Proud Highway

by Hunter S. Thompson

  There was not a lot of truth in Kennedy, but it was hard to doubt—after listening to him talk—that he at least knew what the word meant. He had a capacity for backing off and watching himself perform, and later commenting on what he’d seen and heard with a quick, half-sublimated sense of humor that often made him seem like a pillar of sanity in the thieving, swinish chaos of American politics. He seemed like the only man who knew what was happening, and although there was rarely any way to guess what he might decide to do about it, there was always the chance that he might find an opening to do something right.

  Johnson conveys only the impression of a man whose sole interest is in closing every door, crack and window that might let in fresh air. And the thing that interests me about this Aspen piece is that even people in the drugstores and beerhalls of a Rocky Mountain town seemed to know, within hours of Kennedy’s death, that it was the end of an era. The sense of loss was almost as clear then as it is now … the only difference is that now it’s been documented.

  Anyway, I thought I’d send this along, with the vague idea that you might want to use it. If not, please send it back (to this address) as soon as possible. It’s my only copy and I want to keep it.

  Thanks—

  Hunter

  TO VIRGINIA THOMPSON:

  August 26, 1966

  230 Grattan

  San Francisco

  Dear Mom:

  Right now I am in the middle of one of the biggest writing jags of my life. On the basis of a ten-page outline I submitted, Ballantine is now trying to sell hardcover rights to Random House, which could mean quite a bit if it goes. I also have a Playboy assignment on the same subject, which is sort of chancy right now, but a good possibility. I also have the novel [The Rum Diary] at Pantheon; an editor from there was here last week, and insisted on reading it. It’s awful, but under these new circumstances I’m pretty sure I can make somebody take an option, which would give me time and perhaps money to rewrite it. The whole situation here is chaotic and under terrible pressure. I am up until dawn every night, beating these rotten keys. And no rest in sight until at least the first of the year, if then. This is a nerve-wracking period. There is real money just around the corner, but turning that corner is going to be hard as hell. It is going to take an incredible amount of good pages in an incredibly short space of time. Sandy is getting depressed with the constant urgency of things. There is not a moment to relax, I couldn’t handle this pace if I thought it was anything but a temporary thing. But if the book goes big, in hardback as well as paper, I’ll be able to relax for a while.

  How about there? What’s happening? What is Jim up to? Send a line, a newsy sort of letter. I haven’t heard anything in a long time.

  Love—

  Hunter

  TO SONNY BARGER:

  On Labor Day weekend a group of Hell’s Angels had “stomped” Thompson near Cloverdale, California, smashing his face and nearly killing him. Thompson was bleeding profusely when he arrived at the hospital in Santa Rosa. The brutal act ended his involvement with the motorcycle gang—and afforded his hook the perfect postscript. Barger was not around when the beating occurred.

  September 25, 1966

  230 Grattan

  San Francisco

  Dear Sonny—

  Thought I’d send you a note on the way east. I’d hoped we could have a beer and get straight after that bad show at Cloverdale, but Terry didn’t come by like he said he would and I didn’t figure it was my action to be making any diplomatic phone calls.

  Anyway, I assume you heard about the stomping up there and I’m sorry you weren’t around to cut it off any quicker. As it was, I figure Tiny did me a hell of a favor by getting me on my feet before I got kicked to death—so when you see him tell him I said “thanks” and if he needs a good favor some day, tell him to get hold of me.

  There’s not much sense in talking about it except to say it was a completely “no class” piece of action and I’m glad none of the guys I liked and trusted were part of it.

  I’m not sure how or why the thing started and I never even saw the first thump that got me, but I assume it was a sort of drunken spontaneous outburst that I had the bad luck to get in the middle of. Earlier that day I’d noticed some resentment about my taking pictures, but I didn’t worry about it because I figured you were straight enough to tell me to my face if we had any problems. We’ve never bullshitted each other and I’d grown sort of accustomed to taking you at face value.

  In all, I had no reason to expect that sort of action—as I’m sure you realize—and in general it disappointed me about the Angels. Not everybody, but at least a few. Obviously, I wouldn’t be writing this letter if I was down on the whole club. Like I said, if Tiny hadn’t been there to help me I’d probably be in a graveyard right now.

  Anyway, I’m off on another book now, and if you people want to sue me for any money regarding the Hell’s Angels book I think you should get as much as you can. I can’t go into detail—especially in a letter—but if we had sat down and talked I think we could have worked something out. I’m still willing to talk, but it will have to be on my turf next time. I don’t ever intend to be that much outnumbered again.

  Before you do anything, though, I think you should read the book, which is now scheduled for January. I think you’ll like it, but maybe not. If nothing else it should be interesting.

  Hunter

  TO PAUL SEMONIN:

  Thompson was hack in Colorado with the hook’s finished first draft and his face recovering from the Hell’s Angels stomping.

  October 4, 1966

  Box 783

  Aspen, Colorado

  Dear Bobo—

  Trust you got Sandy’s phone message that we got here alright. No break-down until Aspen, and that was your man’s left front wheel brake, which I think is more the province of your friend at the crossroads, rather than the downtown alignment man. It now grabs so violently that it will throw the car into a circular spin if we drive it in snow—which fell to the tune of seven inches yesterday. What it is, I’m sure, is the left front brake cylinder leaking fluid on the brake linings, but of course that’s what you pay people to tell you—rather than figuring it out yourself while adding up a bunch of canceled checks from various garages.

  So much for all that. Noonan “forgot” to tell me that he was finally getting married last week and that I was to be the best man. It was a frightening experience, with a priest and all the Catholic action, and needless to say it brought on a wave of drink that has yet to subside. The priest learned to hate me, and I was naturally terrified of him. It was a gruesome show, with the bride’s parents hurling condemnation on me throughout. All Catholics should be garroted. At the Rustic Inn, on a slow Thursday night.

  In all, this looks like a good scene for a month or so. Sandy is working behind my back to dig up a house for the winter, but my own plans still focus on a drift to New York around Christmas, then back to California to do another nonfiction book. Objectively. I think we’ll light on your doorstep sometime in January.

  In the meantime, could you send another Rx for 100 Dexedrines, 5 mg, and, if possible, another Rx for the nose-spray, the name of which I can’t recall.16 Unfortunately, I can’t seem to breathe without the spray, and in this altitude breathing is important. I’m afraid I’ll have to use my Blue Cross hospitalization to cut a channel through my nasal passage. Is that your province? Let me know what you think.

  The scene here is good—a big house with a one-room cottage for writing … in the best of neighborhoods. A far cry from any action with the Angels. Juan has turned into a whining monster and I try to stay away from him. Sandy is not much better. Noonan says hello and we both think you should run out here in the truck for a day of shooting. It’s about thirty hours on the road, which is only half your weekend. And besides that, Aspen is a goldmine for orthopods, and you should by all means check it out. Let me know on this too.

  Bruno

  TO CHARLES KURALT:
/>
  Kuralt had mailed Thompson a new essay book: The Best of the National Observer, which included more articles by Thompson than by any other journalist.

  October 19, 1966

  Aspen, Colorado

  Dear Charley—

  Thanks for the book. I appreciate the idea of making permanent print, as it were, and in spite of my grumbling I also appreciated the check—which kept the phone company from putting me in isolation again.

  As for the choice(s) of my stuff, I figure you’re not to blame so I can tell you I’m appalled. I suppose that “timelessness” factor might explain some of it, but even taking that into consideration I can point to at least ten better pieces I did in those years. But what the hell? I don’t see any sense in bitching to Bill Giles—who can’t be blamed either and who’s already torn enough hair on my account—so I thought I’d aim this at you and consider the matter ended.

  Or almost ended, and on this other count I think you ain’t blameless. That is the matter of bylines in sniper-vision type, which I think reflect poorly on the value the Observer places on the people who write these articles. I may be unique on this score, but not one of those seven pieces in the book originated in anybody’s mind but my own; nor were any written with the help of expense money. What I mean is I figure some of that was my world, too, and my ego doesn’t fit real well into footnotes. So those are my bitches and I figure you owe me some drinks on the latter score, at least. When I get East I’ll try to collect. […] OK for now.

  —Hunter

  TO CHUCK ALVERSON:

  Alverson was a friend of Thompson’s who worked at The Wall Street Journal. He provided Thompson with police documents regarding the Hell’s Angels.

  November 28, 1966

  Owl Farm

  Woody Creek, Colorado

  Chuck—

  Sorry to be so late with an answer to your last. You sounded pretty down, but I hope things got straight with Jane—or at least straighten. What the fuck made you divorce her in the first place? I don’t know any secret formulas or potions—not even my own—but if it’s any comfort to you, rest assured that I’ll keep your action in mind the next time I consider leaving Sandy.

  And now to better news: Money. I’ve been trying to figure out ways to send you $150, but since my bank account is $67 overdrawn and steadily rising, it’s been hard. Finally, in a flash of insight, I sent Random House a bill for your services (to be taken out of my royalties) and to my astonishment they agreed to pay. If you don’t get a check from them within two weeks, let me know at this address and I’ll bug them again. They insisted on paying Sonny [Barger] $25 for his telegram to Lyndon (I wanted to make it $1000 until I learned it was coming out of my alleged royalties) so I think they’ll send you $150 without much argument. The book is due on January 27, barring further delays. I no longer give a fuck. There must be an easier and less painful way to make a living. You asked about the Angels stomping me. Indeed. It came as a total surprise, with no warning, but it put me in the emergency ward of the Santa Rosa hospital and caused me to look with new affection on my .44 Magnum. Sonny wasn’t around and I didn’t talk to him about it afterwards, so all I know is what little I can piece together from the day that led up to the outburst.… Labor Day run, I wanted a book cover photo to counter Random’s idea of using some phony design work, vaguely uneasy reception at the gathering point, Fat Freddy trying to run me down with his bike about noon, then 5 or 6 hours of loose and easy talk with people like Zorro, Jimmy & Magoo (& Tiny, who cashed a check for me), but all the while a mean undertone from a lot of new Angels I didn’t know.… I guess my mistake was in thinking Sonny, Tiny, Terry & Co. would keep the uglies from giving me a hard time. I forgot bylaw No. 10: “When an Angel punches a non-Angel …” So when somebody teed off on me, whamo!

  Everybody else joined in. Not a hint of warning. Tiny got me on my feet after a while and probably saved my life. (See the book for details.) It was a cheap, chickenshit show—like the Big Nigger incident in Oakland17

  —but when I went over the book galleys afterward the only change I made was the adding of a postscript. Validation by fire, as it were. If you talk to Sonny and he offers an explanation, I’d be curious to hear it. But I’m not about to ask for one myself. As far as I’m concerned I’ve already written it. OK—write.

  Hunter

  TO CAREY MCWILLIAMS, THE NATION:

  Thompson had failed to send The Nation his promised article on the extreme right in California.

  December 8, 1966

  Owl Farm

  Woody Creek, Colorado

  Dear Carey—

  I feel guiltier every time I hear your name, which for some reason is quite often. You came up in a conversation with Bob Craig (ex–Aspen Inst.) the other night, and again when I talked to Shir-Cliff at Ballantine … and also about two weeks ago when I was talking with a copy editor at Random House.

  Anyway, I want you to know I haven’t forgotten the California piece, nor have I put it aside. I’ve made about four false starts and the focus keeps changing so radically that I’m no longer sure what I’m writing. The only line I want to keep out of what I have is this one, from a draft done more than two weeks ago: “It seemed like a good time to be leaving California.” What started out as a detailed, political prediction sort of piece was ruined by Reagan’s election, which took all the foresight-wisdom out of my approach and made me sound like just another headline-sifter. (Another example: two weeks or so ago I predicted sarcastically in a letter to Random that John Wayne would unseat Kuchel18 in 1968—and this morning I read (in the Denver Post) an interview with Wayne, somewhere in Mexico, in which he denied any intention of running for the Senate. Probably if I joked tonight about Walt Disney running in 1968, I’d read Drew Pearson’s column tomorrow and find that the Disney PR firm had decided to make the big move in 1970, on the assumption that George Murphy19 will have moved up to the presidency in 1968.) The dark fog of madness is moving in on California politics so fast that it’s no longer possible to joke about it. When I wrote the non-student piece, for instance, I could mock the Nazi camp and even Clark Kerr … but with a vague, bottom of mind sort of instinct that Reason would prevail and that I’d eventually sound like a seer. Now I feel like anything I write could send me to jail when I go back to the coast … or, if not that, I don’t know what manner of vicious absurdity I can write about without having my thesis cut out from under me by tomorrow’s headlines. I kept telling my Liberal compatriots that Reagan would win by a million votes and put them all behind bars, but I didn’t really believe things were that bad until about two weeks ago—when Reagan announced that he’d take the oath at 12:10 a.m. There was no doubt, at that point, that Dr. Strangelove was real.

  Anyway, the only nut I have right now is that one sentence. I took it out of a 5–6 page start I made on a piece that was actually a midnight highway reflection that I worked up on napkin notes while driving from San Francisco toward Aspen on Election night. By the time I got to Reno the polls had closed on the coast, and by the time I got to Elko [Governor Pat] Brown had conceded and the Republican landslide was on. I drove all night across Nevada, so I had plenty of time to think … and although I had several good non-political reasons for fleeing to Colorado, probably my big reasons were indirectly political. The original title I had for the piece, “California, the Progressive Penal Colony,” now seems as apt as it does dated. Kesey went to jail, [the cops] busted the strike at Berkeley, and Reagan is making noises that should cause Eastern Liberals to forget about Germany and ponder their own Promised Land. I no longer see any point in making dire predictions about California; they’ll all come true by the time the article is printed. The state scares me. The whole country scares me. And I don’t say that in any abstract sense because I have a bad tendency to argue with strangers in strange places, and on several recent occasions I’ve been given to understand that I’m not one of the boys. If my neighbors in Woody Creek could read my mail they’d have me locked up … alt
hough I get along fine with them when all we talk about is snow, horses and credit at the WC store.

  Probably by now you have the drift of my thinking, which is largely out of focus. The only thing I can write with any sense of certainty that won’t be dated by tomorrow’s headlines is a sort of personal reminiscence about how it was in California Last Year, and How It Is Now. The vast alterations … the failure, as it were, of the Revolution of Expectations. (That’s Adlai’s phrase, by the way, and he originally said it in reference to South America about 1960 … and since then South America has been traveling the same route as California, only faster.… Brazil continues to interest me immensely, and especially since it’s done a 180-degree political turn since I left in 1963, so if you know anybody who’d pay me to go back to Rio and write something profound, by all means let me know.)

  I am, in fact, at loose ends for ideas. I have a contract with Random for two books in addition to Hell’s Angels, but one is a novel that needs a total rewrite and the other is a non-fiction book with no subject or title.20 The novel was due last August 1, and the other is due August 1, 1967. So I’m in a definite bind. I finally got page proofs from Random and I’ll send them to the Guggenheim people as soon as I can figure out what sort of project I want their money for. I’ve suggested to Random a book on Los Angeles as the Full and Final Flower of the American Dream, but they say it won’t sell. Shir-Cliff wants something on Cops, but apparently somebody else is about to publish one like that. The Minutemen don’t interest me and the only other thing I can think of is a mean exposé of pro football—which I’d like to do and could probably do pretty well. Not a [George] Plimpton-style job, but a real root-grabber. That’s about all my ideas right now. About ten sentences from here I cut out for 30 minutes to shovel a cut in the snow so I can get out tomorrow. We had the heaviest storm since 1934 yesterday and today, and it’s still coming. I can’t let it build up on me, or I’ll never get out. I’m the only dude in this far bend of the Woody Creek canyon; the other two are way down below—and this ranch has a history of breaking dudes’ spirits … last winter both tenants fled, and it was a pretty mild winter. But I lived out here before (down the road a piece) when it got down to 40 below for 4–5 days at a stretch, and the sale of British rights on the Hell’s Angels book (to Penguin) gives me enough to buy snow tires, chains and a big shovel. I also board 21 horses, one of which got loose when I was out shoveling a while ago, and I had to chase him up the creek with a two-cell flash-light—in knee-deep snow. Horses regard strangers with the same amount of snorting, devious hostility that I learned to live with among the Hell’s Angels … so I get along pretty well with them. So far. The Angels, as I think I told you, put me in the Santa Rosa emergency ward on Labor Day, and just as I was getting over that I slid down a shale cliff during an elk hunt and almost turned into a basket case. It’s been a rough year. My only hope for salvation is that Random will promote the book in such a way as to make me a fortune.