycle is being repaired (now that I've put $200 in escrow), and soon I'll be wailing around at good speed.

Hunter S. Thompson

Oakland Hell's Angels leader Barger was in jail at this point
.

June 2, 1966
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Dear Sonny—

Steve DeCanio came by last night and told me how much you are enjoying your health cure. He also mentioned a prediction you made to one of the keepers … but I guess I shouldn't mention this sort of thing, because I'm sure all the mail is censored. Anyway, it's good to know your head's in good shape and that not much time is left.

You should get out about the time the book is published. It was postponed from July to September and I'm still working on final corrections, etc. Since this is my first book, I don't know how they work on advance copies, but I'll make sure you get one of the first batch available. According to my contract I only get ten free copies. After that I get a discount, but not enough to let me go around handing out free books. I told Terry and some of the others that I'd give the Angels 15 free copies, mainly to the guys who helped me most—which would naturally include you, Terry, Tiny, Frenchy from Frisco, Pete, Ronnie and about ten others that I can think of.

I'm saving one free copy for Mr. Lynch,
¹²
because I know how much he'll dig it.

As far as action, the whole scene has been pretty quiet—except for the Petaluma rape—for about the last four months. Kesey is still out of sight, Ginsberg is in Australia and Mountain Girl
¹³
got married to a guy in Santa Cruz. I've been mainly at the desk, working on this book and a novel I've sold. Sandy says hello; she's still working, so if anybody thinks I've made any money on this book they can think again. There's a chance I might make some when the paperback version comes out in early 1967, but until then I'm still kiting checks.

I did, however, get together the $200 necessary to get my bike rebuilt and I think it will be ready this weekend. If so, I should be mobile for the next big run, which probably won't happen until you get out. I think you realize this, but in case you don't, you should know that the Angels aren't the same without you. The style is still there, but the focus is missing. I'm not the only one who's looking forward to having you back on the street. Write if you have time. If not, I'll see you then.

Sincerely—Hunter

Thompson was not swayed by an eviction notice from his landlord
.

June 14, 1966
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Moon Fay Ng

730 Washington St. #101

San Francisco

Dear Sir:

I received your letter of eviction today (June 14) and immediately consulted my attorney. His advice was to ignore your letter entirely, but since we have generally maintained a good relationship during the twenty-one (21) months of my tenancy I thought I would send a note. I would prefer to avoid any argument or unpleasantness.

Nevertheless, on advice from my attorney, I have to reject your demand that I evacuate these premises within 16 days, or as of June 30. Such short notice is not in keeping with any legal or ethical standard. I am naturally sympathetic
to your desire to place the elderly members of your family in a decent apartment, but after living here for nearly two years I find two weeks' notice insufficient. I am further advised to inform you that neither you nor your family nor any agents of same shall be allowed to enter these premises for purposes of harassment, renovation or other forms of temporary occupation until we have arrived at some mutually acceptable date regarding termination of my tenancy. My own feeling—in accordance with the law and the standards of most humane-thinking people—is that thirty (30) days is the very least amount of time I should be allowed to make other arrangements. This would set July 13 as the deadline for my abandoning the premises.

I understand, of course, that you might be able to advance this date by several days by means of court order or other extreme means, based on a plea of hardship regarding yourself or other members of your family. If you find yourself in the grip of a real emergency I would naturally be inclined to help as much as possible. Otherwise—considering my own situation—I shall make plans to vacate this apartment on or before July 13, on which date you may begin your various renovations.

Regarding my rent payment—due on the 15th—I will naturally postpone any further payment on my account until we come to some agreement regarding termination and my own freedom to live and work in peace, free of any threats on your part to invade, inspect and/or renovate my apartment at any time you see fit. I regard this as a fitting arrangement between civilized people and expect you feel the same way. Until I hear from you, then, I remain,

Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson

Considering an offer to write a book on the extreme right in California, Thompson digressed into a lament on the death of the American Dream
.

June 18, 1966
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Dear Carey—

Enclosed is some stuff from the latest
Newsweek
and a copy of the two pages I sent you last fall for a possible box in the Non-Student piece. When I came on the
Newsweek
thing I had a feeling it sounded familiar, so I thought I'd match them up.

My own two pages were a bit vague, but there didn't seem to be any reason, at the time, to stretch them out. My comments were sort of an after-thought
to the article, which didn't need any windy predictions about the future California elections. You'll notice, however, that it struck me as a possible article—the rising tide, etc.

Anyway, both Ballantine and Random are pushing me toward some kind of non-fiction book on the Right Wing. I've been resisting it for several months, but now that the nutcracker has started to close I'm getting more interested. I'm beginning to think that there might be a good book in the Right Wing vis-à-vis the fate of California. It is really a microcosm of American history. The destruction of California is a logical climax to the Westward Movement. The redwoods, the freeways, the dope laws, race riots, water pollution, smog, the FSM, and now Governor Reagan—the whole thing is as logical as mathematics. California is the end, in every way, of Lincoln's idea that America was “the last best hope of man.” Here is where the sins of the fathers and forefathers are being visited on the sons, who in turn visit them on the land and each other. For 100 years the bunglers and rapists had an escape valve; they could always move west, to something new. But now they have come to the end, and they have to live with whatever they can make of it. The story has all the elements of a tragic parable. California is the ultimate flower of the American Dream, a nightmare of failed possibilities.

Well, that's my paragraph for tonight. Sorry to seem sluggish on the article ideas, but for the past month I've been wrestling with revisions on the
Hell's Angels
manuscript. I want to take a break in this book action and go to Africa or South America. Books are too slow. Only old men should write them. But since I already have a contract for another non-fiction book I think it should be on the most pertinent subject I can find. Right now the above paragraph strikes me as a possibility, both for a book and an article—and possibly a grant of some kind. If you have any ideas along these lines, send word.

Thanks,
Hunter S. Thompson

Devaney was the latest in Thompson's string of literary agents. He worked for the Scott Meredith Literary Agency in New York
.

June 26, 1966
318 Parnassus
San Francisco

Dear Bob—

Silberman was here and seemed pleased with the
Hell's Angels
revisions, which are almost done. It has been a goddamn nightmare, complete with soaking sweats, pill stupors and my Chinese landlord whipping on
the door. I won't let them in under any circumstances and the only reason they haven't put me out on three days' notice is that they think I'll pay my back rent if they wait long enough. This bubble will burst pretty soon, but at least I've made time for night work. I am counting on some form of money from sales of other rights on the
Hell's Angels
book. Silberman and I agreed that
The New Yorker
should have first shot at magazine rights, since they've already asked, and that anything beyond that would be up to you and/or Scott [Meredith]. In any case, I should have the manuscript back to Ballantine by the end of this week.

Work on The Rum Diary is going to be chaotic for a while, until I find a place to live and work. I am trying to sell the bike, but the only way to sell it quick is to take a brutal loss. I am also pawning my guns and trying to borrow from my friends in the professions. Probably I'll have to use my Teamsters connection to pick up a paycheck or two by some kind of labor. It pays more than writing and I need something like that to get back in shape.

Silberman shrugged when I said The Rum Diary couldn't possibly be finished by August 1. God only knows when I'll finally finish it, but by the time I do the vultures will have already claimed the final $1000.

Nor did we come to any decision on the non-fiction thing, although it seems to be narrowing down again to their original suggestion for something on the Extreme Right. I don't look forward to working another year for $7000, including expenses. Of the $6000 I got for the Hell's Angels book, about half went for valid expenses. The bike alone was $1300. I'm not telling you this out of pique, but to point out that my choice of subjects is severely limited by the expense factor. I am not about to undertake a project that will eat up every penny I get for writing it, especially since I won't get the $4000 lump until the whole thing is finished and I'm tied down again by a legion of creditors.

Well, there's no sense carrying on with this. I have to get back to work. The Hell's Angels rape trial finally begins tomorrow—after nine days of picking the jury (one male and eleven [11] women, plus one woman alternate). There may be an article in it, but I'm not sure what to tell you in terms of sales potential. There is going to be a dramatic clash of stories; the girl claims she was gang-raped by nine Angels, but the four defendants say it was voluntary. No doubt she was done several times, but it wasn't rape—at least not the first few times. In most counties the case would never have come to court, but Sonoma County has never dealt with the Angels and various town councils are up in arms. The prosecutor, one John Hawkes, seems to feel that the sanctity of every crotch in the county depends on his getting a conviction. Only one of the Angels has managed to hire a lawyer;
the other three are going with public defenders whom I'll talk with tomorrow or the next day, depending on how long I can stay awake. What it all amounts to is a sort of modern-day witchcraft trial. The Sonoma County power structure is made up of new rich Okies and chicken farmers (Petaluma, where the rape is said to have occurred, is known as the Egg Capital of America).

I used to live in Sonoma County, about ten miles out of Santa Rosa, where the trial is being held, and I've spent many a night in Petaluma taverns. I also know the Angels; three of the four defendants have been among my best contacts—Tiny, Mouldy Marvin, and Terry the Tramp. Tiny is the beast who attacked the Vietnam protest march in Berkeley last year and supposedly broke a cop's leg; he was featured in wire service photos from coast to coast—
Daily News
in New York, also Boston (his original home), Louisville, Denver and the whole west coast. (Last week he was finally acquitted, when films showed him felling on the cop's leg after being clubbed in the head by another cop.) Terry is a middle-class refugee with one brother in the Peace Corps and another in a monastery. He is the featured Angel in the book and still comes by the apartment about once a week. We are pretty good friends; at the moment I'm trying to sell his bike so he can pay a decent lawyer.