And now you’re going to ask just what in the hell I’m doing in Jersey Shore, Pa. I know … and I’m ready with a quick answer: I am having a nightmare.
In this nightmare I am an ass … but I have everybody fooled. These nightmare people think I’m a “nice young man” who’s come to settle in their community and make it a home. They call me “Mr. Thompson” and “sir” and insist that I attend the Lions’ Club meetings, become an Elk, and join a bowling team. They invite me to their homes for dinner and tell me that the only thing wrong with America is the fact that we’ve given all our money to foreigners. The boy who writes the high school basketball games for me told me the other day that he wanted me to write a letter of recommendation for him for a college scholarship—the Grantland Rice Scholarship at Vanderbilt. Oh blasphemous irony: and I had mailed in my application only a few days before. The bastard can’t even write a box score—and he’ll probably win it because he has extracurricular activities in high school. He’s a well-adjusted lad: there’s no doubt about that at all. Yessir, he fits right in.
But let’s get back to the nightmare … and how I became an ass. I am the sports editor of the town paper. For some reason, it’s a daily, and an afternoon daily at that. My work takes me about three out of every twenty-four hours. I also do the final dummy of the front page. I’m a $75 dollar a week man; a white collar worker; one of ten people in town who wears a coat and tie to work. I’m a young man on his way up. Screw it all: if this path leads up, then I’d rather go down. At least it’s enjoyable while the ride lasts.
But you want to know why I’m an ass. It’s because I believed what I read in a letter. I believed a little man’s description of his good ole home town: not realizing that he was measuring it in his own mind—with the same kind of measuring stick they use in chambers of commerce all over the land.
Not only do these bastards have no idea what a good paper should look like, but all they care about is getting enough local copy. They don’t give a damn if the headlines make any sense or not—just as long as they get to the typesetters in time to keep anyone in the composition room from having to hurry. Half of one entire page has to be local bowling scores—a goddamn list of people’s names. I’ve gotten my hands on one picture since I’ve been here—and that was a team shot of the Lock Haven State Teacher’s College basketball team. I have about as much pride in my work as I did during my last days on the Command Courier.
It really is a nightmare. And the tragically funny thing about it is that I don’t really know what to do. Naturally, I can always go back home: but that would be a regression of the worst sort. I can’t bitch about this place because I know I can leave anytime I want to. It’s worse than the AF, because talk was cheap there. It didn’t really matter what you said. I pity very few people, but right now I’m ready to enlarge my list. I can understand how these poor bastards feel who lie awake at night and wrestle with the realization of their own worthlessness. I can understand how a man feels when he has to explain to his friends why he re-enlisted. And I can understand how those millions of poor fools feel, who hate every minute of their jobs and can’t do a damn thing about it.
Don’t get me wrong now: I’m not sitting here bemoaning my own fate. If I were twenty years older, that might be the case. But it depresses me that I’ve been wrong about so many people. I think of all the things I said about reenlistment in front of John Edenfield.16 And I think of all the rest of the John Edenfields who’ve had sentences pronounced on them by factors almost completely beyond their control. I don’t really wonder how they manage to live, because I know they get into comfortable ruts, but I wonder how it feels to know that the only people who care if you live or die are those you provide for.
I don’t wonder that we have sex criminals who didn’t really want to be sex criminals, or murderers who don’t know why they kill. There are so many things wrapped up in this “ego” business that it sort of makes you wonder whether it would be a good thing to put it in psychology books and make it available to people who think they want to learn about themselves.
But I’ve written much more than I’d intended to already. I will read Atlas Shrugged and I am going to school next fall. You’ll hear from me again when I make up my mind about what I’m going to do between now and then. Think of me on Christmas and you won’t mind Iceland so much. Until I hear from you, I remain,
slightly deflated, but no longer
ripe for popping,
Hunter
TO GEORGE LOGAN:
The son of an eminent Kentucky judge, Logan was a Louisville friend of Thompson’s who was attending Williams College in Massachusetts.
December 14, 1957
1220 Allegheny Street
Jersey Shore, Pennsylvania
Dear George,
Well lad, I wouldn’t have written at this particular time, had I not, only a moment before, been thrown into an orgasm of spiritual glee by the sound of Jesus tapping out a message of Christmas cheer on my dirty window-pane. And with this heavenly tapping, there came a sound so pious, so blessed, and so moving, that I was lifted completely out of myself and into the realm of the ethereal.
I had just finished the orgasm brought on by the savior’s tapping, when I heard a song. On unsteady legs, I struggled to the window and saw, to my great joy, a truck—a Salvation Army truck. On top of this truck there was mounted a speaker, and out of it came sounds of a most unearthly nature. I recognized some of the “old songs”; some of the old and stirring melodies I sang as a wee lad when I caroled in the streets with my drunken uncles.
I was moved, George: I was lifted out of myself and up … up … up … up … and up. I was soon perched—in nothing but my shorts and tennis shoes—on a cloud of smog, overlooking the filthy community called Jersey Shore, Pennsylvania. And I was not alone on this cloud: to my left was H. L. Mencken; to my right was George Bernard Shaw; and slumped on a particularly smoggy ledge was Westbrook Pegler. And over the entire scene stood William [Billy] Graham, scepter in hand, a crazed look in his eye, and a red judo belt wrapped snugly around his groin.
Nothing was said. We looked nervously at the scene below. The entire town seemed to shimmer in the night—emitting a certain pious glow which only the smallest and most complacently ignorant town can emit. Pegler vomited over the side.
“Jesus, look at that place,” muttered Mencken. “It’s enough to make a man pray for a plague of maggots.”
“Shut up! you dirty bastard,” screamed Graham. “I get seven hundred and forty-four tax-free dollars every year from those people. That’s a good, typical American community. Those fine people are determined to hear the word of god—even to the point of paying for it. And they’ll listen to nothing else, by christ! That’s the kind of town we need more of.”
“Bullshit,” said Pegler, wiping his mouth. “That’s all you are, Graham—bullshit.… I hope I got that Salvation Army truck: I think I made the correct adjustment for the windspeed.”
“Nobody,” said Shaw in a slow and sorrowful voice, “with a grain of sense, would live in that place for more than a month. It is without a doubt one of the most frighteningly desolate sights in the western hemisphere.”
Suddenly, the cloud shot upward to avoid smashing into a coal hill rising out of nowhere into the black sky. I felt myself rolling over the side. Not having time to utter a polite farewell, I recalled their words and howled a loud and heartfelt “Amen.”
I trust you get the message. Let me know when “little Logan” is born and tell Nonie “hello” for me. Cheerio.
Hunter
TO MRS. SPENCER, AUTOMOBILE ASSOCIATION OF AMERICA:
December 14, 1957
Jersey Shore, Pennsylvania
Dear Mrs. Spencer,
Just a word of thanks for your help in getting the AAA to route me to this place—even though I think it might have been better if they’d sent me 180 degrees off course. About the best I can say for this place is that it’s totally inadequate for my every n
eed.
But I don’t want to bore you with geographical descriptions. It was nice of you to get me routed: but it would have been nicer if all the roads had been out.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO JOE BELL:
Again, Thompson uses a fictional story to illustrate his quite real despair.
December 15, 1957
Jersey Shore, Pennsylvania
Dear Joe,
In the midst of The Power Elite (C. Wright Mills, 1956),17 after a pleasant dinner of meatballs and beans, and looking forward to an evening of welcome silence … I pause to tap out a letter of puzzlingly pleasant despair.
Now “pleasant despair” is none too subtle a paradox, and it fits my present situation to a “T.” I’m all of two weeks older than I was on December 1st … and about five years wiser. The thunderous wave of optimism on which I rode to my greatest triumph went crashing to an ignominious death on the rocks of reality at approximately 3:30 PM on December 9th. For at that time, I—fresh from an historic victory over the USAF’s Strategic Complacency and Indifference Command—rode triumphantly over the hill into Jersey Shore, Pennsylvania. With a smile of grim but tolerant superiority plastered habitually on my once sun-tanned visage, I looked about me for the myriad thousands I had come to dazzle with my pregnant prose.
Suddenly I felt a terrible, blinding, choking sensation. Frantically, I scrambled to roll up my windows. I had driven into a cloud of coal dust.
Screeching to a stop, I seized my meat hatchet and leaped from my car: certain that the Syrians had touched off World War III with a gas attack. I tensed to meet the shock of the first wave of Mongolian paratroops.
“Come on, you bastards!” I screamed. “I knew you were coming! I told Bell last week! I didn’t even order any Christmas cards—but I’ll take a few of you with me before I go!”
Somewhere in the black cloud, I heard a hoarse scream. With a loud “you Mongolian bastard!” I rushed toward the sound, meat hatchet aloft … and crashed headlong into an old man in a Levi suit.
As we both went down, I heard him yell in a thick Old World accent: “Sheriff! Crugan’s been serving on Sunday again: there’s a foreigner crazed with drink in the middle of Main Street!”
Rising slowly to my feet, I heard what sounded like a troop of people running towards me. Echoing through the black cloud were loud cries of “drunk” … “foreigner” … “jail” … and “running amuck.”
And then I saw them. They seemed to be able to see right through the smog, because they were coming straight for me. Every man wore either a Levi suit or an old plaid jacket; and all the women wore wool slacks.
I was seized. They fought over me like a pack of animals and I thought the end had come. I knew then that I must have stumbled into one of those primitive, forgotten colonies which science fiction writers tell us about.
Well, I won’t carry this ridiculous parody any further. If you don’t get a pretty fair picture of this place from my story, then it must be that I’m still in a state of shock and unable as yet to write a coherent description of the almost indescribably repulsive town of Jersey Shore.
It upsets me to have to go into detail about this fiasco. It is enough to say that a place which combines all the climactical advantages of Iceland and all the entertainment and cultural advantages of Harlan, Kentucky, is certainly not a fit place to live. I very seriously doubt that I shall be able to stand it for more than a month—if that long.
I have found but one advantage to living here: I am completely alone. I work for three or four hours for five days a week, and then I return to my apartment—on top of Regan’s Taproom—and either read or write. Loneliness is for people who can’t see themselves except through the eyes of their compatriots, and all evidence points to the fact that I’ve passed that stage.
But the advantage of privacy is not a virtue offered by Jersey Shore alone. Anyone who doesn’t need other people to feed his ego can find privacy anywhere. And, keeping that in mind, I intend to go elsewhere. The very nature of the town precludes the possibility of my finding any satisfaction in my job; and, by the same token, the nature of the town also precludes the possibility of any other kind of satisfaction—sexual or otherwise.
I would leave now, but for several reasons. One being the fact that I could hardly quit such a strategic job as the sports editorship without giving at least the usual two weeks notice … and two being the fact that I’m not sure where I intend to go.
Were I to return to Louisville—especially for the holiday revelry—it would amount to a regression of damaging proportions. Naturally, I shall miss being there for Christmas: even more so because I know I can leave this place at any time.
But Louisville to me is a merry-go-round … with all the ups and downs and the conversational carnival music of the Fountaine Ferry18 original. Admittedly, the ride can be pleasant if you don’t mind the rhythmic repetition of a never-ending Maypole dance.
If I came home now, I’d hit the merry-go-round at one of the annual, frenzied peaks. And, like so many others, I could forget the existence of anything but the ride: sleep-walking through the low spots, and always looking toward the next peak.
There’s a capacity for enjoying that kind of existence in all of us. And only those who can see above and beyond the American goal of respectable mediocrity can enjoy a life that leads to anything but a struggle to attain that end. I lived with it for eighteen years and I haven’t been out of the orbit long enough to find whatever it is I’m looking for. I’ve made progress, of course, but there’s always the temptation—especially now at “peak” time—to go back and maneuver for a comfortable seat on the merry-go-round.
I suppose it’s very much like the bird who’s not sure his wings will hold him up. But in the bird’s case, there’s always somebody to kick him out of the nest again, until he learns to fly. Louisville, of course, is a big nest. Its birds don’t have to fly if they’d rather walk … do they?
Unless I weaken—and I might—I think I’ll be sure I can fly before I return to the nest. It should be interesting … if nothing else.
And now that I’ve loaded you with pointed analogies, I think I’ll get back to my various plots. God only knows where they’ll get me (witness the fact that one of them got me here) but at least I can be sure that, whatever they reap, the result will be both amusing and expensive. For some reason, they always turn out that way.
So until I weaken, or falter, or find the ever-challenging “it,” I remain your devoted, spasmodic, and sometimes psychopathic friend,
Hunter S. Thompson
1220 Allegheny Street
Jersey Shore, Pa.
TO KRAIG JUENGER:
On Christmas Eve, a lonely, broke, and unemployed Thompson would flee Jersey Shore for New York City by “Huntermobile.”
December 23, 1957
Jersey Shore, Pennsylvania
Dear Kraig,
Well, this letter should be a little more informative than my last one, if nothing else. It won’t be very long, because I know so little about what I’m going to do that I’m unable to go into any detail. Just as soon as I find out anything definite, I’ll let you know.
In a nutshell, here’s the way things stand as of now: tomorrow morning, I shall load all my earthly belongings into the Huntermobile and point its nose in the direction of New York City. If the car makes it without falling apart, I shall remain in New York until at least the eleventh of January. After that date, if I haven’t located a means of gainful employment, I shall then embark for St. Louis—via Louisville.
So there you have it: one of the most hare-brained schemes of the generation … a typical “Thompson production,” and one of the most “all-or-nothing” propositions ever to be hatched in a human mind. I can think of nothing I’d rather avoid more conscientiously than being poverty-stricken in New York City … but that’s precisely the situation I’ll be in if I can’t find a job by January 11th. I have $119, a box of food,
a crippled car, and a temporary room in a fairly decent apartment. The reason I have to stay there until January 11th is that the College Board exams are being given at Columbia on that date, and I have to let the CB people know where I’ll be by December 28th. So I’ll have to stay in New York until the 11th. If I don’t have a job by then—and the kind of job I want is scarce as hell—then I’ll be off again. Where I’m going to get the money to go bouncing around the country like this is a real interesting problem: but I shall find it somewhere. I’ll have to.
I got back from New York about 4:00 this afternoon and found your cards waiting for me in the mailbox. Needless to say, I appreciated them—as I do everything else with a St. Louis postmark on it. I neglected to get any Christmas cards this year, so allow me to wish you a very merry yule and all the erotic pleasures of a happy new year. My holiday season, incidentally, will be much better than I originally thought. Jerry Hawke, an ex-Lt. from Eglin who now goes to the Columbia law school, fixed me up with temporary lodging and invited me to join in the holiday festivities with him and some of his friends. So the terrifying prospect of spending the holidays in Jersey Shore fortunately failed to materialize. Needless to say, I feel better—and much more cheerful than I did when I was working. And, incidentally, I think I forgot to tell you why I’m no longer working19 … but now that I think for a minute, I think I told you in previous letters: so I’ll close before the paper ends. CHEERIO.…
Hunter
TO SUSAN HASELDEN:
Proud Highway Page 13
