Hill St. Louisville, Kentucky
Dear Sir:
I regret to inform you that Salems have all but swamped Kools in the Puerto Rico cigarette market. I don’t know if this makes much difference to you or not, but let me tell you that it bothers the mortal hell out of me. I’ve been smoking Kools for close to ten years, but down here I’d have an easier time getting a steady supply of reefers. There are god knows how many cigarette machines in San Juan, and in only three of them can I find king-size Kools. This is working a tremendous hardship on me, and I’m writing you in hopes that you’ll do something about it.
I’m quite willing to do my part. If you lack a competent distributor down here, then consider me at your service. Nothing would make me happier than to drive Salems off the market for good and ever. It’s without a doubt the foulest cigarette in the history of tobacco-addicted man—a tasteless mish-mash of paper and dry weeds.
But I have yet to run across a cigarette machine that doesn’t have two racks of Salems. And as I said before, only three that I’ve found contain filter Kools.
There’s no excuse for this kind of negligence on your part. If Kools are deemed too strong for the Puerto Rican taste, then get that hustling huckster Ted Bates on the ball and have him educate these people. He’s not paid to ignore new markets.
As a native of Louisville, and as one of a long line of Brown-Williamson customers—and primarily as a man who will have Kools—I deplore this great vacuum in your distribution. As I said before, I will be glad to help in any way I can. At the moment I’m an associate editor of a new sports magazine here and I’ll be glad to sell you a full-page ad to begin the campaign. Personally, I don’t give a damn if you want the ad or not, but contact me if it interests you.
My primary concern is the frustrating lack of Kools in Puerto Rico. Whatever action you decide to take on this, please let me hear from you.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
RSVP: Hunter S. Thompson
SPORTIVO
Box 64
Roosevelt, P.R.
TO SANDY CONKLIN:
Sandy Conklin had graduated from Goucher College in Maryland in 1959, then moved to New York City to work as a secretary at Nuclear Research Associates, an organization that monitored atomic testing. Her roommate Eleanor married Thompson’s fellow copyboy from Time, Eugene McGarr. Just friends at first, Thompson and Conklin soon found themselves in love.
January 26, 1960
San Juan
Yes, little princess, I know what it is to be “stirred physically.” It seems like quite a while ago but it hasn’t even been a month. Maybe the time between now and March 11 will pass a little faster.
I enjoyed your letter immensely, even though your new-found “motherly happiness” gave me an uneasy instant. Even so, it’s good to know you have a little sunlight.
Life here is excellent—or will be as of Monday when I get paid. Right now the larder is a little bare. Things took a roaring hop here today when I landed a double-decker free-lance assignment. The next few weeks should be busy as hell, with Kramer’s work on top of this, and trying to get this beach-pillbox in shape during my spare moments. I’ll try to have my schedule under control by the time you get here.
Here is today (one in the new life of HST): Up at ten-thirty, burst out the door and into the Atlantic for eye-opening swim, then walk up the beach (with bearded bartending next-door neighbor) to San Juan Intercontinental Hotel for breakfast—fresh pineapple, toast and marmalade, and four cups of coffee. See gambling commissioner at two for information on casinos—my next assignment. To La Rada Hotel at four-thirty to discuss newfound assignment. Eat in Old San Juan at six-thirty, out to pick up mail in Rio Piedras at nine. Read your letter on way over here, take off clothes and go naked down to beach with pipe and glass of brandy. Smoke pipe, drink brandy, swim, come back in for shower and to write this letter. Afterwards, finish cock-fight feature. Then to bed. No assignments tomorrow. Nothing but water, rum and sun.
It’s a life you’ll have to see to believe. Nothing can convince me that it will last. At this rate, I might even have my scooter before you get here. Naturally, there are a few nerve-strainers. No hot water in pillbox, no money, constantly riding buses, and old cord coat becoming very ratty indeed. If I were anything but a writer, I couldn’t get away with the way I’ve been dressing down here in this very formal, over-priced Valhalla. But all this will end when I get a grip on my finances. Then? God knows.
Your idea about sending things down via Pan-American is good except for the fact that I will have no baggage check with which to claim them. Might be tricky, but if this can be surmounted, let me know and I’ll wing you a few requests—notably, a few pounds of tobacco, impossible to get down here. And definitely a few books. Mailer’s new one (Advertisements for Myself) comes to mind, as does whatever that Dostoyevsky did on the psychology of gambling, or the mind of the compulsive gambler.2 Ever hear of it? Library here is unbelievably bad. Latest I could get was S. Maugham. […]
That’s about it for now. My eyes are getting heavy, and I still have this cock-fight thing to write. Surf is pounding outside, terrible blue ceiling light makes inside look like a cell of some sort, and I will get this in the mail tomorrow morning when the sun comes out again. Oh, forgot to mention clothes; they arrived in fine shape. Thanks mucho—or much thanks. Or something. I have not done much with my Spanish. Will write again and let you see into my mind. No time right now.
Goodnight
Hunter
TO ANGUS CAMERON, ALFRED A. KNOPF:
After receiving a number of form letters rejecting “Prince Jellyfish” from New York publishers, Thompson was grateful that the respected editor Angus Cameron took the time to offer constructive criticism of the manuscript.
March 22, 1960
c/o Semonin
San Juan Star
San Juan, Puerto Rico
Angus Cameron
Knopf Inc.
501 Madison Ave.
NYC
Dear Mr. Cameron:
I want to thank you for your meaningful and perceptive comments on my manuscript. Few editors, I’m sure, would have taken the time to compose such an informative rejection slip, and few indeed could have put down their thoughts with such style and mastery of tone. It’s been said, I know, that most editors are boobs, cretins and witless crayfish who have edged into their jobs through some devious means made possible by the slothful and incestuous nature of the World of Publishing. Ha! Let me say now, Mr. Cameron, that if more editors write letters like yours, the people who say these wretched things will certainly be laughing out of the other side of their mouths. Just where do they get the gall to talk like that?
But be that all as it may, we still have to dispose of PRINCE JELLYFISH, don’t we? I tried like hell to finish it. Since September, however, the people who sheltered me have applied for divorce, I was beaten by hoodlums in New York, put in jail in Virginia Beach, and arrested for drunken driving in Louisville; then I was taken by plane to San Juan, where the man who hired me to write sports copy proved to be an insolvent liar. All this has somewhat hindered the progress of the book. But now I am ready to roll again; the typewriter is rusty and full of sand, but I have stolen a ribbon from the San Juan Star and now feel ready to complete this wretched thing I began in what seems like another world. Suppose we send it to an agent named Elizabeth McKee. It would take me two or three months to find her address, because I left it in a box of paper somewhere in the Catskills. I feel, however, that it’s somewhere in the East Sixties (enviable, eh?) and I feel also that one of your people can locate it in the Manhattan Telephone Directory. I am enclosing a note to her, and if you find that your facilities are insufficient to the task of getting both note and manuscript sent to the McKee address, please send all back to me and I will take care of it myself. If this happens, of course, you will soon find in your mailbox a packet of sea urchins: to derive full enjoyment from them, take one in each ha
nd and squeeze.
With fondness and admiration, I remain,
Quite gratefully,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO ANN SCHOELKOPF:
While Thompson was her houseguest after being fired from the Middletown Daily Record, Ann spoiled him with her home-cooked meals. Once again Thompson asked Ann for help—this time in getting back pay from the publisher-editor of the now defunct El Sportivo.
March 22, 1960
c/o Semonin
San Juan Star
San Juan, P.R.
Annie—
Well, “baby,” your last letter put me down in grand style. I ain’t been rapiered so well in years. So when you stop chuckling and gloating, try and get through the rest of this letter.
In the first place, what in the jesus-loving hell is going on up there? Are you people divorced or what? It all seems like the most insane thing I’ve ever dealt with, but since I know you both, it’s almost logical. Christ, you say one of your arguments centered on the way you made a sandwich. Annie, I would give at least one ball for one (or three) of your sandwiches right at this goat-fucking instant. I have never been so hungry in my life and I’ve just spent my last 35 cents for a package of Salems, of all worthless things. If I’m homesick for anyplace on earth, it’s for that back room in Otisville and that huge, fine KITCHEN. Jesus, I’ve been hungry since I got here and I can’t get out soon enough. Kramer is a liar, cheat, passer of bad checks, welshing shyster, and otherwise foul. At the moment I’m resorting to the National Labor Relations Board for my March 1 to 15 paycheck. The Hubbard Cure3 is just the least of what this bastard is going to get—I’ll hound him in a million different ways. At any rate I’ve got to get hold of the letter he sent me while I was in Otisville. In it he promised me a salary until April 1—jesus knows why I left it there, but I can’t get my pay without it. I sent Fred a card, but I don’t think I made things very clear. If he has to go into the bag—which I guess would be the best thing—call him and tell him to do so. It’s the letter he read one morning in the KITCHEN. I’ve marked several phrases in red, so he can’t miss it. If it’s there, I want all the correspondence concerning this job—once I get it I can stab this bastard for several hundred dollars. If I don’t get that letter, the deed is done. He has me. Jesus, I want FOOD! Rum is not enough. I shall entitle my story “Rum Is not Enough.” Or “Not by Rum Alone.” My stamps, envelopes, stationery and typewriter ribbon are stolen. I have a scooter and Semonin has gone crazy. He can’t remember anything. I have no tobacco either. Only Salems. At 35 cents a pack. AND NO FUCKING FOOD. I can’t even get to people; I don’t know where they are. I am 13 miles from San Juan in a negro community and not a goat-sucking soul speaks English. I must have FOOD—the swine seem to think I’m above eating! Jesus ate—why can’t I? Oh god give me the strength to dump in their eyes!
A girl was here last week—made my life extremely worthwhile. I told her to call you and talk. Keep her away from Fred. You know me as well as anybody in the world, so talk to her. She is quite important right now. All this noise about bags and trunks is good for nothing. Hang onto everything and I will be back to straighten things out. Christ knows I can’t stand this hunger much longer. I’ll steal to get back to the bread-basket. But don’t let my clothes and goods go to hell. If necessary, send all to Louisville COD. Hope to see you soon or sometime. Love,
Hunter
TO SANDY CONKLIN:
Angry at Conklin for a letter intimating that she was dating other guys, Thompson tried to establish the rules by which their relationship would be conducted.
April 7, 1960
San Juan
Dear Sandy,
Your letter came last night in the same mail with one from a girl who said to expect her in June. The day before I got one from another girl who said she would be down in May.
So I think the only thing for me to do is take off for St. Thomas and this carnival4 and get so thumping, jabbering drunk that no one will recognize me.
Definitely do not come on April 22. May 5 is fine, but I’m going to need that carnival to clear my system and present plans call for me to hit the docks with one toothbrush, no extra clothes and whatever money I can scrape together. I intend to sleep on the beach (impossible to get reservations even if I could afford them) and suck up every ounce of drink I can get my hands on. I’ll probably be arrested several times, flogged by the police, and will undoubtedly have to steal a boat to get back to San Juan. I would certainly not be able to keep a steady eye on you and I know damn well that’s what I’d have to do if you were with me.
So wait till May 5. I look forward to your arrival with much eagerness and more trepidation. God knows what this means, but it will be good while it lasts. I’m sure you’re aware that I can barely support myself, much less a common-law wife, so I presume you’ll bring at least a little money for food. The idea of your looking for a job is ridiculous. In the first place it would destroy the whole pleasure of this life, and in the second you’d have no way of getting to work. I am somewhat removed from the work area; remember? And I don’t have the faintest intention of getting up every morning and taking you into San Juan on a scooter over 13 miles of sand road. So forget about jobs.
And keep in mind that I may have to flee San Juan at any moment to avoid jail.
I’m saying all this because I want to be fair to you. Objectively, I can’t think of anyone in the world I’d rather not depend on than Hunter S. Thompson. But unfortunately, I’m forced to depend on him constantly. And let me tell you it’s nothing short of nerve-wracking.
Your “fiery” letter made me mad as hell. I don’t know who that painter was on the other side of the room, but the next time you decide to “drink, dance, laugh, lie, and love the reeling midnight through,” have the simple goddamned decency not to write me about it. And since I told you in my last letter how I feel about your coming down here, I can say without fear of misinterpretation that if you’d thrown this Montego Bay thing at me before I’d said whether I wanted you to come or not, I’d have written you a letter that would have sent you hustling down to Jamaica at a high rate of speed.
So much for all that. Come on May 5 and be prepared for anything. I’ll deal with these other people as it becomes necessary. If this letter seems a bit curt, you can look on it as another bit of wheeling and dealing. If there’s any doubt in your mind as to whether I want you here or not, you’ve been reading my letters with the wrong eye.
Love, Hunter
TO DAVISON THOMPSON:
Thompson tried to boost his younger brother’s morale, reassuring him that there is more to life than college.
April 13,
1960 San Juan
Dear Davison:
I’ve been intending to write you for more than a month now, but apparently I’m no better at writing letters than you are, so here you have my tardy communication that probably won’t tell you a damned thing except that I’m still very much alive and living much better than most people I know or used to know.
I got a vague rumor via Ransdell [Avenue] that you were ready to flunk out of Vandy [Vanderbilt University] and foul your chances for a bland, boring, and tediously secure future. This I deplore, Dave, and christ knows if a man can’t make it to the Bland League he might as well hang up his grey flannel jock and quit. If, however, you find yourself unequal to the task of competing with the other dullards 365 days a year, you have my standing invitation to join me wherever I happen to be. I have tried—for Mommy’s sake—to look seriously on your endeavors, but christ knows I can’t keep a straight face forever. It’s all a hideous joke, Dave, and it’s fine if you like it. But if it gets the best of you—as it would get the best of any sane and thinking man—for god’s sake don’t compound the stupidity by letting them convince you that you’re wrong. Let’s face it: any man who really wants to work for Burdorf Furniture—or its equivalent—for the rest of his life is bound to be crazy—or a terribly narrow-minded coward.
In a nuts
hell, that’s just about all I have to say. I like you—not just as a brother, but as a person—and if you get fed up with all that crap just drop me a line and I’ll begin rooting around for an extra bed. I hate to see anyone—especially a brother of mine—buried at such an early age, and god knows the world is much wider and fuller than anyone else in Nashville or Louisville can ever imagine.
At the moment, for instance, I sit about 20 yards from the sea as I type this letter. Semonin lives with me and we’re the only white residents of the negro community of Loíza Aldea, Puerto Rico. Our house has 2 bedrooms, a screened living room, and all the comforts of home save hot water. Every morning we get up and hustle into the sea for an eye-opener, then have a long breakfast on the patio overlooking the beach. Later, we’ll each mount our rotten Lambrettas [motor scooters] and hustle the 13 miles to San Juan—he to work at the San Juan Star, and me to deal with whatever free-lance assignments the moment has to offer. I have a girl coming down to live with me in May (she was here for 2 weeks in March) and 2 more coming in June. God knows what I will do with these, but I suppose Semonin can handle them. In late summer I think I’ll be off for Spain to meet McGarr & his wife. Christ only knows what will happen then, but it can’t be dull. The idea, I think, is to get old gracefully—not like a boob, but like a champion.
So this—a rattling jabber of disconnected heresies—is the sum and substance of my letter. I’ll accept no excuses for not answering it, so do this as soon as you have a free moment. And for god’s sake—since Mommy thinks I’m urging you on to more and better business dealings—don’t tell her I’ve written you this kind of letter.
Deviously,
Hunter
TO SANDY CONKLIN:
Seized with jealousy and rage, Thompson tried to reach Conklin by telephone at 4:00 A.M. one Sunday, and nobody answered. Two weeks later Conklin moved to Puerto Rico as Thompson’s “common-law wife.”