Proud Highway

by Hunter S. Thompson

  11. Kennedy’s wife.

  12. Who Do You Trust?, hosted by Johnny Carson. This was Thompson’s first ever TV appearance. He missed the $300 question: “Who was the inventor of penicillin?”

  13. Conklin’s mother owned a travel agency in Deland, Florida; her father was a businessman in Port Jefferson, New York.

  14. Kennedy’s still-unpublished novel, “The Angels and Sparrows.”

  15. O’Conner was a childhood friend of William Kennedy’s who tried to get Thompson a journalism job in New York.

  16. Dick Murphy, a Louisville friend of Thompson’s, had been killed in a car accident.

  17. Time ran a story claiming that the CIA had assisted in the overthrow of Colonel Jacobo Arbenz Guzmán’s left-wing government in June 1954. Although Arbenz and his government appealed to the UN, where the Soviet Union backed their cause, the United States refused to allow the Security Council to intervene.

  18. John Clancy was a lawyer Thompson had met at Columbia University who would become a lifelong friend.

  19. Herb Caen, Art Hoppe, Royce Brier, and Lucius Beebe were the San Francisco Chronicle’s ace team of reporters and columnists.

  20. William Randolph Hearst, Jr., owner of the San Francisco Examiner—for which Thompson would write a regular column twenty-five years later.

  21. Hosford’s year-old son.

  22. Maxine Ambus was a boisterous woman from an Ohio steel town who had first met Thompson in 1959.

  1961

  HARD TRAVELER COMES TO BIG SUR … GREAT LEAPS OF A FREE–LANCE WRITER … $780 A YEAR … THE SOUTH COAST IS A WILD COAST AND LONELY … THE SECRET PASSIONS OF JOAN BAEZ KILLING PIGS AND SELLING DOGS …

  Now, thirty-three years old and looking fifty, his spirit broken and his body swollen with drink, he bounced from one country to another, hiring himself out as a reporter and hanging on until he was fired. Disgusting as he usually was, on rare occasions he showed flashes of a stagnant intelligence. But his brain was so rotted with drink and dissolute living that whenever he put it to work it behaved like an old engine that had gone haywire from being dipped in lard.

  –Hunter S. Thompson,

  “The Rum Diary” (unpublished novel)

  TO PAUL SEMONIN:

  Upon returning to the United States from Bermuda, Semonin spent a few months in both New York and San Francisco. Unable to find meaningful employment in either city, he moved to Aspen, Colorado, in December 1960, urging his best buddy, Thompson, to join him in the Rockies, where “the living is easy.”

  January 6, 1961

  Big Sur, California

  Dear Mr. Semonin:

  Your query concerning “pleasure spots” was referred to me by Mr. Thompson, who was kidnapped by queers on New Year’s Eve and borne off to the south country. His widow has made an unnatural connection with the Slime God, and cannot at the moment deal with your correspondence. For that reason, I, the county Boarmaster, was called in to sock the deal home. My findings are listed below.

  After driving some 21 miles today, the last three of them up a steep canyon full of redwoods, I came on a place called Upper Greenwood Shack. I drove these miles in an off-shift Willys Jeep with a deaf woman, and could not therefore express my dismay that we had come to a place called Moe Canyon—and at the end of this canyon rested a black shack which I (we) entered for the purpose of assay. The innards were bare and cold, but I was instantly struck with the resemblance of this abode to a dark hole once inhabited by an artist friend of mine who has since retired into the hash business. My first thought, upon seeing the skylight in the ceiling, was, “By George, how that fellow could deal with this place.” This suspicion was further strengthened when I made a full tour of the place for the purpose of loot. It was full of books and sweaters, a good many of which the deaf woman and I carried off for the purpose of enrichment. Now I want you to understand that a bearded artist has been trying to zip this place off on Mr. Thompson for the sum of $40 per month—but Mr. Thompson does not see it so much as a “pleasure spot” as a place where he will freeze his strained and itching balls. Mr. Thompson is (was) a lover of the sea, you know, and he feels (felt) that a place on the shore would be more to his taste. And also better for his strained and itching balls. Warmth, you know. Mr. Thompson likes (liked) warmth.

  And, frankly, Mr. Semonin, had it not been for your query, I would have jammed this place in the sea, deeming it alien, a transplant from New jersey, and not fit for habitation by other than sleazy jades. But, for your edification, here is a capsule knot: cabin is in Palo Colorado Canyon, 3 miles from sea, buried in redwoods, has its own stream, and is accessible by partly paved road. It has: two large bedrooms, one massive living room with stone fireplace, large kitchen, large bathroom, large pantry, and two porches. Also skylight. The odd resemblance of the area to that of Upper Greenwood Lake quite frankly gave me the creeps.

  So, Mr. Semonin, this concludes my report. I have reason to believe this place will remain vacant for some time, perhaps until spring. You and your family may do as you see fit. My fee for this sort of thing is one wad of silver. Send at once.

  Mr. Thompson has led me to believe that he will be in your area before January comes to a climax. His future is somewhat uncertain at the moment, due to the unknown whereabouts of one Maxine Ambus, without whose car Mr. Thompson will be unable to make the trip. I do not think Mr. Thompson will deal with your coal for anything short of a sizeable fee. He is, you know, quite stringent when it comes to finances. I further think Mr. Thompson is presently unable to answer your question as to where he will spend the remainder of this winter. He has come to the bottom of his (and his widow’s) money barrel and is now faced with a crisis. As of this weekend, he will have no home.

  I can, however, give you an idea of his alternatives. He can:

  1) spend the remainder of his money for a month’s rent on a Big Sur cabin and hope for the best.

  2) send his widow to San Francisco to seek work, and follow when she gets it.

  3) move in on you, bringing nothing but a sack of happiness.

  4) give up the ghost.

  This would seem, at first glance, a grisly repertoire of choices. And it is. Mr. Thompson is not, however, without a few rays of hope. One is the possibility of the $3.04 per hour road-job once again becoming available. Another is the possibility that his widow might obtain part-time work at one of the local eateries. And another is the chance of Big Money in the mailbox. Aside from that, there is nothing but a massive leech on Miss Ambus between Mr. Thompson and the wolves.

  Mr. Thompson is further perplexed, baffled, unnerved and sick at the prospect of your largesse. From the sound of it, you are richer than Mr. McGarr, the infamous east-side fatbelly. What will you do with it all? World-travel? Mr. Thompson may go almost anywhere—but not until spring. He is currently doing the Great Puerto Rican Novel and will finish it before fleeing the western coast.

  Mr. Thompson is also doing a bit of journalism and requests that you gather all the public material on Aspen so that he may digest it whole when he arrives—then spew it out for publication. He also requests that you find a reliable photo shop that will fine-grain develop (new term) his film for him.

  Mr. Thompson will probably deny this, but I think he feels a bit insecure these days. As a matter of fact, I think he has The Fear.

  And he wants you to understand this: “A woman is fascinated not by art, but by the noise made by those who have to do with art.”

  A mr. chekhov said that, and I guess he should know.

  Massively,

  Hunter

  TO MRS. V. A. MURPHY:

  Mrs. Murphy was the eighty-year-old matriarch of Big Sur who ran its famous steam baths (which would soon become the centerpiece of the Esalen Institute). Her grandson, Dennis Murphy, wrote the 1960 novel The Sergeant, which drew Thompson’s praise.

  January 9, 1961

  Big Sur, California

  Dear Mrs. Murphy:

  I am very interested in renting the
small annex (just off the kitchen) of the big house. I talked to Dick Rowan1 about this and he mentioned it to your grandson, Dennis, who said I should get in touch with you.

  […] I am a writer—not completely impoverished, but just a few steps above it—and I can’t afford the few places in Big Sur that are currently for rent. So when Rowan suggested the big house, it sounded like just what I was looking for.

  As I see it, you may be better off having a reliable person living in the house, because—like other vacant buildings in Big Sur—it is very often invaded by transients, “beatniks,” and other types who have no respect for property, privacy, furniture or anything else. With a couple living there, nothing like this would happen.

  Naturally, the house itself is too big for any two people to occupy—and certainly too big to heat. We could get along well in the annex, but we would have to have access to the kitchen and bathroom in the house, proper. I can assure you that we’d treat the house and property with extreme care.

  Since you know nothing about us, you might want to get in touch with Mrs. Webb at the Lodge, the Maynards, Dick Rowan, or anyone else now living on the property. […]

  At any rate, I’d like to hear from you as soon as possible on this, because we have to find a place pretty soon. Thanks for your time and consideration.

  Sincerely,

  Hunter S. Thompson

  c/o Erway

  Big Sur

  TO JOHN MACAULEY SMITH:

  Smith was a Louisville friend of Thompson’s who went on to Yale. Writing to Smith back in Kentucky, Thompson revealed his pride in belonging to a Big Sur literary community.

  January 11, 1961

  Big Sur

  Dear John:

  My situation in Big Sur is best described by one E. W. McGarr, who writes from New York, saying: “You are out of a job, penniless, homeless, being supported meagerly by a collection of women, queers, drunks and probably bums of every description.…”

  A strange life, at best. Sunday night I cut my thumb to the bone, trying to open a can of dog food with my bare hands; yesterday I badly sprained my ankle playing football, and I spent most of today sitting in the hot mineral baths, discussing Cuba and Norman Mailer.

  We are forming the Big Sur Maulers, a high-toned, shifty squad that will soon challenge the Athenaeum for the Literary Football Championship of the world. We operate with a six-man squad: Henry Miller calling signals, Dennis Murphy & Eric Barker in the backfield, and Lionel Olay & I at ends. In a recent contest we thumped the North Beach Terrors, 74–6. On Guy Fawkes Day we go against the Greenwich Village Nutwhackers in Washington Square; I think we are favored by 2½. Watch for the results in the C-J [Courier-Journal].

  Life is good here, in spite of our dubious backgrounds. Unfortunately it will come to an end (for us) on January 20, when the owner of this house returns from San Francisco. For some reason, no one will rent me another house. And since I have no money, I cannot build one. Perhaps then it will be back to San Francisco and once again seek work. This depresses me more than I can say, but there seems to be no alternative. No jobs here, no homes for rent, and no prospect of money in the mail. Sandy can probably get a job in San Francisco, even if I can’t, so there is some hope.

  The people here have taken good care of my sprained ankle. Last night, when I went down to the baths to soak it, a homosexual quack insisted on rubbing it with some useless grease that Ed Sullivan had once endorsed on TV. When he finished rubbing my ankle, the queer covered his whole body with the stuff—“to keep me awake on the drive back to Monterey.”

  Then a woman from Tennessee told me to soak a brown paper bag in vinegar, then tie the bag around my foot. This would cure it, for sure.

  I would explain Big Sur more fully, but I’m about to send a piece to the C-J about it, so watch the Sunday paper & save me a lot of trouble. Glad you are keeping up on the gossip, anyway.

  Yes, there are queers here. And artists. Also farmers. And people who go around naked. I have a bullwhip and a billyclub. So far, I have not been bothered.

  Paul [Semonin] seems to like Aspen. I wish I were as well off as he seems to be there (house, job, etc.) and I will probably get over there before the end of January. When I am evicted from here, anything could happen. I have pondered New York, Europe and Cuba. Would like to finish the Great Puerto Rican Novel before I leave the west coast, but things are too in flux now to say anything definite. Money will have to come from somewhere before I make plans. The law of the dice still rules. […]

  Copiously,

  Hunter

  TO MRS. V. A. MURPHY:

  Thompson and Conklin moved into Murphy’s annex on February 1. The landlady even awarded Hunter the sinecure of security guard/groundskeeper for both the house and the adjacent baths.

  January 16, 1961

  Big Sur, California

  Dear Mrs. Murphy:

  Both Sandy and I enjoyed talking to you yesterday, and this letter is to tell you that we’ve definitely decided to take the “west annex” and live there for better or for worse. The only reason we hesitated at all was that I couldn’t believe someone was finally offering me a place that I could afford. Even a writer should be able to make $15 a month—and if he can’t he should probably give it up and try something else.

  We do, of course, have a few problems, and I thought one or two of these might interest you. Mr. Maynard2 and I made a quick survey after you left, and we discovered that the hot-water heater and the electric fuse-box are both in the small ante-room just off the kitchen (the first room you enter as you come in the back door). Considering the fact that you plan to seal up the house with bolts, the location of these vital control centers might lead to some difficulty if, 1) the hot-water heater should ever, for any reason, have to be turned off or on, and, 2) if an electric fuse should ever blow out. Normally these would be minor problems, but if the house is sealed up they might be very large ones.

  Now this is a knotty problem, and I have pondered it at great length. If my conclusions lead you to believe I am trying to gain access to the stove and the refrigerator in the kitchen, let me assure you that you’re only partially correct. I am honestly concerned about the water-heater and the fuse-box, and I can see two ways to keep me from being cut off from them. Neither way, as far as I can see, would give you any cause for concern.

  The first is to lock and/or seal the door between the ante-room and the kitchen, thus making it impossible for anyone to enter any part of the house except the small room containing the water-heater and the fuse-box. And the second is to seal and/or lock the kitchen off from the rest of the house. Mr. Maynard and I could do this with no difficulty, and I give you my guarantee that no one (myself and Sandy included) would set foot in the rest of the house.

  If you’d consent to sealing the kitchen off from the rest of the house, this would solve our problems with the stove and the refrigerator. And if you’d be worried about the possibility of our misusing them in some way, I’d be glad to give you a small deposit to cover any repairs. (Someone has already broken the door off the refrigerator freezer-compartment, but I think I could pick up another one in Monterey.)

  Or, if you’d be worried about letting us use the kitchen, but would be willing to let us use the small ante-room just inside the back door, I would like to move the refrigerator and the stove into that room—and then seal the whole business off from the rest of the house.

  In either case we would be responsible for the stove and the refrigerator, and I think it would be only fair to give you a deposit. For that matter, if you allowed us the use of the kitchen and/or the ante-room, it would probably justify a small increase in the rent. (My whole soul rebels at the thought of suggesting such a thing, but I’d feel a bit guilty about asking you for concessions without offering some, myself.)

  Naturally, if you or Dennis or anyone else were to use the house, Sandy and I would confine ourselves to the annex and stay completely out of your way. And when I spoke of moving the stove and refrig
erator, I should have explained that it requires nothing more than a strong back and could be done in ten minutes with no trouble.

  So—that’s about it. Whatever you decide is OK with me. I appreciate your renting us the annex, and if you want any odd jobs done around the house, just let me know. I do most of my writing at night, so I have plenty of time during the day. And if you want to bring that gun down the next time you come, I’ll see to it that you don’t even lose a flower, much less a bedroom set. If it’s any consolation to you, I’m the largest person on the property down here, and if I find any prowlers lurking around the house, I will simply twist their heads.

  In the meantime—before I begin twisting heads—I’ll get the bed and the chairs and the chest of drawers from Mrs. Webb.3 We started cleaning the place out this morning and I imagine we’ll move in about the first of the month. Sometime before then I will send you a check for the rent.

  Please let me know as soon as possible about the possibility of Sandy and I using the kitchen or the ante-room if the rest of the house can be locked up to your satisfaction.

  Thanks,

  Hunter S. Thompson

  TO NORMAN MAILER:

  Thompson respected Mailer immensely, but it didn’t keep him from needling the established author from time to time.

  February 1,

  1961 Manor House

  Big Sur, California

  Dear Mr. Mailer:

  I appreciated your reply,4 but, as usual, was a bit dismayed at your picayune defensiveness. You might take a tip from something you once said about James Baldwin: “he seems incapable of saying ‘fuck you’ to his readers.” For whatever it’s worth, I suggest you spend more time writing, and less explaining yourself.

  This little black book of Miller’s5 is something you might like. If not, or if you already have it, by all means send it back. I don’t mind giving it away, but I’d hate to see it wasted.