Хантер Стоктон Томпсон – Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas / Страх и отвращение в Лас-Вегасе (страница 2)
She had no idea who I was, she said, and by that time I was sweating. I have never been able to properly explain myself in this California climate – not with the sweat… or wild red eyes and shaking hands.
So I took the $300 and left. My attorney was waiting in a bar around the corner.
“This won’t do[33],” he said, “we have to have unlimited credit.”
I told him we would.
“You Samoans are all the same,” I told him. “You have no faith in the white man’s culture. Jesus, just one hour ago we were sitting in that hotel, broke and paralyzed for the weekend, when a call comes from some total stranger in New York, telling me to go to Las Vegas – and then he sends me to some office in Beverly Hills[34] where another total stranger gives me $300 in cash for no reason at all… I tell you, man, this is the American Dream in action!”
“Indeed,” he said.
“Right,” I said. “But first we need the car. And after that, the cocaine. And then the tape recorder, for special music, and some Acapulco shirts[35].” The only way to prepare for a trip like this was to dress up like peacocks, get crazy and cover the story.
But what
Getting the drugs had been no problem, but the car and the tape recorder were difficult to find at 6:30 on a Friday afternoon in Hollywood[37]. I already had one car, but it was too small and slow for the desert. We went to a Polynesian[38] bar where my attorney made seventeen calls before finding a convertible with proper horsepower and color.
“We’ll be there in thirty minutes,” I heard him say into the phone. Then after a pause, he began shouting: “What?
“Now we need a sound store with the finest equipment,” I said as he put the phone down. “We want a tape recorder with that new mike for picking up conversations in passing cars.”
We made several more calls and finally found our equipment in a store about five miles away. It was closed, but the salesman said he would wait, if we hurried. But there was an accident on the main road, and in the end we were late. Bad luck. The store was closed by the time we got there. There were people inside, but they refused to come to the glass door until we gave it a few kicks.
Finally two salesmen with tire irons came to the door and we managed to do the sale. They opened the door just wide enough to push the equipment out, before closing and locking it again.
“Now take that stuff and get the hell out of here,” one of them shouted.
My attorney shook his fist at them. “We’ll be back,” he yelled. “One of these days I’ll throw a goddamn bomb into this place! I have your names! I’ll find out where you live and burn your houses down! You psychos…”
We had trouble, again, at the car rental agency. After signing all the papers, I got in the car and almost lost control of it while backing across the lot to the gas pump. The rental-man was obviously shocked.
“Say. uh. you fellows are going to be
“Of course.”
“Well, good god!” he said. “You just backed and you didn’t even slow down! You were lucky to miss the pump.”
“No damage done,” I said. “I always test a transmission that way. For stress factors.”
Meanwhile, my attorney was busy carrying rum and ice to the back seat of the convertible. The rental-man watched him nervously.
“Say,” he said. “Are you fellows
“Not me,” I said.
“Just fill the goddamn tank,” my attorney said. “We’re in a hell of a hurry. We’re on our way to Las Vegas for a desert race.”
“Never mind,” I said. “We’re responsible people.”
I watched him fill the tank with gas; then I started the engine.
“Another psycho,” said my attorney. “To hell with him. We have a lot of business to take care of, before we can get on the road.”
“You’re right,” I said. “And for Christ’s sake[39] don’t smoke that pipe at stoplights. We’re exposed[40].” He nodded. “We need a big hookah. Keep it down there on the back seat, out of sight. If anybody sees us, they’ll think we’re using oxygen.”
We spent the rest of that night gathering materials and packing the car. Then we ate the mescaline and went swimming in the ocean. At dawn we had breakfast in a Malibu[41] coffee shop, then drove very carefully across town and right onto the freeway, heading East.
3
I was still slightly shocked by our hitchhiker’s words that he had “never ridden in a convertible before.” Here’s this poor guy, living in a world of convertibles that are passing him on the highways all the time, and he’s never even ridden in one. I felt like giving[42] the car to this poor bastard, just saying: “Here, the car’s yours.” Give him the keys and then use the credit card to fly on a jet to some place like Miami[43] and rent another huge red convertible for a ride all the way to Key West[44]… and then exchange the car for a boat… Keep moving…
But this crazy idea passed quickly. I had plans for this car. I was looking forward to driving around Las Vegas in it. Maybe do a bit of serious racing – pull up to a big stoplight and start screaming at the traffic: “All right, you suckers[45]! When this goddamn light turns green, I’m going to step on it[46] and blow every one of you off the road!” Right. Challenge the bastards, with a bottle of rum in one hand, revving the engine, skidding, waiting for the light to change. How often does one get a chance like that?
But our trip was different. It was a declaration of everything right and true that is present in the national character. It was a salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country.
My attorney understood this concept, despite his race, but our hitchhiker didn’t. He said he understood, but I could see in his eyes that he didn’t. He was lying to me.
The car suddenly turned off the road and we stopped. My attorney was leaning over the wheel.
“What’s wrong?” I yelled. “We can’t stop here. This is a bat country!”
“My heart,” he groaned. “Where’s the medicine?”
“Oh,” I said. “The medicine, yes, it’s right here.” I reached into the bag for the amyls.
The kid seemed terrified.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “This man has a bad heart. But we have the cure for it. Yes, here they are.” I took four amyls out of the tin box and handed two of them to my attorney. He cracked one under his nose and fell back on the seat, staring straight up at the sun. I did the same thing.
“Turn up the goddamn music!” he screamed. “Volume! Bass! What’s wrong with us? Are we some goddamn old ladies?”
I turned both the radio and the tape recorder up.
“You bastard,” I said. “Watch your language! You’re talking to a Doctor of Journalism!”
He was laughing out of control. “What the heck[47] are we doing out here on this desert?” he shouted. “Somebody call the police! We need help!”
“Don’t pay attention to this pig,” I said to the hitchhiker. “He can’t handle the medicine. Actually, we’re both Doctors of Journalism, and we’re on our way to Las Vegas to cover the main story of our generation.” And then I began laughing.
My attorney turned to the hitchhiker.
“The truth is,” he said, “we’re going to Vegas to kill a drug baron named Savage Henry. I’ve known him for years, but he ripped us off – and you know what that means, right?”
I wanted him to shut up, but we were both helpless with laughter. What the hell were we doing here, on this desert, when we both had bad hearts?
“Savage Henry is a dead man!” my attorney yelled at the kid in the back seat. “We’re going to cut his heart out!”
“And eat it!” I shouted. “That bastard won’t get away with this! What’s going on in this country when a sucker like that can rip off a Doctor of Journalism?”
Nobody answered.
My attorney was cracking another amyl when the kid climbed out of the back seat.
“Thanks for the ride,” he yelled. “Thanks a lot. I like you guys. Don’t worry about me.”
His feet hit the asphalt and he started running back. In the middle of the desert, not a tree in sight.
“Wait a minute,” I yelled. “Come back and get a beer.”
But probably he couldn’t hear me. The music was very loud, and he was moving away from us very fast.
“Good riddance[48],” said my attorney. “That boy was a real freak. He made me nervous. Did you see his eyes?” He was still laughing. “Jesus, this is good medicine!”
I opened the car door and went to the driver’s side.
“I’ll drive,” I said. “We have to get out of California before that kid finds a cop.”
“That’ll be hours,” said my attorney. “He’s a hundred miles from anywhere.”
“So are we,” I said. “Open the tequila. We must get to the Mint Hotel before the end of the press registration, or we’ll have to pay for our suite.”
He nodded. “But let’s forget that bullshit[49] about the American Dream,” he said. “I think it’s time to chew a blotter[50]. That cheap mescaline wore off a long time ago, and I don’t know if I can stand the smell of that ether any longer.”
“Speaking of which,” I said. “I think it’s time to get into the ether and the cocaine.”