Hunter S. Thompson Read online

  The Rum Diary

  Fourteen

  Chenault came awake with a shriek, snatching the raincoat around her as she peered up and down the beach.

  “Out here,” I yelled. “Come on in.”

  She looked out at me and smiled, holding the raincoat between us like a veil. Then Yeamon woke up, looking puzzled and angry at whatever had broken his sleep.

  “Let's go!” I yelled. “Up for the morning dip.”

  He stood up and ambled toward the water. Chenault called after him, waving his shorts. “Here!” she said sternly. “Put these on!”

  I waited for them on the raft. Yeamon came first, thrashing across the bay like a crocodile. Then I saw Chenault swimming toward us, wearing her panties and bra. I began to feel uncomfortable. I waited until she got to the raft, then I slid off. “I'm hungry as hell,” I said, treading water. “I'm going over to the airport for breakfast.”

  When I got to the beach I looked around for my bag. I remembered putting it in a tree the night before, but I couldn't remember which one. Finally I found it, jammed into the crotch of two branches just above where I'd been sleeping. I put on some clean pants and a rumpled silk shirt.

  Just before I left I glanced out at the raft and saw Yeamon jump naked into the water. Chenault laughed and tore off her bra and panties, then leaped in on top of him. I watched for a moment, then tossed my bag over the fence and climbed over after it.

  I walked along a road that paralleled the runway, and after a half mile or so I came to the main hangar, a huge Quonset hut that bustled with activity. Planes landed every few minutes. Most of them were small Cessnas and Pipers, but every ten minutes or so a DC-3 would come in, bringing a fresh pack of revelers from San Juan.

  I shaved in the men's room, then pushed through the crowd to the restaurant. The people just off the planes were getting their free drinks, and in one corner of the hangar was a group of drunken Puerto Ricans, beating on their luggage to the tune of some chant I couldn't understand. It sounded like a football cheer: “Busha boomba, balla wa! Busha boomba, balla wa!” I suspected they would never make it into town.

  I bought a Miami Herald and had a big breakfast of pancakes and bacon. Yeamon arrived an hour or so later. “Christ, I'm hungry,” he said. “I need a massive breakfast”

  “Is Chenault still with us?” I asked.

  He nodded. “She's downstairs shaving her legs.”

  It was almost noon when we got a bus to town. It let us off at a public market and we started walking in the general direction of the Grand Hotel, stopping now and then to look in the few store windows that were not boarded up.

  As we neared the middle of town the noise increased. But this was a different sound -- not the roar of happy voices or the musical thump of drums, but the wild screams of a small group of people. It sounded like a gang war, punctuated by guttural cries and breaking glass.

  We hurried toward it, cutting down a side street that led to the shopping district. When we turned the corner I saw a frenzied mob, jamming the street and blocking both sidewalks. We slowed down and approached cautiously.

  About two hundred people had looted one of the big liquor stores. Most of them were Puerto Ricans. Cases of champagne and scotch lay broken in the street, and everyone I saw had a bottle.

  They were screaming and dancing, and in the middle of the crowd a giant Swede wearing a blue jockstrap was blowing long blasts on a trumpet.

  As we watched, a fat American woman raised two magnums of champagne above her head and smashed them together, laughing wildly as the glass and the booze rained down on her bare shoulders. A percussion corps of drunkards was beating with beer cans on empty scotch crates. It was the same chant I'd heard at the airport: “Busha boomba, balla wa! Busha boomba, balla wa!” All over the street people danced feverishly by themselves, jerking and yelling to the rhythm of the chant.

  The liquor store was nothing but a shell, a bare room with broken windows in the front. People kept running in and out of it, grabbing stray bottles and drinking them as fast as they could before somebody else jerked them away. Empty bottles were tossed casually into the street, making it a sea of broken glass, studded with thousands of beer cans.

  We stayed on the edge of it. I wanted to get my hands on some of that stolen booze, but I was afraid of the police. Yeamon wandered into the store and came out moments later with a magnum of champagne. He smiled sheepishly and tucked it into his bag, saying nothing. Finally my lust for drink overcame my fear of jail and I made a run for a case of scotch that was lying in the gutter near the front of the store. It was empty and I looked around for another. In the forest of dancing feet I saw several unbroken bottles of whiskey. I rushed toward them, shoving people out of the way. The noise was deafening and I expected at any moment to be smashed on the head with a bottle. I managed to rescue three quarts of Old Crow, all that was left of a case. The other bottles were broken and hot whiskey oozed through the streets. I got a firm grip on my loot and leaned into the mob, aiming for the spot where I'd left Yeamon and Chenault.

  We hurried off down a side street, passing a blue jeep marked “Poleece.” In it, a gendarme in a pith helmet sat half asleep, idly scratching his crotch.

  We stopped at the place where we'd eaten the night before. I put the whiskey in my satchel and ordered three drinks while we pondered the next move. The program said a pageant of some kind was scheduled at the ballpark in a few hours. It sounded harmless enough, but then nothing at all had been officially scheduled for that hour when the mob looted the liquor store. That was supposed to be a “Rest Period.” There was another “Rest Period” between the ballpark festivities and the “All Out Tramp,” officially scheduled for eight o'clock sharp.

  It had an ominous sound. All the other Tramps were listed as beginning and ending at certain times. The “Birds and Bees Tramp,” on Thursday, began at eight and ended at ten. The “High Combustible Tramp,” which seemed to be the one we'd been caught in the night before, ran from eight until midnight. But the program said only that the “All Out Tramp” would begin at eight, and in small brackets on the same line was a note saying “climax of carnival.”

  “This thing tonight could get out of control,” I said, tossing the program on the table. “At least I hope so.”

  Chenault laughed and winked at me. “We'll have to get Fritz drunk, so he can enjoy it.”

  “Balls,” Yeamon muttered, not looking up from the program. “You get drunk again tonight and I'll abandon your ass.”

  She laughed again. “Don't try to say I was drunk -- I remember who hit me.”

  He shrugged. “It's good for you -- clears your head.”

  “No sense arguing about it,” I said. “We're bound to get drunk -- look at all this whiskey.” I patted my satchel.

  “And this,” said Chenault, pointing to the magnum of champagne under Yeamon's chair.

  “Christ help us,” Yeamon muttered.

  We finished our drinks and wandered over to the Grand Hotel. From the balcony we could see people heading for the ballpark.

  Yeamon wanted to go out to Yacht Haven and find a boat leaving soon for South America. I wasn't particularly anxious to join the mob at the ballpark and I remembered Sanderson saying most of the good parties were on the boats, so we decided to go there.

  It was a long walk in the sun, and by the time we got there I was sorry I hadn't offered to pay for a cab. I was sweating horribly and my bag seemed to weigh forty pounds. The entrance was a palm-lined driveway that led to a swimming pool, and beyond the pool was a hill that led down to the piers. There were more than a hundred boats, everything from tiny harbor sloops to huge schooners, and their naked spars swayed lazily against a background of green hills and a blue Caribbean sky. I stopped on the pier and looked down at a forty-foot racing sloop. My first thought was that I had to have one. It had a dark blue hull and a gleaming teakwood deck, and I would not have been surprised to see on the bow a sign, saying: “For Sale -- One Soul, no less.”<
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  I nodded thoughtfully. Hell, anybody could have a car and an apartment, but a boat like this was the nuts. I wanted it, and considering the value I placed on my soul in those days, I might have struck a bargain if that sign had been there on the bow.

  We spent all afternoon at Yacht Haven, desperately scouring the docks for an outgoing boat where Yeamon and Chenault could sign on with no questions asked. One man offered to take them as far as Antigua in a week or so, another was going to Bermuda, and finally we located a big yawl that was headed for Los Angeles, via the Panama Canal.

  “Great,” said Yeamon. “How much would you charge us to ride that far?”

  “Nothing,” said the owner of the yawl, a poker-faced little man wearing white trunks and a baggy shirt. “I won't take you.” Yeamon looked stunned.

  “I pay my crew,” said the man. “And besides that I have my wife and three kids -- no room for you.” He shrugged and turned away.

  Most of the boat people were gracious, but a few were openly rude. One captain -- or maybe a mate -- laughed at Yeamon and said: “Sorry, pal. I don't carry scum on my boat.”

  Far out at the end of the pier we noticed a gleaming white hull flying the French flag and rocking leisurely in deep water.

  “That's the finest craft in the harbor,” said a man standing next to us. “A world cruiser, seventy-five feet long, eighteen knots, radar dome, electric winches and a walkaround bed.”

  We continued along the pier and came to a boat called the Blue Peter, where a man who later introduced himself as Willis told us to come aboard for a drink. Several other people were there and we stayed for hours. Yeamon went off after a while to check the other boats, but Chenault and I stayed and drank. Several times I noticed Willis staring at Chenault, and when I mentioned that we were sleeping on the beach he said we could leave our bags on the boat, instead of lugging them around. “Sorry I can't offer you bunks,” he added. “But I only got two.” He grinned. “One of 'em's double, of course, but that still makes it crowded.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  We left our bags there, and by the time we started for town we were all drunk. Willis rode with us in a cab as far as the Grand Hotel, and said he'd probably see us later in one of the bars.

  The Rum Diary

  Fifteen

  Sometime after midnight we found ourselves in front of a place called the Blue Grotto, a crowded waterfront dance hall with a two dollar cover charge. I tried to pay, but people laughed and a squatty woman grabbed my arm. “Oh, no,” she said. “You come with us. We go to the real party.”

  I recognized our friends from the street dance. A bully was slapping Yeamon on the back and babbling about a “whip fight” and some spies with a case of gin. “I know these people,” said Chenault, “let's go with them.”

  We ran down the street to where they had a car, and about six more people piled in with us. At the end of the main street we turned up toward the hills above town, climbing and twisting on a dark little road through what appeared to be the residential section. The houses at the bottom of the hill were wooden, with peeling paint, but as we went higher, more and more houses were made of concrete blocks. Finally they became almost elaborate, with screen porches and lawns.

  We stopped at a house full of lights and music. The street in front of it was jammed with cars and there was no place to park. The driver let us out and said he'd join us when he found a place for the car. The squatty girl gave a loud whoop and ran up the steps to the front door. I followed reluctantly and saw her talking to a fat woman in a bright green dress. Then she pointed back at me. Yeamon and Chenault and the others caught up as I stopped at the door.

  “Six dollars, please,” said the woman, holding out her hand.

  “Christ!” I said. “How many does that pay for?”

  “Two,” she said. “You and the young lady.” She nodded at the girl who had ridden out from town on my lap.

  I cursed silently and gave up six dollars. My date repaid me with a coy smile, and took my hand as we entered the house. My God, I thought, this pig is after me.

  Yeamon was right behind us, muttering about the six dollar fee. “This better be good,” he told Chenault. “You might as well figure on getting a job when we get back to San Juan.”

  She laughed, a happy little shriek that had nothing to do with Yeamon's remark. I glanced at her, and saw the excitement in her eyes. That dip in the harbor had sobered me up a bit, and Yeamon seemed pretty steady, but Chenault had the look of a hophead, ready to turn on.

  We went down a dark hall and into a room full of music and noise. It was jammed from wall to wall, and over in one corner a band was playing. Not the steel band I expected to see, but three horns and a drum. The sound was familiar, but I couldn't place it. Then, looking up at the ceiling where the light bulbs were wrapped in blue gelatin, I knew the sound. It was the music of a Midwestern high school dance in some rented club. And not just the music; the crowded, low-ceilinged room, the makeshift bar, doors opening onto a brick terrace, people giggling and shouting and drinking booze out of paper cups -- it was all exactly the same, except that every head in the room was black.

  Seeing this made me a bit self-conscious and I began looking around for a dark corner where I could drink without being seen. My date still had me by the arm, but I shook her off and moved toward one corner of the room. No one paid any attention to me as I eased through the mob, bumping dancers here and there, keeping my head lowered and moving cautiously toward what looked like a vacant spot.

  A few feet to my left was a door and I edged toward it, bumping more dancers. When I finally got outside I felt like I'd escaped from a jail. The air was cool and the terrace was almost empty. I walked out to the edge and looked down on Charlotte Amalie at the bottom of the hill. I could hear music floating up from the bars along Queen Street. Off to my right and left I could see Land Rovers and open taxis full of people moving along the waterfront, heading for other parties, other yachts and dim-lit hotels where red and blue lights glittered mysteriously. I tried to remember which other places we'd been told to go for the “real fun,” and I wondered if they were any better than this one.

  I thought of Vieques, and for a moment I wanted to be there. I remembered sitting on the hotel balcony and hearing the hoofbeats in the street below. Then I remembered Zimburger, and Martin, and the Marines -- the empire builders, setting up frozen food stores and aerial bombing ranges, spreading out like a piss puddle to every corner of the world.

  I turned to watch the dancers, thinking that since I'd paid six dollars to get into this place, I might as well try to enjoy it.

  The dancing was getting wilder now. No more swaying fox-trot business. There was a driving rhythm to the music; the movements on the floor were jerky and full of lust, a swinging and thrusting of hips, accompanied by sudden cries and groans. I felt a temptation to join in, if only for laughs. But first I would have to get drunker.

  On the other side of the room I found Yeamon, standing by the entrance to the hall. “I'm ready to do the dinga,” I said with a laugh. “Let's cut loose and go crazy.”

  He glared at me, taking a long slug of his drink.

  I shrugged and moved on toward the hall closet, where the button-down bartender was laboring over the drinks. “Rum and ice,” I shouted, holding my cup aloft. “Heavy on the ice.”

  He seized it mechanically, dropped in a few lumps of ice, a flash of rum, then he handed it back. I stabbed a quarter into his palm and went back to the doorway. Yeamon was staring at the dancers, looking very morose.

  I stopped beside him and he nodded toward the floor. “Look at that bitch,” he said.

  I looked and saw Chenault, dancing with the small, spade-bearded man we had met earlier. He was a good dancer, and whatever step he was doing was pretty involved. Chenault was holding her arms out like a hula charmer, a look of tense concentration on her face. Now and then she would spin, swirling her madras skirt around her like a fan.

  “Yeah,�
�� I said. “She's hell on this dancing.”

  “She's part nigger,” he replied, in a tone that was not soft.

  “Careful,” I said quickly. “Watch what you say in this place.”

  “Balls,” he said loudly.

  Great Jesus, I thought. Here we go. “Take it easy,” I said. “Why don't we head back to town?”

  “Fine with me,” he replied. “Try talking to her.” He nodded at Chenault, dancing feverishly just a few feet away.

  “Hell,” I said. “Just grab her. Let's go.”

  He shook his head. “I did. She screamed like I was killing her.”

  There was something in his voice that I'd never heard before, an odd wavering that suddenly made me nervous. “Jesus,” I muttered, looking around at the crowd.

  “I'll just have to bat her in the head,” he said.

  Just then I felt a hand on my arm. It was my pig, my squatty date. “Let's go, big boy!” she whooped, dragging me onto the floor. “Let's do it!” She squealed and began to stomp her feet

  Good God, I thought. What now? I watched her, holding my drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “Come on!” she shouted. “Give me some business!” She hunched toward me, pulling her skirt up around her thighs as she wiggled back and forth. I began to stomp and weave; my dancing was shaky at first, then I leveled out to a sort of distracted abandon. Somebody bumped me and I dropped my drink on the floor. It made no difference to the frenzied couples that hemmed us in.

  Suddenly I was next to Chenault. I shrugged helplessly and kept up the stomp. She laughed and bumped me with her hips. Then she danced back to her partner, leaving me with my pig.