Wilmington, Delaware
Mr. Dale,
Although a wild and lengthy court battle might have proved stimulating indeed, I decided after lengthy consultation with my compatriots that it might be best to clear this debt (840-865-S) and go on to greener fields. And so, by by-passing the opportunity to spice my dull existence with a violent legal struggle, I am enclosing a money order for $13.58, hoping that it will put an end to this stream of crude letters which it has been my privilege to receive from your hallowed halls.
Before closing, allow me to say that your letters have shown neither originality nor wit. They have convinced me that the collecting business is a haven for dullards and habitual misers, devoid of humor and incapable of interesting correspondence. You have my most sincere condolences.
We cannot, however, escape the obvious fact that you have accomplished your intended purpose—that of prying $13.58 out of these grasping hands by fair means or foul. Congratulations.
Most cordially,
Hunter S. Thompson
Command Courier
3201 AB Wing
Eglin AFB, Fla.
TO SUSAN HASELDEN:
Thompson had met Haselden when both were in junior high school. Because of his reputation as a “thug,” Haselden’s parents forbade her to see him, so they carried on a passionate, secret dalliance. This is the first of many letters in which Thompson declares himself “the new F. S. Fitzgerald.”
June 29, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida
Dear Susan,
This will be short, due to the fact that I have stopped short in the midst of a creative seizure in order to write it. After beating out a few lines, I shall return to my story, which I am counting on to bring me fame, fortune, and recognition as the new F. S. Fitzgerald. Another explanation—you have my apology for typing a personal letter. I have typed all my letters, personal or otherwise, for the past year—primarily because it’s easier and not as messy.
The main reason I’m writing is to inform you that I am horribly frustrated because I have no pools and no one to swim with me at night—at least no one worth a damn. And more than that, I have too much work to do and nothing but idiots to talk to. All in all; I am sad, Susan, sad. You and Owl Creek5 spoiled me and now I am not satisfied with my beautiful Gulf.
Usually I find that every letter I write a girl becomes community property almost immediately. Now, starting with my next letter, I intend to make them either completely impersonal or incredibly lewd. In the former case, I won’t care who sees them, and in the latter, I feel sure that they will be kept under lock and key or burned immediately. In your case however, I’m not sure that you wouldn’t get a kick out of receiving a steady stream of lewd letters—pleasantly lewd ones, of course.
Another thing—I am literally covered from head to toe with insect bites of some sort. I feel sure that it must have been the grass on that damn golf course, where you detained me. Whenever I think about it, I first kick myself and then wonder what sort of explanation you conjured up upon entering the house at that hour in a state of apparent disarray. Naturally, no one will believe that we were hunting for night crawlers. Yes, I always kick myself when I walk right past a really delightful night crawler without realizing that he’s there. You know how it is though; you can’t always see them from the surface. Next time, however, I will look more carefully. […]
Things here are as prosaic as ever, the same blood-curdling routine week after week, nothing but idiots everywhere, uniforms, foul food, and ugly women. Just as soon as I sell a novel or two, I will buy a plot of land and build a small hut and a large swimming pool on it. Then I will fence the whole thing off and operate a small scale nudist colony where I can have nightly orgies and not be bothered by the world and its idiots. Maybe I’ll let you come and handle my correspondence. Until then, or until I hear from you, I remain;
Smiling,
Hunty
TO SUSAN HASELDEN:
Thompson’s fondness for Fitzgerald is evident again in both statement and style.
July 13, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida
OPEN LETTER TO A FALLEN WOMAN
Dear Fallen,
If your thighs ever become as hard as a clipboard, I don’t think you’ll ever have to worry about men again—old men, little boys, or in-betweens. Admittedly, there is something novel about dating a girl with a thigh as hard as a clipboard, but it’s just not the type of thing too many people would go for. However, I’d probably still let you handle my correspondence.
Another thing; I was taken aback by your implication that you would be a grandmother before I become the new Fitzgerald (ref: “I’ll show them—my letters—to my grandchildren when you become the new Fitzgerald.”) Actually, I am already the new Fitzgerald: I just haven’t been recognized yet.
As for the color of this ink and the frequent mistakes in the use (or misuse) of this machine, I am sick. The red ink matches the color of my eyes—the same color they’ve been since the night of July third, the jumping off date for the “great orgy.” It is now 1:30 pm on Saturday afternoon. That would seem to make about nine or ten days. Actually, the high point came on July fifth, when I made an unfortunate attempt to convert a goodly portion of Tower Beach into a nudist colony. (This letter may ramble and jump. I’m trying to clear my mind so I can get on with this story I must finish by Monday morning.) I spent $15 last night and didn’t even begin paying for my drinks until 10:00 p.m. All I can remember now is buying a huge round of drinks for a raucous group at the Indian Mound Saloon. The Indian Mound is the only bar in town which is allowed to stay open all night. Thusly, a savage and unnatural orgy occurs almost every 24 hours within its confines. Last night was no different. Some young thing in gauze shorts did the “dog hunch” with three winos from New York. It was weird. I have spent the past ten days with a pilot who never seems to work. I manage to get something done occasionally, making my deadlines and such, but most of the time has been spent at a beach house belonging to some degenerate woman from D’mapolis, Alabama. I was over there yesterday afternoon and suddenly the house was full of degenerate people from D’mapolis, Alabama. Some man ripped the commode out of the floor and took it out to his car where he passed out with it. His wife, meanwhile, whiled the hours away by tearing live crabs limb from limb. Some drunken fool smashed his boat into the pier at Sea Gull and almost killed me. As it was, I dropped my drink and had four heart flutters. Although I have dedicated myself to the task of completing this story before Monday morning, I have a feeling in my womb that I will not get much done tonight. Banks (the pilot)6 will call any minute and weaken me with proposals of a lustful and lecherous nature. Then too, I can’t afford to buy dinner and I can see no alternative but to eat with the degenerates from D’mapolis again. They eat well, but very rarely. I woke up this morning, totally unclothed, on a sand dune overlooking a semi-crowded beach. Seeing Banks in the same condition, I remembered that we had come out for a pre-dawn swim in the phosphorus-filled water. Whenever you move around in the water, your whole body lights up and flashes all around. Not your body. It’s really the phosphorus in the water, but I like to think it’s a weird omen from the crabs—hailing me as the new Messiah. Banks was in a rage this morning when he learned that he had not been named the Aga Kahn. I had my usual “morning after” breakfast of filleted snapper and tomato juice, while Banks gave the waitress a hard time for not calling him the new Aga Kahn. These damn waitresses always laugh when I order snapper for breakfast (“Pardon me for laughing, but it just sounds funny”) but they usually stop when I smack ’em in the head once or twice.
Last weekend was a nightmare. I appeared at high noon on a crowded beach, wearing only flippers and a pair of diving goggles. Somewhere in the melee, my trunks had become lost. Urged on by my drunken and malicious companions, I virtually cleared the beach in five minutes. I won’t go into this thing much further, because it becomes in
decent when the details are revealed. I can still see that old woman’s face as I raced over the dune and came straight for her. Fortunately, I wore goggles. The cry of the day was: “Let’s have an orgy!” I can imagine the uproar in the Chamber of Commerce if the incident was reported. “Visit Fort Walton Beach, the playground of northwest Florida, where naked sex fiends roam the beaches 24 hours a day. Bring your families.”
Eight hours is a long time. I can hardly believe that we were out for that length of time. It seems like only two or three hours at best. It seems futile, since I’m not the new Aga Kahn either, to apologize to your parents. For some reason, I don’t think they would take the apology seriously. However, I will beg your pardon for keeping you out so long; but I can’t truthfully say that I had anything but an excellent time. I’m sure that I would enjoy the Gulf much more if you were here to swim with me. Why don’t you come down for a few weeks? It would hardly cost you anything at all and a vacation would do you good. It would get you away from all the giggling little boys and grasping old men. Night swimming in the Gulf is fantastic, the sea food is incredible, and the beaches are unbelievable—and even better by moonlight. I guess I could say that it might be a little better than Owl Creek. Of course I think I enjoyed Owl Creek more, but only because I had you to keep me company … and to open my ale. I’m serious; I definitely think you should come down here.
I didn’t mean to make you feel ignorant. It seems, however, that I must have a knack for that sort of thing. I enjoy it down here, but if it was obvious to you, then I had better learn to be conscious of it and control it. It’s not good to make everyone feel ignorant and I really don’t know exactly when or where I acquired the knack for it. It’s an amazingly effective weapon in the Air Force, especially as most of the people I go around with are older than I am and outrank me considerably, but it gets out of hand every now and then. […]
I went to Tallahassee last weekend and had two dates with a very pretty but mentally deficient girl who would fit into any mold of the “typical old south, Tallahassee girl” type. It convinced me that, except on rare occasions, I cannot enjoy a date with a stupid girl. And believe it or not, the world is full of them. I’d say that 95% of all women are hopelessly stupid.
I was a little puzzled by your comments on my upsetting your recently developed philosophy on men. You were talking one minute about “constantly dragging your mind from Owl Creek to Crescent Hill”—and the next about my “saying a lot of things casually …” Then too, what do you mean about “never thinking about the past or the future with men”?
While you’re trying to figure out how to re-phrase the above quotes so that I can understand them, you can also decide whether you want to handle my correspondence or participate in the orgies at the “passion pool.” I’ve decided that it must be on a beach, in a grove of pine trees, and with a fresh-water pool in the back of the cottage. If you decide to be a participant, let me know so that I can get someone else to handle the correspondence. At any rate, I’m glad to hear that you’ve already accepted my invitation. I shall never have more than three guests at a time, so you should consider yourself fortunate to have secured a place at the top of the list so early in the game.
Incidentally, I have come up with a definition of heaven. Now don’t tell anyone about this because it sounds downright vulgar; but I think it’s nice. Never mind, I can’t bring myself to put it in red and white—maybe later. Drop me a line soon and tell me when you plan to arrive. Until I hear from you,
I remain, grinning owlishly,
Hunter S. Thompson
Command Courier
3201 AB Wing
Eglin AFB, Fla.
P.S. Please explain to your parents that I didn’t make a fallen woman of you.
TO SUSAN HASELDEN:
Thompson had taken over an abandoned Gulf of Mexico beach house, dubbing it Xanadu after Kubla Khan’s “stately pleasure dome” in Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem. The house became the party center for Thompson’s friends at Eglin.
August 5, 1957
Eglin AFB
Fort Walton Beach, Florida
Dear Susan,
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.
And that about sums it up: if you substitute Hunter S. Thompson for our boy K.K., you’ll have the story of my newest venture in a nutshell. Yes, a beach house—what else? It’s terribly passé to live in Florida without a beach house, and I, a slave of fashion, simply knuckled down and acquired one.
We call it Xanadu, and Alph the sacred river is a sewage ditch running through the Sodom swamp and under the Gomorrah bridge. No one understands just where I got these names, but they’re all afraid of appearing ignorant and pretend to be very proud of the tags I’ve put on our domain and its appendages. We have a ten-foot alligator (maybe six feet) in the Sodom swamp. His name is Bacchus—a name which gives the natives less trouble than the others.
Seriously, I now have a house. It’s not really mine but I live there and do my best to whomp up orgies every now and then. It’s right on the Mississippi Sound—out over it in fact—and rented for $600 a month in its younger days. When you come down, you’ll be amazed at its rustic weirdness. Actually, it’s something which only an ale-infested mind would consider livable, but I think it’s one of the finest things I’ve ever seen. I’m sure you’ll like it immensely. Just as soon as I get a picture of it, I’ll send a print or so your way. Xanadu is something you’d have to see to believe.
My most abject apologies for not having written sooner. I am right in the midst of a horrible deadline rush at the moment and will have to make this letter rather short. Only this morning, I returned from a three-day whomp in New Orleans, the first in several months. After several days of consorting with various deviates of all sorts—queers, lesbians, gigolos, and winos—I am ready to get back on the right track again. Advanced degeneration is something I don’t enjoy. Living with it for a while makes me feel a little dirty and puts me in a frame of mind where I regress mentally—back to the days when the mention of “lavender” brought flowers to mind, instead of perverts. I’m afraid I’m a poseur. For all my talk of orgies and the like, I can only take them for a little while, and then I’m ready to go looking for my idealistic bubble to crawl into. Don’t tell anyone: I have a reputation to uphold.
Although I couldn’t help but get the idea that the “art” of flirting fascinates you no little, you wouldn’t even have had to mention it and I would still have gotten the idea. I think you were trying to excite me. Witness these excerpts from your last letter: “I just tugged on my too-little bathing suit … have to pull up and down … another end to take care of—“I am constantly flirting”—“cracked my cerebrum; it must have been the side controlling inhibitions”—“I had an urge … for a midnight swim in the Gulf.” (That wasn’t really your fault: you couldn’t have known that we never wear any swimming suits at night.) Maybe I’m wrong after all: here I notice a passage where you say that you’ve decided to become “the world’s most frigid woman.” Your confusion is obvious—contradictions galore, references to passion and frigidity in the same breath—other references to nudity, lewd old men, etc.—you obviously need a few restful days in Xanadu.
I must go now, for I have a sacred trust. Write immediately and tell me when you plan to arrive. I must make plans and all that sort of thing. Bring anyone you want (except Charlie7); we have plenty of room for all. Until then, I remain,
unsullied—
Hunte
FROM COLONEL W. S. EVANS, CHIEF, OFFICE OF INFORMATION SERVICES, U.S. AIR FORCE:
HEADQUARTERS
AIR PROVING GROUND COMMAND
UNITED STATES AIR FORCE
Eglin Air Force Base, Florida
ADDRESS REPLY
ATTN: Base Staff Personnel Officer
Personnel Report: A/2C Hunter S. Thompson
23 Au
g 57
1. A/2C Hunter S. Thompson, AF15546879, has worked in the Internal Information Section, OIS, for nearly one year. During this time he has done some outstanding sports writing, but ignored APGC-OIS policy.
2. Airman Thompson possesses outstanding talent in writing. He has imagination, good use of English, and can express his thoughts in a manner that makes interesting reading.
3. However, in spite of frequent counseling with explanation of the reasons for the conservative policy on an AF base newspaper, Airman Thompson has consistently written controversial material and leans so strongly to critical editorializing that it was necessary to require that all his writing be thoroughly edited before release.
4. The first article that called attention to the writing noted above was a story very critical of Base Special Services. Others that were stopped before they were printed were pieces that severely criticized Arthur Godfrey and Ted Williams that Airman Thompson extracted from national media releases and added his flair for the innuendo and exaggeration.
5. This Airman has indicated poor judgment from other standpoints by releasing Air Force information to the Playground News himself, with no consideration for other papers in the area, or the fact that only official releases, carefully censored by competent OIS staff members, are allowed.
6. In summary, this Airman, although talented, will not be guided by policy or personal advice and guidance. Sometimes his rebel and superior attitude seems to rub off on other airmen staff members. He has little consideration for military bearing or dress and seems to dislike the service and want out as soon as possible.
7. Consequently, it is requested that Airman Thompson be assigned to other duties immediately, and it is recommended that he be earnestly considered under the early release program.
8. It is also requested that Airman Thompson be officially advised that he is to do no writing of any kind for internal or external publication unless such writing is edited by the OIS staff, and that he is not to accept outside employment with any of the local media.