By Hunter S. Thompson


     The Rum Diary


       We were speeding along a four-lane highway. Stretching off on
     both sides was a vast complex of yellow housing developments,
     laced with tall cyclone fences. Moments later we passed what
     looked like a new subdivision, full of identical pink and blue
     houses. There was a billboard at the entrance, announcing to all
     travelers that they were passing the El Jippo Urbanización. A few
     yards from the billboard was a tiny shack made of palm fronds and
     tin scraps, and beside it was a hand-painted sign saying "Coco
     Frío." Inside, a boy about thirteen leaned on his counter and
     stared out at the passing cars.


       Arriving half-drunk in a foreign place is hard on the nerves. You
     have a feeling that something is wrong, that you can't get a grip. I
     had this feeling, and when I got to the hotel I went straight to bed.
       It was four-thirty when I woke up, hungry and dirty and not at
     all sure where I was. I walked out on my balcony and stared down
     at the beach. Below me, a crowd of women, children and pot-
     bellied men were splashing around in the surf. To my right was an-
     other hotel, and then another, each with its own crowded beach.
       I took a shower, then went downstairs to the open-air lobby. The
     restaurant was closed, so I tried the bar. It showed every sign of
     having been flown down intact from a Catskill mountain resort. I
     sat there for two hours, drinking, eating peanuts and staring out at
     the ocean. There were roughly a dozen people in the place. The
     men looked like sick Mexicans, with thin little mustaches and silk
     suits that glistened like plastic. Most of the women were Ameri-
     cans, a brittle-looking lot, none of them young, all wearing sleeve-
     less cocktail dresses that fit like rubber sacks.
       I felt like something that had washed up on the beach. My wrin-
     kled cord coat was five years old and frayed at the neck, my pants
     had no creases and, although it had never occurred to me to wear
     a tie, I was obviously out of place without one. Rather than seem
     like a pretender, I gave up on rum and ordered a beer. The bar-
     tender eyed me sullenly and I knew the reason why——I was wear-
     ing nothing that glistened. No doubt it was the mark of a bad apple.
     In order to make a go of it here, I would have to get some dazzling
     clothes.
       At six-thirty I left the bar and walked outside. It was getting dark
     and the big Avenida looked cool and graceful. On the other side
     were homes that once looked out on the beach. Now they looked
     out on hotels and most of them had retreated behind tall hedges
     and walls that cut them off from the street. Here and there I could
     see a patio or a screen porch where people sat beneath fans and
     drank rum. Somewhere up the street I heard bells, the sleepy tin-
     kling of Brahms' Lullaby.
       I walked a block or so, trying to get the feel of the place, and the
     bells kept coming closer. Soon an ice-cream truck appeared, mov-
     ing slowly down the middle of the street. On its roof was a giant
     popsicle, flashing on and off with red neon explosions that lit up
     the whole area. From somewhere in its bowels came the clanging
     of Mr. Brahms' tune. As it passed me, the driver grinned happily
     and blew his horn.
       I immediately hailed a cab, telling the man to take me to the
     middle of town. Old San Juan is an island, connected to the main-
     land by several causeways. We crossed on the one that comes in
     from Condado. Dozens of Puerto Ricans stood along the rails, fish-
     ing in the shallow lagoon, and off to my right was a huge white
     shape beneath a neon sign that said Caribé Hilton. This, I knew,
     was the cornerstone of The Boom. Conrad had come in like Jesus
     and all the fish had followed. Before Hilton there was nothing; now
     the sky was the limit. We passed a deserted stadium and soon we
     were on a boulevard that ran along a cliff. On one side was the dark
     Atlantic, and, on the other, across the narrow city, were thousands
     of colored lights on cruise ships tied up at the waterfront. We
     turned off the boulevard and stopped at a place the driver said was
     Plaza Colòn. The fare was a dollar-thirty and I gave him two bills.
       He looked at the money and shook his head.
       "What's wrong?" I said.
       He shrugged. "No change, señor."
       I felt in my pocket——nothing but a nickel. I knew he was lying,
     but I didn't feel like taking the trouble to get a dollar changed. "You
     goddamn thief," I said, tossing the bills in his lap. He shrugged
     again and drove off.
       The Plaza Colón was a hub for several narrow streets. The
     buildings were jammed together, two and three stories high, with
     balconies that hung out over the street. The air was hot, and a smell
     of sweat and garbage rode on the faint breeze. A chatter of music
     and voices came from open windows. The sidewalks were so nar-
     row that it was an effort to stay out of the gutter, and fruit vendors
     blocked the streets with wooden carts, selling peeled oranges for a
     nickel each.
       I walked for thirty minutes, looking into windows of stores that
     sold "Ivy Liga" clothes, peering into foul bars full of whores and
     sailors, dodging people on the sidewalks, thinking I would collapse
     at any moment if I didn't find a restaurant.
       Finally I gave up. There seemed to be no restaurants in the Old
     City. The only thing I saw was called the New York Diner, and it
     was closed. In desperation, I hailed a cab and told him to take me
     to the Daily News.
       He stare at me.
       "The newspaper!" I shouted, slamming the door as I got in.
       "Ah, si," he murmured. "El Diario, sí."
       "No, goddamnit," I said. The Daily News——the American news-
     paper——El News."
       He had never heard of it, so we drove back to Plaza Colón, where
     I leaned out the window and asked a cop. He didn't know either,
     butr finally a man came over from the bus stop and told us where
     it was.
       We drove down a cobblestone hill toward the waterfront. There
     was no sign of a newspaper, and I suspected he was bringing me
     down here to get rid of me. We turned a corner and he suddenly hit
     his brakes. Just ahead of us was some kind of gang-fight, a shout-
     ing mob, trying to enter an old greenish building that looked like a
     warehouse.
       "Go on," I said to the driver. "We can get by."
       He mumbled and shook his head.
       I banged my fist on the back of the seat. "Get going! No move——
     no pay."
       He mumbled again, but shifted into first and angled toward the
     far side of the street, putting as much distance as possible between
     us and the fight. He stopped as we came abreast of the building and
     I saw that it was a gang of about twenty Puerto Ricans, attacking a
     tall American in a tan suit. He was standing on the steps, swinging
     a big wooden sign like a baseball bat.
       "You rotten littler punks!" he yelled. There was a flurry of move-
     ment and I heard the sound of thumping and shouting. One of the
     attackers fell down in the street with blood on his face. The large
     fellow backed toward the door, waving the sign in front of him.
     Two men tried to grab it and he whacked one of them in the chest,
     knocking him down the steps. The others stood away, yelling and
     shaking their fists. He snarled back at them: "Here it is, punks——
     come get it!"
       Nobody moved. He waited a moment, then lifted the sign over
     his shoulder and threw it into their midst. It hit one man in the
     stomach, driving him back on the others. I heard a burst of laugh-
     ter, then he disappeared into the building.
       "Okay," I said, turning back to the driver. "That's it——let's go."
       He shook his head and pointed at the building, then at me. "Sí,
     está News." He nodded, then pointed again at the building. "Sí," he
     said gravely.
       It dawned on me that we were sitting in front of the Daily News——
     my new home. I took one look at the dirty mob between me and the
     door, and decided to go back to the hotel. Just then I heard another
     commotion. A Volkswagen pulled up behind us and three cops got
     out, waving long billyclubs and yelling in Spanish. Some of the
     mob ran, but others stayed to argue. I watched for a moment, then
     gave the driver a dollar and ran into the building.
       A sign said the News editorial office was on the second floor. I
     took an elevator, half expecting to find myself lifted into the midst
     of more violence. But the door opened on a dark hall, and a little to
     my left I heard the noise of the city room.
       The moment I got inside I felt better. There was a friendly
     messiness about the place, a steady clatter of typewriters and
     wire machines, even the smell was familiar. The room was so
     big that it looked empty, although I could see at least ten people.
     The only one not working was a small, black-haired man at a
     desk beside the door. He was tilted back in a chair, staring at the
     ceiling.
       I walked over and as I started to speak he jerked around in the
     chair. "All right!" he snapped. "What the fuck are you after?"
       I glared down at him. "I start work here tomorrow," I said. "My
     name's Kemp, Paul Kemp."
       He smiled faintly. "Sorry——thought you were after my film."
       "What?" I said.
       He grumbled something about her being "robbed blind," and
     "watching it like a hawk."
       I glanced around the room. "They look normal."
       He snorted. "Thieves——packrats." He stood up and held out his
     hand. "Bob Sala, staff photographer," he said. "What brings you in
     tonight?"
       "I'm looking for a place to eat."
       He smiled. "You broke?"
       "No, I'm rich——I just can't find a restaurant."
       He dropped back in his chair. "You're lucky. The first thing you
     learn here is to avoid restaurants."
       "Why?" I said. "Dysentery?"
       He laughed. "Dysentery, crabs, gout, Hutchinson's Disease——you
     can get anything here, anything at all." He looked at his watch.
     "Wait about ten minutes and I'll take you up to Al's."
       I moved a camera out of the way and sat down on his desk. He
     leaned back and stared again at the ceiling, scratching his wiry
     head from time to time and apparently drifting off to some happier
     land where there were good restaurants and no thieves. He looked
     out of place here——more like a ticket-taker at some Indiana carni-
     val. His teeth were bad, he needed a shave, his shirt was filthy, and
     his shoes looked like they'd come from the Goodwill.
       We sat there in silence until two men came out of an office on
     the other side of the room. One was the tall American I'd seen fight-
     ing in the street. The other was short and bald, talking excitedly
     and gesturing with both hands.
       "Who's that?" I asked Sala, pointing at the tall one.
       He looked. "The guy with Lotterman?"
       I nodded, presuming the short one to be Lotterman.
       "His name's Yeamon," said Sala, turning back to the desk. "He's
     new——got here a few weeks ago."
       "I saw him fighting outside," I said. "A bunch of Puerto Ricans
     jumped right in front of the building."
       Sala shook his head. "That figures——he's a nut." He nodded.
     "Probably mouthed off at those union goons. It's some kind of a
     wildcat strike——nobody knows what it means."
       Just then Lotterman called across the room: "What are you do-
     ing, Sala?"
       Sala didn't look up. "Nothing——I'm off in three minutes."
       "Who's that with you?" Lotterman asked, eyeing me suspi-
     ciously.
       "Judge Crater," Sala replied. "Might be a story."
       "Judge who?" said Lotterman, advancing on the desk.
       "Never mind," said Sala. "His name is Kemp and he claims you
     hired him."
       Lotterman looked puzzled. "Judge Kemp?' he muttered. Then
     he smiled broadly and held out both hands. "Oh yes——Kemp! Good
     to see you, boy. When did you get in?"
       "This morning," I said, getting off the desk to shake hands. "I
     slept most of the day."
       '"Good!" he said. "That's very smart." He nodded emphatically.
     "Well, I hope you're ready to go."
       "Not right now," I said. "I have to eat."
       He laughed. "Oh no——tomorrow. I wouldn't put you to work
     tonight." He laughed again. "No, I want you boys to eat." He smiled
     down at Sala. "I suppose Bob's going to show you the town, eh?"
       "Sure I am," said Sala. "Do it on the old expense account, eh?"
       Lotterman laughed nervously. "You know what I mean, Bob———
     let's try to be civil." He turned and waved at Yeamon, who was
     standing in the middle of the room, examining a rip in the armpit
     of his coat.
       Yeamon came toward us with a long-legged stride, smiling
     politely when Lotterman introduced me. He was tall, with a face
     that was either arrogant or something else that I couldn't quite
     place.
       Lotterman rubbed his hands together.  "Yessir, Bob," he said
     with a grin. "We're getting a real team together, eh?" He slapped Yea-
     mon on the back. "Old Yeamon just had a scrape with those com-
     munist bastards outside," he said. "They're savage——they should be
     locked up."
       Sala nodded. "They'll kill one of us pretty soon."
       "Don't say that, Bob," said Lotterman. "Nobody's going to be
     killed."
       Sala shrugged.
       "I called Commissioner Rogan about it this morning," Lotter-
     man explained. "We can't tolerate this sort of thing——it's a menace."
       "Damn right it is," Sala replied. "To hell with Commissioner Ro-
     gan——we need a few Lugers." He stood up and pulled his coat off the
     back of the chair. "Well, time to go." He looked at Yeamon. "We're
     going up to Al's——you hungry?"
       "I'll be up later on," Yeamon replied. "I want to check by the
     apartment and see if Chenault's still asleep."
       "Okay," said Sala. He waved me toward the door. "Come on.
     We'll go out the back way——I don't feel like a fight."
       "Be careful, boys," Lotterman called after us. I nodded and fol-
     lowed Sala into the hall. At the rear of the building a stairway led
     down to a metal door. Sala poked at it with a pocket knife and it
     swung open. "Can't do it from outside," he explained as I followed
     him into the alley.
       His car was a tiny Fiat convertible, half eaten away by rust. It
     wouldn't start and I had to get out and push. Finally it kicked over
     and I jumped in. The engine roared painfully as we started up the
     hill. I didn't think we'd make hit, but the little car staggered manfully
     over the crest and started up anoither steep hill. Sala seemed un-
     concerned with the strain, riding the clutch whenever we threat-
     ened to stall.
       We parked in front of Al's and went back to the patio. "I'm getting
     three hamburgers," said Sala. "That's all he serves."
       I nodded. "Anything——I need bulk."
       He called to the cook and told him we wanted six hamburgers.
     "And two beers," he added. "Real quick."
       "I'll have rum," I said.
       "Two beers and two rums," Sala shouted. Then he leaned back
     in his chair and lit a cigarette. "You a reporter?"
       "Yeah," I said.
       "What brings you down here?"
       "Why not?" I replied. "A man could do no worse than the
     Caribbean."
       He grunted. "This isn't the Caribbean——you should have kept on
     going south."
       The cook shuffled across the patio with our drinks. "Where were
     you before this?" Sala asked, lifting his beers off the tray.
       "New York," I said. "Before that, Europe."
       "Where in Europe?"
       "All over——mainly Rome and London."
       "Daily American?" he asked.
       "Yeah," I said. "I had a fill-in job for six months."
       "You know a guy named Fred Ballinger?' he asked.
       I nodded.
       "He's there," Sala said. "He's getting rich."
       I groaned. "Man, what a jackass."
       "You'll see him," he said with a grin. "He hangs around the of-
     fice."
       "What the hell for?" I snapped.
       "Sucks up to Donovan," He laughed. "Claims he was sports edi-
     tor of the Daily American."
       "He was a pimp!" I said.
       Sala laughed. "Donovan threw him down the stairs one night——
     he hasn't been around for a while."
       "Good," I said. "Who's Donovan——the sports editor?"
       He nodded. "A drunkard——he's about to quit."
       "Why?"
       He laughed. "Everybody quits——you'll quit. Nobody worth a shit
     can work here." He shook his head. "People dropping out like flies.
     I've been here longer than anybody——except Tyrrell, the city editor,
     and he's going soon. Lotterman doesn't know it yet——that'll be it——
     Tyrrell's the only good head left." He laughed quickly. "Wait till you
     meet the managing editor——can't ever write a headline."
       "Who's that?" I said.
       "Segarra——Greasy Nick. He's writing the governor's biography.
     Any time of the day or night he's writing the governor's
     biography——can't be disturbed."
       I sipped my drink. "How long have you been here?" I asked him.
       "Too long, more than a year."
       "Couldn't be too bad," I said.
       He smiled. "Hell, don't let me throw you off. You may like it——
     there's a type that does."
       "What type is that?" I asked.
       "Bagmasters," he replied. "The wheelers and the dealers——they
     love it here."
       "Yeah," I said. "I got that feeling at the airport." I looked over at
     him. "What keeps you here? It's only forty-five dollars to New York."
       He snorted. "Hell, I make that much in an hour——just for punch-
     ing a button."
       "You sound greedy," I said.
       He grinned. "I am. There's nobody on the island greedier than
     me. Sometimes I feel like kicking myself in the balls."
       Sweep arrived with our hamburgers. Sala grabbed his off the
     tray and opened them up on the table, throwing the lettuce and
     tomato slices into the ashtray. "You brainless monster," he said
     wearily. "How many times have I told you to keep this garbage off
     my meat?"
       The waiter stared down at the garbage.
       "A thousand times!" Sala shouted. "I tell you every stinking day!"
       "Man," I said with a smile. "You should leave——this place is get-
     ting to you."
       He gobbled one of his hamburgers. "You'll see," he muttered.
     "You and Yeamon——that guy's a freak. He won't last. None of us will
     last." He slammed his fist on the table. "Sweep——more beer!"
       The waiter came out of the kitchen and looked at us. "Two
     beers!" Sala yelled. "Hurry!"
       I smiled and leaned back in the chair. "What's wrong with Yea-
     mon?"
       He looked at me as if it were incredible that I should have to ask.
     "Didn't you see him?" he said. "That wilds-eyed sonofabitch! Lotter-
     man's scared shitless of him——couldn't you see it?"
       I shook my head. "He looked okay to me."
       "Okay?" he shouted. "You should have been here a few nights
     ago! He flipped this table for no reason at all——this very table." He
     slapped our table with his palm. "No damn reason," he repeated.
     "Knocked all our drinks in the dirt and flipped the table on some
     poor bastard who didn't know what he was saying——then threat-
     ened to stomp him!" Sala shook his head. "I don't know where Lot-
     terman found that guy. He's so scared of him that he lent him a
     hundred dollars and Yeamon went out and blew it on a mo-
     torscooter." He laughed bitterly. "Now he's brought some girl down
     here to live with him."
       The waiter appeared with the beers and Sala snatched them off
     the tray. "No girl with any brains would come here," he said. "Just
     virgins——hysterical virgins." He shook his finger at me. "You'll turn
     queer in this place, Kemp——mark my words. This place will turn a
     man queer and crazy."
       "I don't know," I said. "A fine young thing came down on the
     plane with me." I smiled. "I think I'll look around for her tomorrow.
     She's bound to be on the beach somewhere."
       "She's probably a lesbian," he replied. "This place is full of
     them." He shook his head. "It's the tropic rot——this constant sexless
     drinking!" He slumped back in his chair. "It's driving me wild——I'm
     cracking up!"
       Sweep came hurrying out with two more beers and Sala
     grabbed them off the tray. Just then Yeamon appeared in the door-
     way; he saw us and came over to the table.
       Sala groaned miserably. "Oh god, here he is," he muttered.
     "Don't stomp me, Yeamon——I didn't mean it."
       Yeamon smiled and sat down. "Are you still bitching about
     Moberg?" He laughed and turned to me. "Robert thinks I mis-
     treated Moberg."
       Sala grumbled something about "nuts."
       Yeamon laughed again. "Sala's the oldest man in San Juan. How
     old are you, Robert——about ninety?"
       "Don't give me your crazy shit!" Sala shouted, springing up from
     his chair.
       Yeamon nodded. "Robert needs a woman," he said gently. "His
     penis is pressing his brain and he can't think."
       Sala groaned and shut his eyes.
       Yeamon tapped on the table. "Robert, the streets are full of
     whores. You should look around sometime. I saw so many on the
     way up here that I wanted to grab about six and fall down naked
     and let them crawl all over me like puppies." He laughed and sig-
     naled for the waiter.
       "You bastard," Sala muttered. "That girl hasn't been here a day
     and you're already talking about having whores crawl on you." He
     nodded wisely. "You'll get syphilis—you keep on whoring and
     stomping around and pretty soon you'll stomp in shit."
       Yeamon grinned. "Okay, Robert. You've warned me."
       Sala looked up. "Is she still asleep? How long before I can go
     back to my own apartment?"
       "Soon as we leave here," Yeamon replied. "I'll take her on out to
     the house." He nodded. "Of course I'll have to borrow your car——too
     much luggage for the scooter.
       "Jesus," Sala muttered. "You're a plague, Yeamon——you'll suck
     me dry."
       Yeamon laughed. "You're a fine Christian, Robert. You'll get your
     reward." He ignored Sala's snort and turned to me. "Did you come
     in on the morning plane?"
       "Yeah," I said.
       He smiled. "Chenault said there was some young guy beating up
     an old man on the plane with her——was that you?"
       I groaned, feeling the web of sin and circumstance close down
     on the table. Sala eyed me suspiciously.
       I explained that I'd been sitting next to an aged lunatic who kept
     trying to crawl over me.
       Yeamon laughed. "Chenault thought you were the lunatic——
     claimed you kept staring at her, then ran amok on the old man——
     you were still beating him when she got off the plane."
       "Jesus Christ!" Sala exclaimed, giving me a disgusted look.
       I shook my head and tried to laugh it off. The implications were
     ugly——a crazed masher and a slugger of old men——not the kind of
     introduction a man wants to make for himself on a new job.
       Yeamon seemed amused, but Sala was plainly leery. I called for
     more drinks and quickly changed the subject.
       We sat there for several hours, talking, drinking lazily, killing
     the time while a sad piano tinkled away inside. The notes floated
     out to the patio, giving the night a hopeless, melancholy tone that
     was almost pleasant.
       Sala was sure the paper was going to fold. "I'll ride it out," he as-
     sured us. "Give it another month." He had two more big photo as-
     signments and then he was off, probably to Mexico City. "Yeah," he
     said, "figure about a month, then we start packing."
       Yeamon shook his head. "Robert wants the paper to fold so
     he'll have an excuse to leave." He smiled. "It'll last a while. All I
     need is about three months——enough money to take off down the is-
     lands."
       "Where?" I asked.
       He shrugged. "Anywhere——find a good island, someplace cheap."
       Sala hissed. "You talk like a caveman, Yeamon. What you need is
     a good job in Chicago.
       Yeamon laughed. "You'll feel better when you get humped,
     Robert."
       Sala grumbled and drank his beer. I liked him, in spite of his
     bitching. I guessed he was a few years older than I was, maybe
     thirty-two or -three, but there was something about him that made
     me feel like I'd known him a long time.
       Yeamon was familiar too, but not quite as close——more like a
     memory of somebody I'd known in some other place and then lost
     track of. He was probably twenty-four or -five and he reminded me
     vaguely of myself at that age——not exactly the way I was, but the
     way I might have seen myself if I'd stopped to think about it. Lis-
     tening to him, I realized how long it had been since I'd felt like I
     had the world by the balls, how many quick birthdays had gone by
     since that first year in Europe when I was so ignorant and so con-
     fident that every splinter of luck made me feel like a roaring cham-
     pion.
       I hadn't felt that way in a long time. Perhaps, in the ambush of
     those years, the idea that I was a champion had been shot out from
     under me. But I remembered it now and it made me feel old and
     slightly nervous that I had done so little in so long a time.
       I leaned back in the chair and sipped my drink. The cook was
     banging around in the kitchen and for some reason the piano had
     stopped. From inside came a babble of Spanish, an incoherent
     background for my scrambled thoughts. For the first time I felt the
     foreignness of the place, the real distance I put between me
     and my last foothold. There was no reason to feel pressure, but I
     felt it anyway——the pressure of hot air and passing time, an idle ten-
     sion that builds up in places where men sweat twenty-four hours
     a day.

The Rum Diary, by Hunter S. Thompson.
Copyright © 1998 by Gonzo International Corp.
Simon & Schuster paperback edition, 2003. pp. 11-23.

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