My arguments were well prepared. Had all day to think it over. Here I come, Juez, ready or not, I will blow your mind, Señor Juez.19
I peek in the door and see a lady! Voilà! A lady, I can win over easier than a Señor … Enter Oscar into a room not unlike the cell.
Lady: (Reading) It says here you insulted a man and used obscene words in front of others, is that true?
Oscar: If the court please …
Lady: Is that true!
Cop: Just answer the question, Señor! (threatening)
Oscar: Your honor, I would like to explain that I am an attorney and …
Lady: One more time, Señor. Is it true that you insulted this man in the hotel! (eyes a’blaring now cause I’ve taken too much time for my trial … delay of justice and all that.)
Oscar: We had an argument over this matter …
Lady: It also says you insulted the policeman, the arresting officer. Is that true also?
Oscar: (nods, cause he’s smart by now and knows he should admit everything to hurry things up.)
Lady: That’ll be $1200 pesos. Or thirty days.
Oscar: I’m sorry, I don’t understand.
Lady: The multa20 is $1200 pesos; $300 pesos for each offense.
Oscar: (figures quickly) But your honor, that only amounts to $900 pesos.
Lady: (thinks for a moment) Didn’t you use obscene language in the presence of the arresting officers also, Señor?
Oscar: (Smiling humbly) Oh, that’s correct, your honor. It is my error. Forgive me.
In round figures, that’s about $100 (American).
Then a man directs me into a cubelike thing about 6 × 4 and offers me coffee and cigarettes and is very, very nice, Señor. After an hour of pleasant chitchat he asks if I’d like to get out. Or do I intend to put in the thirty days.
Out, man, out, now! Well, we can fix this matter up, don’t worry, I’ll help you. I am your friend. Maybe the only friend you have in all of Mexico, is that not true? Yes, si, Señor, you are my benefactor, my only salvation. Help me, please.
Well, we got a message to my friend here in Juarez, sold my record player, pawned my clarinet, radio and camera and I was finally called, ten hours later, to the front. I had put about $25 in the bag when I checked in. They gave me a receipt. They took me into another room and searched me again. The first guy had let me keep my cigs, matches, gum and the receipt. The second guy took it all. He’d take care of my receipt for me, Señor.
I’m five feet from freedom and the money is not in the sack.
Fat Cop: Is everything in order, Señor?
Oscar: No, Señor, the money is missing.
Fat Cop: Money, Señor?
Oscar: Yes, Señor, I had $25 dollars, American, when I came in.
Fat Cop: (Ostentatiously looks over list, checks it against contents.) No, Señor, you must be mistaken, there is no money in here. The receipt says nothing of any money except for those coins.
Oscar: (Five feet from freedom) The receipt I had said …
Fat Cop: (Smiling like a bastard) Let me see your receipt, Señor.
Oscar: (Five feet from freedom, smiles) I lost it, Señor.
Fat Cop: (the mark of the victor, smiles) Ah, then you have no proof, is that correct, Señor?
Oscar: (Five feet from freedom) No, Señor.
Fat Cop: And had you had your drinks that night, Señor?
Oscar: (Five feet from freedom) Yes, Señor, I was drunk as hell. I probably gave it to the whore.
Fat Cop: Yes, that is probably what happened. These things happen. (philosophically) Many times they happen to those who come here to drink and sleep with our women … it happens, you know.
Upon leaving I found out that the benefactor, the guy who got the messages across, etc., he is a prisoner, doing ten for dope. He had asked me for my clothes but I convinced him I’d send him a fiver when I got out. I wondered why he was so trustworthy. Now I know.
I’ve paid for a week to stay here in El Paso. Got a few deals going (not the smuggling, Adrian has spent all his money building his house, he’s returning to Aspen to work at Tico’s) but I won’t know for a few days what I’ll do; as usual, everything depends on Him, in His good time; but I do know that all things work together for good, to those who love the Lord, to those who are the called according to his purpose …a fifth of tequila costs 96 cents so I got no worries.
Yours in Christ,
Oscar Acosta
Attorney At Large
TO DOROTHY DAVIDSON, AMERICAN CIVIL LIBERTIES UNION:
Thompson, a proud lifelong member of the ACLU, had been asked to help out at the Aspen chapter.
February 1, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Mrs. Dorothy Davidson
American Civil Liberties Union
1452 Pennsylvania St. Room 22
Colorado Branch
Denver, Colorado 80203
Dear Mrs. Davidson …
Thanks for your 1/31 letter, the information and the suggestions. I’d be happy to assist you in reorganizing the chapter … and there’s not much doubt that it needs a shot of something. Or maybe not; I say this mainly because a friend of mine, rather desperately needing legal help in what I considered a good case, couldn’t locate anybody in Aspen who claimed to even be a member of the ACLU, much less a legal representative.
I notice, however, that Bil Dunaway (of the Aspen Times) is listed on your stationery as a member of the State Committee. I know Bil, and I’ll talk to him about getting the local chapter at least active enough to be visible.
I don’t, however, think that I’d be the right person to represent the ACLU locally. The Aspen guru should be somebody with local leverage, such as Dun-away or a local attorney. My reputation as the author of a book on the Hell’s Angels, a Woody Creek recluse, gun freak and friend of known criminals is not the image the ACLU needs to be most effective. I’m listed as a columnist for Ramparts, I’ve signed the Editors & Writers Vietnam tax protest, and I’ve admitted in print—The New York Times, no less—that I smoke marijuana. This is not the man to deal with local judges and juries.
Besides that, I’m travelling about half the time and after June 1st, I’ll probably be gone all summer. I’m writing a book on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, so I won’t have much time to devote to local affairs. I tell you all this to explain that I can’t maintain the degree of availability and effectiveness that I’d like to see in a local chapter-head.
But I’ll talk to Dunaway and let you know what happens. I’ll also check with [local ACLU members] Janet Gaylord and Banker. Thanks again for writing.
Sincerely …
Hunter S. Thompson
TO CHARLES KURALT, CBS NEWS:
Charles Kuralt, who died in 1997 after a distinguished forty-year career at CBS News, had been a correspondent for the network in South America and one of Thompson’s favorite drinking buddies when they both lived in Rio de Janeiro in 1962 and 1963.
February 5, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Charley …
I assume you’re still there, stomach boils and all. And I thought I recognized your off-camera voice asking a question of Gene McCarthy in N.H. the other night. Are you up there?
If so, I’ll probably see you very soon. I just got a fluff assignment to do a piece on Nixon for Pageant—but what it really is, or hopefully will be, is a chance to get material for the Johnson campaign book, which will naturally feature Nixon in a triple-cameo role. I’ve agreed to do that one and also agreed to gamble a bag of money and time on it. That’s one book that came out of the NY visit; two others, The Rum Diary and the Joint Chiefs, are now also scheduled. It’s an even bet now as to whether my hair will turn white before it falls out, or vice-versa. Anyway, I’ll try to find you in the east if you’re still there. I’d guess around mid-Feb, or whenever Nixon is in N.H.
Otherwise, give me some warning about your DOA here. I have numerous transients on my hands, so if you’ll want to bring anyone with you I’
ll need advance word. But there’s no problem if it’s only you. Send word, and hello to Petey.21 …
Hunter
TO BILL, ASPEN DENTIST:
February 8, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Bill …
I’m here, but not for long—leaving for New Hampshire and Nixon tomorrow, just got back from NY to find your bill and desperate search note. The idea of me sending anyone $277 in one shot is sheer madness—unless the supplicant can prove great and urgent need—but here’s $100 to maintain good faith, etc. Don’t worry about the rest; I’ll get it to you, but don’t forget to send periodic reminders. I doubt, quite frankly, that I’ll be needing any further dental assistance; I just read today in the Underground Press that frequent inhalation of marijuana smoke prevents rot and heals cavities, in addition to making the teeth sparkle and the soul smile. I may have to try the stuff, but only under strict supervision. Keep this to yourself. …
Hunter
Check #286
$100—sent 2/8/68 1/3
payment
TO THE ALASKA SLEEPING BAG CO.:
Thompson took “satisfaction-or-your-money-back” guarantees at their word.
February 8, 1968
Woody Creek, CO 81656
Alaska Sleeping Bag Co.
334 N.W. 11th Ave.
Portland, Oregon
Gentlemen:
I am returning the “Alaska Hunting Coat”—for which I recently paid you $24.95—for a full refund, as noted in your standard guarantee. The “Cadiz, Kentucky” coat I received bears only a vague resemblance to the coat pictured in your catalogue. The most flagrant misrepresentation has to do with the “leather-lined” pockets and “leather shoulder-patches.” If the garbage on this coat is leather, I’ll eat it.
In a nut, the coat is far below the standards I’ve come to expect from quality mail-order suppliers … such as Eddie Bauer and L.L. Bean, from whom I buy consistently. On the other hand, I’m quite satisfied with the Russell Oneidas you sent, and also the Jokay shooting vest.
So I’m willing to write this off as inconsistency, rather than fraud … but I suggest, in the meantime, that you be more careful about the wording of your catalogue.
I look forward to receiving your check for $79.90. This represents $54.96 for the “Everest Down Parka” that I returned last week, and $24.95 for the enclosed hunting coat.
Thanks,
Hunter S. Thompson
P.S. …I see, in the new catalogue that came with my order, that you’ve dropped the word “leather” from the description of the hunting coat’s shoulder patches and pocket edgings. This is an admirable move, but it’s not much help to me—since I was using your not-so-new catalogue.
HST
TO OSCAR ACOSTA:
“The thing I liked about Oscar,” Thompson says, “was that he was always willing to go further than I was.” This included burning a judge’s lawn.
February 9, 1968
Woody Creek, CO
Dear Oscar …
My knee is ripped, my crotch is broken, I hurt all over and about two hours from now I have to go out to the fucking airport and wait around—on standby—for a crucial flight to Denver & NYC, and then to New Hampshire for a week with Nixon. A quick article for Pageant & also fat research for a bogus book I’ve signed to do almost instantly, by Apr. 1. On the Johnson-Nixon campaign … the only problem is that it has to come out before either party holds its convention … a hideous fantasy.
Anyway, your book came in today’s mail and I figured the best thing to do was send it along before I lose it in my mushrooming paper-mass. I’m enclosing a letter from one Margaret Harrell, my copy editor for the Hell’s Angels book. You’ll note that she says I shouldn’t let you “get hold” of the letter, but the tone of the letter indicated that it was written more to you than me—with a formal disclaimer at the end. So I’m sending it along, with a request that you do me the favor of compounding the fiction in case you ever talk or write to Margaret. In other words, just remember that I told you what she said in the letter; I didn’t send you the letter itself. OK? She’d be embarrassed if she knew you had the original … for reasons I’m sure you’ll understand.
Life here is a zoo of false and impossible promises. I have the Campaign book to deliver by Apr. 1 … The Rum Diary by July 1 … and the massive Joint Chiefs thing by July 1 of ’69. So gone are the freaked and lazy days of 1967. This is the year of the Monkey, which for me means work. I have already become very ugly about guests and visitors. A friend named McGarr22 just left today for L.A. and may look you up. He’s ok, but don’t let him near the wives of any friends you value. I suspect you’ll like him.
Your own action sounds like you’re a few months ahead of me in terms of getting back on the rails. I don’t know how the hell you managed it—in light of your special trials in Juarez—but I guess you wetback freaks have a special god. (Which reminds me—it’s sitting out on the window shelf right now, gathering evil spirits like god’s own vacuum cleaner—thanks.) I haven’t read the novel and couldn’t possibly get to it until late April or May; I’ve over-extended myself so badly that whatever hair I have left at the end of this year will be stone white. Besides that, I’ve refused to pay my War Taxes, and I’m a sitting duck for the IRS so look forward to massive trouble in that area. I’ve also agreed to put my little brother through at least enough college-time to keep him from being killed. This looks to be a hairy year all around.
In terms of your political action, I might be checking with you this summer about writing something about “Brown Power,” or whatever term is stylish at that time. I don’t like that term any more than I do the Black equivalent, but it’s a sure winner on the editorial front. I no longer plan to work on random articles, but my research on the Joint Chiefs book will take me into a lot of things I can write about and publish as side-effects of the book, and your gig may be one of them. We’ll see … but in any case I’ll probably be in L.A. this spring and looking for a shortdog or two. Let me know if your phone or address changes.
On your car: if you want me to get it running and rolling, send me some sort of notarized letter or signed pink slip so I can deal with it legally. I figure $300 will get it running about as well as it was before, but I’d only get involved in it if you sent me some sort of official or neo-legal authorization and agreed to repay me when you re-claim the car. In other words, I’ll get it running at my expense if you’ll give me enough paperwork to get it even temporarily licensed until you reimburse me for the repair bill and take it away. It’s crazy to junk a car that needs so little work, and which could be a good machine for 2 or 3 years once the work is done. So let me know. I don’t need it for wheels, so don’t do me any favors. But it offends my sense of survival to see a good life-tool abandoned for want of a few horseshoes, as it were.
Your last letter wasn’t very optimistic about the novel, but if you change your mind and put any rewrite work into it—and want me to read it a few months from now—send it along and I’ll say whatever comes to mind. Keep in mind—while you’re fucking around with “short stories”—that your chances of selling a short novel are far better than they are in any short story market. My offhand suggestion would be to cut the novel down to the bare bones, which means about 50,000 words, and then write a book on Brown Power which will give you a launching platform for the novel. If the idea of writing anything (book length) on the BP theme interests you, let me know and I’ll try to interest somebody. Your problem there is that your club hand is dialogue, which used to mean fiction—but if you can teach yourself to use dialogue to tell a topical, non-fiction story you’ll sell it. I guarantee that—but only if you get that goddamn missionary instinct out of your narrative. Let the people tell their own stories; they may surprise you.
OK for now. I have to pack and flee. Sandy is as pleased as I am with your new gig. Maybe by summer we’ll be ready to invite you and Marco23 out for a visit. Where is he now? Anyway, you’re one of the fe
w people I can think of right now that I’d enjoy seeing … for whatever that’s worth. Send word. …
Hunter
TO JUAN THOMPSON:
Homesick in a Sunset Strip hotel while in Los Angeles to explore a possible movie deal for Hell’s Angels, Thompson vented to his three-year-old son back in Woody Creek.
February 13, 1968
Hyatt House Hotels
Los Angeles, CA
Dear Juan …
I thought I’d write you a letter on this weird typewriter I borrowed from Oscar. I’m just learning to use it, so I’ll make a few mistakes before I get straightened out. It’s raining outside on my balcony and the news is on. It’s been raining all day. I’m on the 11th floor of this hotel on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood. I haven’t been outside all day. I slept until two, then went down to the coffee shop and had a club sandwich. Now I have some beer and a bucket of ice, getting ready to work for awhile on the test pilot article … ah, damnit, my package of carbon paper slipped into a puddle of eucalyptus oil. I … I just went out on the balcony to get my last beer. I keep them out there, where it’s cold. Very cold here, rotten weather. In about two hours I’ll go down to the coffee shop again and have another club sandwich. Then I’ll come back up here and work on the article. I don’t know what’s on TV because I don’t have a newspaper.
Tomorrow I’ll call John Smith24 and maybe go out to see Nicholas and Emily. McGarr is moving this weekend and his phone is disconnected, so I can’t get hold of him. I met Oscar’s new wife last night, a pretty little Mexican girl. I have to mail this article on Monday, so I’ll have to spend most of tomorrow working on it. The Air Force visit was interesting; I saw a lot of strange planes and talked to a lot of dull people. For entertainment, I drove around at high speeds in a rented Mustang, going ninety miles an hour across the desert. There is no snow out there, just sand and dry bushes. And you can see for twenty miles in all directions. There are no grizzly bears on the desert, but people say there are a lot of wild pigs. I didn’t see any. As a matter of fact, I didn’t see much of anything.