{"id":118457,"date":"2022-06-01T16:11:10","date_gmt":"2022-06-01T20:11:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/stateofthenation.co\/?p=118457"},"modified":"2022-06-01T16:12:10","modified_gmt":"2022-06-01T20:12:10","slug":"the-kentucky-derby-is-decadent-and-depraved","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/stateofthenation.co\/?p=118457","title":{"rendered":"The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/p>\n

\n

Hunter S. Thompson<\/a><\/h2>\n<\/header>\n
\n

Welcome to Derbytown<\/h3>\n

Igot off the plane around midnight and no one spoke as I crossed the dark runway to the terminal. The air was thick and hot, like wandering into a steam bath. Inside, people hugged each other and shook hands \u2026 big grins and a whoop here and there: \u201cBy God! You old bastard! Good to see you, boy! Damn good \u2026 and I mean it!\u201d<\/p>\n

In the air-conditioned lounge I met a man from Houston who said his name was something or other \u2014 \u201cbut just call me Jimbo\u201d \u2014 and he was here to get it on. \u201cI\u2019m ready for anything, by God! Anything at all. Yeah, what are you drinkin?\u201d I ordered a Margarita with ice, but he wouldn\u2019t hear of it: \u201cNaw, naw \u2026 what the hell kind of drink is that for Kentucky Derby time? What\u2019s wrong with you, boy?\u201d He grinned and winked at the bartender. \u201cGoddam, we gotta educate this boy. Get him some good whiskey \u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"

Hunter S. Thompson<\/p><\/div>\n

<\/figure>\n

I shrugged. \u201cOkay, a double Old Fitz on ice.\u201d Jimbo nodded his approval.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook.\u201d He tapped me on the arm to make sure I was listening. \u201cI know this Derby crowd, I come here every year, and let me tell you one thing I\u2019ve learned \u2014 this is no town to be giving people the impression you\u2019re some kind of faggot. Not in public, anyway. Shit, they\u2019ll roll you in a minute, knock you in the head and take every goddam cent you have.\u201d<\/p>\n

[related-post]<\/p>\n

I thanked him and fitted a Marlboro into my cigarette holder. \u201cSay,\u201d he said, \u201cyou look like you might be in the horse business \u2026 am I right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m a photographer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh yeah?\u201d He eyed my ragged leather bag with new interest. \u201cIs that what you got there \u2014 cameras? Who you work for?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPlayboy,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

He laughed. \u201cWell goddam! What are you gonna take pictures of \u2014 nekkid horses? Haw! I guess you\u2019ll be workin\u2019 pretty hard when they run the Kentucky Oaks. That\u2019s a race jut for fillies.\u201d He was laughing wildly. \u201cHell yes! And they\u2019ll all be nekkid too!\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook my head and said nothing; just stared at him for a moment, trying to look grim. \u201cThere\u2019s going to be trouble,\u201d I said. \u201cMy assignment is to take pictures of the riot.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat riot?\u201d<\/p>\n

I hesitated, twirling the ice in my drink. \u201cAt the track. On Derby Day. The Black Panthers.\u201d I stared at him again. \u201cDon\u2019t you read the newspapers?\u201d<\/p>\n

The grin on his face had collapsed. \u201cWhat the hell are you talkin about?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell \u2026 maybe I shouldn\u2019t be telling you \u2026 \u201d I shrugged. \u201cBut hell, everybody seems to know. The cops and the National Guard have been getting ready for six weeks. They have 20,000 troops on alert at Fort Knox. They warned us \u2014 all the press and photographers \u2014 to wear helmets and special vests like flak jackets. We were told to expect shooting \u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo!\u201d he shouted; his hands flew up and hovered momentarily between us, as if to ward off the words he was hearing. Then he hacked his fist on the bar. \u201cThose sons of bitches! God Almighty! The Kentucky Derby!\u201d He kept shaking his head. \u201cNo! Jesus! That\u2019s almost too bad to believe!\u201d Now he seemed to be jagging on the stool, and when he looked up his eyes were misty. \u201cWhy? Why here? Don\u2019t they respect anything?\u201d<\/p>\n

I shrugged again. \u201cIt\u2019s not just the Panthers. The FBI says busloads of white crazies are coming in from all over the country \u2014 to mix with the crowd and attack all at once, from every direction. They\u2019ll be dressed like everybody else. You know \u2014 coats and ties and all that. But when the trouble starts \u2026 well, that\u2019s why the cops are so worried.\u201d<\/p>\n

He sat for a moment, looking hurt and confused and not quite able to digest all this terrible news. Then he cried out: \u201cOh \u2026 Jesus! What in the name of God is happening in this country? Where can you get away from it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot here,\u201d I said, picking up my bag. \u201cThanks for the drink \u2026 and good luck.\u201d<\/p>\n

He grabbed my arm, urging me to have another, but I said I was overdue at the Press Club and hustled off to get my act together for the awful spectacle. At the airport newsstand I picked up a Courier-Journal and scanned the front page headlines: \u201cNixon Sends GI\u2019s into Cambodia to Hit Reds\u201d \u2026 \u201cB-52\u2019s Raid, then 2,000 GI\u2019s Advance 20 Miles\u201d \u2026 \u201c4,000 U.S. Troops Deployed Near Yale as Tension Grows Over Panther Protest.\u201d At the bottom of the page was a photo of Diane Crump, soon to become the first woman jockey ever to ride in the Kentucky Derby. The photographer had snapped her \u201cstopping in the barn area to fondle her mount, Fathom.\u201d The rest of the paper was spotted with ugly war news and stories of \u201cstudent unrest.\u201d There was no mention of any protest action at a small Ohio school called Kent State.<\/p>\n

I went to the Hertz desk to pick up my car, but the moon-faced young swinger in charge said they didn\u2019t have any. \u201cYou can\u2019t rent one anywhere,\u201d he assured me. \u201cOur Derby reservations have been booked for six weeks.\u201d I explained that my agent had confirmed a white Chrysler convertible for me that very afternoon but he shook his head. \u201cMaybe we\u2019ll have a cancellation. Where are you staying?\u201d<\/p>\n

I shrugged. \u201cWhere\u2019s the Texas crowd staying? I want to be with my people.\u201d<\/p>\n

He sighed. \u201cMy friend, you\u2019re in trouble. This town is flat full. Always is, for the Derby.\u201d<\/p>\n

I leaned closer to him, half-whispering: \u201cLook, I\u2019m from Playboy. How would you like a job?\u201d<\/p>\n

He backed off quickly. \u201cWhat? Come on, now. What kind of a job?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNever mind,\u201d I said. \u201cYou just blew it.\u201d I swept my bag off the counter and went to find a cab. The bag is a valuable prop in this kind of work; mine has a lot of baggage tags on it \u2014 SF, LA, NY, Lima, Rome, Bangkok, that sort of thing \u2014 and the most prominent tag of all is a very official, plastic-coated thing that said \u201cPhotog. Playboy Mag.\u201d I bought it from a pimp in Vail, Colorado, and he told me how to use it. \u201cNever mention Playboy until you\u2019re sure they\u2019ve seen this thing first,\u201d he said. \u201cThen, when you see them notice it, that\u2019s the time to strike. They\u2019ll go belly up every time. This thing is magic, I tell you. Pure magic.\u201d<\/p>\n

Well \u2026 maybe so. I\u2019d used it on the poor geek in the bar, and now, humming along in a Yellow Cab toward town, I felt a little guilty about jangling the poor bugger\u2019s brains with that evil fantasy. But, what the hell? Anybody who wanders around the world saying, \u201cYes, I\u2019m from Texas,\u201d deserves whatever happens to him. And he had, after all, come here once again to make a 19th century ass of himself in the midst of some jaded, atavistic freakout with nothing to recommend it except a very saleable \u201ctradition.\u201d Early in our chat, Jimbo had told me that he hasn\u2019t missed a Derby since 1954. \u201cThe little lady won\u2019t come anymore,\u201d he said. \u201cShe just grits her teeth and turns me loose for this one. And when I say \u2018loose\u2019 I do mean loose! I toss ten-dollar bills around like they were goin\u2019 outa style! Horses, whiskey, women \u2026 shit, there\u2019s women in this town that\u2019ll do anything for money.\u201d<\/p>\n

Why not? Money is a good thing to have in these twisted times. Even Richard Nixon is hungry for it. Only a few days before the Derby he said, \u201cIf I had any money I\u2019d invest it in the stock market.\u201d And the market, meanwhile, continued its grim slide.<\/p>\n

Waiting for Steadman<\/h3>\n

The next day was heavy. With 30 hours to post time I had no press credentials and \u2014 according to the sports editor of the Louisville Courier-Journal \u2014 no hope at all of getting any. Worse, I needed two sets; one for myself and another for Ralph Steadman, the English illustrator who was coming from London to do some Derby drawings. All I knew about him was that this was his first visit to the United States. And the more I pondered that fact, the more it gave me fear. Would he bear up under the heinous culture shock of being lifted out of London and plunged into a drunken mob scene at the Kentucky Derby? There was no way of knowing. Hopefully, he would arrive at least a day or so ahead, and give himself time to get acclimated. Maybe a few hours of peaceful sightseeing in the Bluegrass country around Lexington. My plan was to pick him up at the airport in the huge Pontiac Ballbuster I\u2019d rented from a used car salesman named Colonel Quick, then whisk him off to some peaceful setting to remind him of England.<\/p>\n

Colonel Quick had solved the car problem, and money (four times the normal rate) had bought two rooms in a scumbox on the outskirts of town. The only other kink was the task of convincing the moguls at Churchill Downs that Scanlan\u2019s was such a prestigious sporting journal that common sense compelled them to give us two sets of the best press tickets. This was not easily done. My first call to the publicity office resulted in total failure. The press handler was shocked at the idea that anyone would be stupid enough to apply for press credentials two days before the Derby. \u201cHell, you can\u2019t be serious,\u201d he said. \u201cThe deadline was two months ago. The press box is full; there\u2019s no more room \u2026 and what the hell is Scanlan\u2019s Monthly anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n

I uttered a painful groan. \u201cDidn\u2019t the London office call you? They\u2019re flying an artist over to do the paintings. Steadman. He\u2019s Irish, I think. Very famous over there. I just got in from the Coast. The San Francisco office told me we were all set.\u201d<\/p>\n

He seemed interested, and even sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do. I flattered him with more gibberish, and finally he offered a compromise: he could get us two passes to the clubhouse grounds.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat sounds a little weird,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s unacceptable. We must have access to everything. All of it. The spectacle, the people, the pageantry and certainly the race. You don\u2019t think we came all this way to watch the damn thing on television, do you? One way or another we\u2019ll get inside. Maybe we\u2019ll have to bribe a guard \u2014 or even Mace somebody.\u201d (I had picked up a spray can of Mace in a downtown drugstore for $5.98 and suddenly, in the midst of that phone talk, I was struck by the hideous possibilities of using it out at the track. Macing ushers at the narrow gates to the clubhouse inner sanctum, then slipping quickly inside, firing a huge load of Mace into the governor\u2019s box, just as the race starts. Or Macing helpless drunks in the clubhouse restroom, for their own good \u2026 )<\/p>\n

By noon on Friday I was still without credentials and still unable to locate Steadman. For all I knew he\u2019d changed his mind and gone back to London. Finally, after giving up on Steadman and trying unsuccessfully to reach my man in the press office, I decided my only hope for credentials was to go out to the track and confront the man in person, with no warning \u2014 demanding only one pass now, instead of two, and talking very fast with a strange lilt in my voice, like a man trying hard to control some inner frenzy. On the way out, I stopped at the motel desk to cash a check. Then, as a useless afterthought, I asked if by any wild chance Mr. Steadman had checked in.<\/p>\n

The lady on the desk was about fifty years old and very peculiar-looking; when I mentioned Steadman\u2019s name she nodded, without looking up from whatever she was writing, and said in a low voice, \u201cYou bet he did.\u201d Then she favored me with a big smile. \u201cYes, indeed. Mr. Steadman just left for the racetrack. Is he a friend of yours?\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook my head. \u201cI\u2019m supposed to be working with him, but I don\u2019t even know what he looks like. Now, goddammit, I\u2019ll have to find him in that mob at the track.\u201d<\/p>\n

She chuckled. \u201cYou won\u2019t have any trouble finding him. You could pick that man out of any crowd.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d I asked. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with him? What does he look like?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell \u2026 \u201d she said, still grinning, \u201che\u2019s the funniest looking thing I\u2019ve seen in a long time. He has this \u2026 ah \u2026 this growth all over his face. As a matter of fact it\u2019s all over his head.\u201d She nodded. \u201cYou\u2019ll know him when you see him; don\u2019t worry about that.\u201d<\/p>\n

Great creeping Jesus, I thought. That screws the press credentials. I had a vision of some nerve-rattling geek all covered with matted hair and string-warts showing up in the press office and demanding Scanlan\u2019s press packet. Well \u2026 what the hell? We could always load up on acid and spend the day roaming around the grounds with big sketch pads, laughing hysterically at the natives and swilling mint juleps so the cops wouldn\u2019t think we\u2019re abnormal. Perhaps even make the act pay up: set up an easel with a big sign saying, \u201cLet a Foreign Artist Paint Your Portrait, $10 Each. Do It NOW!\u201d<\/p>\n

A Huge Outdoor Loony Bin<\/h3>\n

I took the expressway out to the track, driving very fast and jumping the monster car back and forth between lanes, driving with a beer in one hand and my mind so muddled that I almost crushed a Volkswagen full of nuns when I swerved to catch the right exit. There was a slim chance, I thought, that I might be able to catch the ugly Britisher before he checked in.<\/p>\n

But Steadman was already in the press box when I got there, a bearded young Englishman wearing a tweed coat and HAF sunglasses. There was nothing particularly odd about him. No facial veins or clumps of bristly warts. I told him about the motel woman\u2019s description and he seemed puzzled. \u201cDon\u2019t let it bother you,\u201d I said. \u201cJust keep in mind for the next few days that we\u2019re in Louisville, Kentucky. Not London. Not even New York. This is a weird place. You\u2019re lucky that mental defective at the motel didn\u2019t jerk a pistol out of the cash register and blow a big hole in you.\u201d I laughed, but he looked worried.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust pretend you\u2019re visiting a huge outdoor loony bin,\u201d I said. \u201cIf the inmates get out of control we\u2019ll soak them down with Mace.\u201d I showed him the can of \u201cChemical Billy,\u201d resisting the urge to fire it across the room at a rat-faced man typing diligently in the Associated Press section. We were standing at the bar, sipping the management\u2019s scotch and congratulating each other on our sudden, unexplained luck in picking up two sets of fine press credentials. The lady at the desk had been very friendly to him, he said. \u201cI just told her my name and she gave me the whole works.\u201d<\/p>\n

By midafternoon we had everything under control. We had seats looking down on the finish line, color TV and a free bar in the press room, and a selection of passes that would take us anywhere from the clubhouse roof to the jockey room. The only thing we lacked was unlimited access to the clubhouse inner sanctum in sections \u201cF&G\u201d \u2026 and I felt we needed that, to see the whisky gentry in action. The governor would be in \u201cG.\u201d Barry Goldwater would be in a box in \u201cG\u201d where we could rest and sip juleps, soak up a bit of atmosphere and the Derby\u2019s special vibrations.<\/p>\n

The bars and dining rooms were also in \u201cF&G,\u201d and the clubhouse bars on Derby Day are a very special kind of scene. Along with the politicians, society belle and local captains of commerce, every half-mad dingbat who ever had any pretensions to anything within 500 miles of Louisville will show up there to get strutting drunk and slap a lot of backs and generally make himself obvious. The Paddock bar is probably the best place in the track to sit and watch faces. Nobody minds being stared at; that\u2019s what they\u2019re in there for. Some people spend most of their time in the Paddock; they can hunker down at one of the many wooden tables, lean back in a comfortable chair and watch the ever-changing odds flash up and down on the big tote board outside the window. Black waiters in white serving jackets move through the crowd with trays of drinks, while the experts ponder their racing forms and the hunch bettors pick lucky numbers or scan the lineup for right-sounding names. There is a constant flow of traffic to and from the pari-mutuel windows outside in the wooden corridors. Then, as post time nears, the crowd thins out as people go back to their boxes.<\/p>\n

Clearly, we were going to have to figure out some way to spend more time in the clubhouse tomorrow. But the \u201cwalkaround\u201d press passes to F&G were only good for 30 minutes at a time, presumably to allow the newspaper types to rush in and out for photos or quick interviews, but to prevent drifters like Steadman and me from spending all day in the clubhouse, harassing the gentry and rifling an old handbag or two while cruising around the boxes. Or macing the governor. The time limit was no problem on Friday, but on Derby Day the walkaround passes would be in heavy demand. And since it took about 10 minutes to get from the press box to the Paddock, and 10 more minutes to get back, that didn\u2019t leave much time for serious people-watching. And unlike most of the others in the press box, we didn\u2019t give a hoot in hell what was happening on the track. We had come there to watch the real beasts perform.<\/p>\n

View from Thompson\u2019s Head<\/h3>\n

Later Friday afternoon, we went out on the balcony of the press box and I tried to describe the difference between what we had seen today and what would be happening tomorrow. This was the first time I\u2019d been to a Derby in 10 years, but before that, when I lived in Louisville, I used to go every year. Now, looking down from the press box, I pointed to the huge grassy meadow enclosed by the track. \u201cThat whole thing,\u201d I said, \u201cwill be jammed with people; fifty thousand or so, and most of them staggering drunk. It\u2019s a fantastic scene \u2014 thousands of people fainting, crying, copulating, trampling each other and fighting with broken whiskey bottles. We\u2019ll have to spend some time out there, but it\u2019s hard to move around, too many bodies.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs it safe out there? Will we ever come back?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure,\u201d I said. \u201cWe\u2019ll just have to be careful not to step on anybody\u2019s stomach and start a fight.\u201d I shrugged. \u201cHell, this clubhouse scene right below us will be almost as bad as the infield. Thousands of raving, stumbling drunks, getting angrier and angrier as they lose more and more money. By midafternoon they\u2019ll be guzzling mint juleps with both hands and vomiting on each other between races. The whole place will be jammed with bodies, shoulder to shoulder. It\u2019s hard to move around. The aisles will be slick with vomit; people falling down and grabbing at your legs to keep from being stomped. Drunks pissing on themselves in the betting lines. Dropping handfuls of money and fighting to stoop over and pick it up.\u201d<\/p>\n

He looked so nervous that I laughed. \u201cI\u2019m just kidding,\u201d I said. \u201cDon\u2019t worry. At the first hint of trouble I\u2019ll start Macing everybody I can reach.\u201d<\/p>\n

He had done a few good sketches but so far we hadn\u2019t seen that special kind of face that I felt we would need for the lead drawing. It was a face I\u2019d seen a thousand times at every Derby I\u2019d ever been to. I saw it, in my head, as the mask of the whiskey gentry \u2014 a pretentious mix of booze, failed dreams and a terminal identity crisis; the inevitable result of too much inbreeding in a closed and ignorant culture. One of the key genetic rules in breeding dogs, horses or any other kind of thoroughbred is that close inbreeding tends to magnify the weak points in a bloodline as well as the strong points. In horse breeding, for instance, there is a definite risk in breeding two fast horses who are both a little crazy. The offspring will likely be very fast and also very crazy. So the trick in breeding thoroughbreds is to retain the good traits and filter out the bad. But the breeding of humans is not so wisely supervised, particularly in a narrow Southern society where the closest kind of inbreeding is not only stylish and acceptable, but far more convenient \u2014 to the parents \u2014 than setting their offspring free to find their own mates, for their own reasons and their own ways. (\u201cGoddam, did you hear about Smitty\u2019s daughter? She went crazy in Boston last week and married a nigger!\u201d)<\/p>\n

So the face I was trying to find in Churchill Downs that weekend was a symbol, in my own mind, of the whole doomed atavistic culture that makes the Kentucky Derby what it is.<\/p>\n

On our way back to the motel after Friday\u2019s races I warned Steadman about some of the other problems we\u2019d have to cope with. Neither of us had brought any strange illegal drugs, so we would have to get by on booze. \u201cYou should keep in mind,\u201d I said, \u201cthat almost everybody you talk to from now on will be drunk. People who seem very pleasant at first might suddenly swing at you for no reason at all.\u201d He nodded, staring straight ahead. He seemed to be getting a little numb and I tried to cheer him up by inviting him to dinner that night, with my brother.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat Mace?\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

[Steadman] was regarded with fear and
\nloathing by nearly everyone who\u2019d seen
\nor even heard about his work. He couldn\u2019t
\nunderstand it.<\/h3>\n
\n

Back at the motel we talked for a while about America, the South, England, just relaxing a bit before dinner. There was no way either of us could have known, at the time, that it would be the last normal conversation we would have. From that point on, the weekend became a vicious, drunken nightmare. We both went completely to pieces. The main problem was my prior attachment to Louisville, which naturally led to meetings with old friends, relatives, etc., many of whom were in the process of falling apart, going mad, plotting divorces, cracking up under the strain of terrible debts or recovering from bad accidents. Right in the middle of the whole frenzied Derby action, a member of my own family had to be institutionalized. This added a certain amount of strain to the situation, and since poor Steadman had no choice but to take whatever came his way, he was subjected to shock after shock.<\/p>\n

Another problem was his habit of sketching people he met in the various social situations I dragged him into, then giving them the sketches. The results were always unfortunate. I warned him several times about letting the subjects see his foul renderings, but for some perverse reason he kept doing it. Consequently, he was regarded with fear and loathing by nearly everyone who\u2019d seen or even heard about his work. He couldn\u2019t understand it. \u201cIt\u2019s sort of a joke,\u201d he kept saying. \u201cWhy, in England it\u2019s quite normal. People don\u2019t take offense. They understand that I\u2019m just putting them on a bit.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck England,\u201d I said. \u201cThis is Middle America. These people regard what you\u2019re doing to them as a brutal, bilious insult. Look what happened last night. I thought my brother was going to tear your head off.\u201d<\/p>\n

Steadman shook his head sadly, \u201cBut I like him. He struck me as a very decent, straightforward sort.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, Ralph,\u201d I said. \u201cLet\u2019s not kid ourselves. That was a very horrible drawing you gave him. It was the face of a monster. It got on his nerves very badly.\u201d I shrugged. \u201cWhy in the hell do you think we left the restaurant so fast?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought it was because of the Mace,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat Mace?\u201d<\/p>\n

He grinned. \u201cWhen you shot it at the headwaiter, don\u2019t you remember?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHell, that was nothing,\u201d I said. \u201cI missed him \u2026 and we were leaving, anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut it got all over us,\u201d he said. \u201cThe room was full of that damn gas. Your brother was sneezing and his wife was crying. My eyes hurt for two hours. I couldn\u2019t see to draw when we got back to the motel.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s right,\u201d I said. \u201cThe stuff got on her leg, didn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe was angry,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYah \u2026 well, okay \u2026 let\u2019s just figure we fucked up about equally on that one,\u201d I said. \u201cBut from now on let\u2019s try to be careful when we\u2019re around people I know. You won\u2019t sketch them and I won\u2019t Mace them. We\u2019ll just try to relax and get drunk.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight,\u201d he said. \u201cWe\u2019ll go native.\u201d<\/p>\n

Derby Morning<\/h3>\n

It was Saturday morning, the day of the Big Race, and we were having breakfast in a plastic hamburger palace called the Ptomaine Village. Our rooms were just across the road in a foul scumbox of a place called the Horn Suburban Hotel. They had a dining room, but the food was so bad that we couldn\u2019t handle it anymore. The waitresses seemed to be suffering from shin splints; they moved around very slowly, moaning and cursing the \u201cdarkies\u201d in the kitchen.<\/p>\n

Steadman liked the Ptomaine Village because it had fish and chips. I preferred the \u201cfrench toast,\u201d which was really pancake batter, fried to the proper thickness and then chopped out with a sort of cookie cutter to resemble pieces of toast.<\/p>\n

Beyond drink and lack of sleep, our only real problem at that point was the question of access to the clubhouse. Finally we decided just to go ahead and steal two passes, if necessary, rather than miss that part of the action. This was the last coherent decision we were able to make for the next 48 hours. From that point on \u2014 almost from the very moment we started out to the track \u2014 we lost all control of events and spent the rest of the weekend just churning around in a sea of drunken horrors. My notes and recollections from Derby Day are somewhat scrambled.<\/p>\n

But now, looking at the big red notebook I carried all through that scene, I see more or less that happened. The book itself is somewhat mangled and bent; some of the pages are torn, others are shriveled and stained by what appears to be whiskey, but taken as a whole, with sporadic memory flashes, the notes seem to tell the story. To wit:<\/p>\n

Unscrambling Derby Day \u2014 I
\nSteadman Is Worried About Fire<\/h3>\n

Rain all nite until dawn. No sleep. Christ, here we go, a nightmare of mud and madness \u2026. Drunks in the mud. Drowning, fighting for shelter \u2026. But no. By noon the sun burns, perfect day, not even humid.<\/p>\n

Steadman is now worried about Fire. Somebody told him about the clubhouse catching on fire two years ago. Could it happen again? Horrible. Trapped in the press box. Holocaust. A hundred thousand people fighting to get out. Drunks screaming in the flames and the mud, crazed horses running wild. Blind in the smoke. Grandstand collapsing into the flames with us on the roof. Poor Ralph is about to crack. Drinking heavily, into the Haig.<\/p>\n

Out to the track in a cab, avoid that terrible parking in people\u2019s front yards, $25 each, toothless old men on the street with big signs: Park Here, flagging cars in the yard. \u201cThat\u2019s fine, boy, never mind the tulips.\u201d Wild hair on his head, straight up like a clump of reeds.<\/p>\n

Sidewalks full of people all moving in the same direction, towards Churchill Downs. Kids hauling coolers and blankets, teenyboppers in tight pink shorts, many blacks \u2026 black dudes in white felt hats with leopard-skin bands, cops waving traffic along.<\/p>\n

The mob was thick for many blocks around the track; very slow going in the crowd, very hot. On the way to the press box elevator, just inside the clubhouse, we came on a row of soldiers all carrying long white riot sticks. About two platoons, with helmets. A man walking next to us said they were waiting for the governor and his party. Steadman eyed them nervously. \u201cWhy do they have those clubs?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBlack Panthers,\u201d I said. Then I remembered good old \u201cJimbo\u201d at the airport and I wondered what he was thinking right now. Probably very nervous; the place was teeming with cops and soldiers. We pressed on through the crowd, through many gates, past the paddock where the jockeys bring the horses out and parade around for a while before each race so the bettors can get a good look. Five million dollars will be bet today. Many winners, more losers. What the hell. The press gate was jammed up with people trying to get in, shouting at the guards, waving strange press badges: Chicago Sporting Times, Pittsburgh Police Athletic League \u2026 they were all turned away. \u201cMove on, fella, make way for the working press.\u201d We shoved through the crowd and into the elevator, then quickly up to the free bar. Why not? Get it on. Very hot today, not feeling well, must be this rotten climate. The press box was cool and airy, plenty of room to walk around and balcony seats for watching the race or looking down at the crowd. We got a betting sheet and went outside.<\/p>\n

Unscrambling D-day II \u2013 Clubhouse\/Paddock Bar<\/h3>\n

Pink faces with stylish Southern sag, old Ivy styles, seersucker coats and buttondown collars. \u201cMayblossom Senility\u201d (Steadman\u2019s phrase) \u2026 burnt out early or maybe just not much to burn in the first place. Not much energy in these faces, not much curiosity. Suffering in silence, nowhere to go after thirty in this life, just hang on and humor the children. Let the young enjoy themselves while they can. Why not? The grim reaper comes early in this league \u2026 banshees on the lawn at night, screaming out there beside that little iron nigger in jockey clothes. Maybe he\u2019s the one who\u2019s screaming. Bad DT\u2019s and too many snarls at the bridge club. Going down with the stock market. Oh Jesus, the kid has wrecked the new car, wrapped it around that big stone pillar at the bottom of the driveway. Broken leg? Twisted eye? Send him off to Yale, they can cure anything up there.<\/p>\n

Yale? Did you see today\u2019s paper? New Haven is under siege. Yale is swarming with Black Panthers \u2026.I tell you, Colonel, the world has gone mad, stone mad. Why they tell me a goddam woman jockey might ride in the Derby today.<\/p>\n

I left Steadman sketching in the Paddock bar and sent off to place our bets on the sixth race. When I came back he was staring intently at a group of young men around a stable not far away. \u201cJesus, look at the corruption in that face!\u201d he whispered. \u201cLook at the madness, the fear, the greed!\u201d I looked, then quickly turned my back on the table he was drawing. The face he\u2019d picked out to draw was the face of an old friend of mine, a prep school football star in the good old days with a sleek red Chevy convertible and a very quick hand, it was said, with the snaps of a 32 B brassiere. They called him \u201cCat Man.\u201d<\/p>\n

But now, a dozen years later, I wouldn\u2019t have recognized him anywhere but here, where I should have expected to find him, in the Paddock bar on Derby Day \u2026 fat slanted eyes and a pimp\u2019s smoke, blue silk suit and his friends looking like crooked bank tellers on a binge \u2026.<\/p>\n

Steadman wanted to see some Kentucky Colonels, but he wasn\u2019t sure what they looked like. I told him to go back to the clubhouse men\u2019s rooms and look for men in white linen suits vomiting in the urinals. \u201cThey\u2019ll usually have large brown whiskey stains on the fronts of their suits,\u201d I said. \u201cBut watch the shoes, that\u2019s the tip-off. Most of them manage to avoid vomiting on their own clothes, but they never miss their shoes.\u201d<\/p>\n

In a box not far from ours was Colonel Anna Friedman Goldman, Chairman and Keeper of the Great Seal of the Honorable Order of Kentucky Colonels. Not all the 76 million or so Kentucky Colonels could make it to the Derby this year, but many had kept the faith and several days prior to the Derby they gathered for their annual dinner at the Seelbach Hotel.<\/p>\n

The Derby, the actual race, was scheduled for late afternoon, and as the magic hour approached I suggested to Steadman that we should probably spend some time in the infield, that boiling sea of people across the track from the clubhouse. He seemed a little nervous about it, but since none of the awful things I\u2019d warned him about had happened so far \u2014 no race riots, firestorms, or savage drunken attacks \u2014 he shrugged and said, \u201cRight, let\u2019s do it.\u201d<\/p>\n

To get there we had to pass through many gates, each one a step down in status, then through a tunnel under the track. Emerging from the tunnel was such a culture shock that it took us a while to adjust. \u201cCool almighty!\u201d Steadman muttered. \u201cThis is a \u2026 Jesus!\u201d He plunged ahead with his tiny camera, stepping over bodies, and I followed, trying to take notes.<\/p>\n

Unscrambling D-day III \u2013 The Infield<\/h3>\n

Total chaos, no way to see the race, not even the track \u2026 nobody cares. Big lines at the outdoor betting windows, then stand back to watch winning numbers flash on the big board, like a giant bingo game.<\/p>\n

Old blacks arguing about bets; \u201chold on there, I\u2019ll handle this\u201d (waving pint of whiskey, fistful of dollar bills); girl riding piggyback, T-shirt says, \u201cStolen from Fort Lauderdale Jail.\u201d Thousands of teenagers, group singing \u201cLet the Sun Shine In,\u201d ten soldiers guarding the American flag, and a huge fat drunk wearing a blue football jersey (No. 80) reeling around with quart of beer in hand.<\/p>\n

No booze sold out here, too dangerous \u2026 no bathrooms either. Muscle Beach \u2026 Woodstock \u2026 many cops with riot sticks, but no sign of riot. Far across the track the clubhouse looks like a postcard from the Kentucky Derby.<\/p>\n

Unscrambling D-day IV \u2013 \u201cMy Old Kentucky Home\u201d<\/h3>\n

We went back to the clubhouse to watch the big race. When the crowd stood to face the flag and sing \u201cMy Old Kentucky Home,\u201d Steadman faced the crowd and sketched frantically. Somewhere up in the boxes a voice screeched, \u201cTurn around, you hairy freak!\u201d The race itself was only two minutes long, and even from our super-status seats and using 12-power glasses, there was no way to see what was really happening. Later, watching a TV rerun in the press box, we saw what happened to our horses. Holy Land, Ralph\u2019s choice, stumbled and lost his jockey in the final turn. Mine, Silent Screen, had the lead coming into the stretch, but faded to fifth at the finish. The winner was a 16\u20131 shot named Dust Commander.<\/p>\n

Moments after the race was over, the crowd surged wildly for the exits, rushing for cabs and busses. The next day\u2019s Courier told of violence in the parking lot; people were punched and trampled, pockets were picked, children lost, bottles hurled. But we missed all this, having retired to the press box for a bit of post-race drinking. By this time we were both half-crazy from too much whiskey, sun fatigue, culture shock, lack of sleep and general dissolution. We hung around the press box long enough to watch a mass interview with the winning owner, a dapper little man named Lehmann who said he had just flown into Louisville that morning from Nepal, where he\u2019d \u201cbagged a record tiger.\u201d The sportswriters murmured their admiration and a waiter filled Lehmann\u2019s glass with Chivas Regal. He had just won $127,000 with a horse that cost him $6,500 two years ago. His occupation, he said, was \u201cretired contractor.\u201d And then he added, with a big grin, \u201cI just retired.\u201d<\/p>\n

The rest of that day blurs into madness. The rest of that night too. And all the next day and night. Such horrible things occurred that I can\u2019t bring myself even to think about them now, much less put them down in print. Steadman was lucky to get out of Louisville without serious injuries, and I was lucky to get out at all. One of my clearest memories of that vicious time is Ralph being attacked by one of my old friends in the billiard room of the Pendennis Club in downtown Louisville on Saturday night. The man had ripped his own shirt open to the waist before deciding that Ralph wasn\u2019t after his wife. No blows were struck, but the emotional effects were massive. Then, as a sort of final horror, Steadman put is fiendish pen to work and tried to patch things up by doing a little sketch of the girl he\u2019d been accused of hustling. That finished us in the Pendennis.<\/p>\n

Getting Out of Town<\/h3>\n

Sometime around 10:30 Monday morning I was awakened by a scratching sound at my door. I leaned out of bed and pulled the curtain back just far enough to see Steadman outside. \u201cWhat the fuck do you want?\u201d I shouted.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about having breakfast?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

I lunged out of bed and tried to open the door, but it caught on the night-chain and banged shut again. I couldn\u2019t cope with the chain! The thing wouldn\u2019t come out of the track \u2014 so I ripped it out of the wall with a vicious jerk on the door. Ralph didn\u2019t blink. \u201cBad luck,\u201d he muttered.<\/p>\n

I could barely see him. My eyes were swollen almost shut and the sudden burst of sunlight through the door left me stunned and helpless like a sick mole. Steadman was mumbling about sickness and terrible heat; I fell back on the bed and tried to focus on him as he moved around the room in a very distracted way for a few moments, then suddenly darted over to the beer bucket and seized a Colt .45. \u201cChrist,\u201d I said. \u201cyou\u2019re getting out of control.\u201d<\/p>\n

He nodded and ripped the cap off, taking a long drink. \u201cYou know, this is really awful,\u201d he said finally. \u201cI must get out of this place \u2026 \u201d he shook his head nervously. \u201cThe plane leaves at 3:30, but I don\u2019t know if I\u2019ll make it.\u201d<\/p>\n

I barely heard him. My eyes had finally opened enough for me to focus on the mirror across the room and I was stunned at the shock of recognition. For a confused instant I thought that Ralph had brought somebody with him \u2014 a model for that one special face we\u2019d been looking for. There he was, by God \u2014 a puffy, drink-ravaged, disease-ridden caricature \u2026 like an awful cartoon version of an old snapshot in some once-proud mother\u2019s family photo album. It was the face we\u2019d been looking for \u2014 and it was, of course, my own. Horrible, horrible \u2026<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe I should sleep a while longer,\u201d I said. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you go on over to the Ptomaine Village and eat some of those rotten fish and chips? Then come back and get me around noon. I feel too near death to hit the streets at this hour.\u201d<\/p>\n

He shook his head. \u201cNo \u2026 no \u2026 I think I\u2019ll go back upstairs and work on those drawings for a while.\u201d He leaned down to fetch two more cans out of the beer bucket. \u201cI tried to work earlier,\u201d he said, \u201cbut my hands keep trembling \u2026 It\u2019s teddible, teddible.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve got to stop drinking,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

He nodded. \u201cI know. This is no good, no good at all. But for some reason I think it makes me feel better \u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot for long,\u201d I said. \u201cYou\u2019ll probably collapse into some kind of hysterical DT\u2019s tonight \u2014 probably just about the time you get off the plane at Kennedy. They\u2019ll zip you up in a straightjacket and drag you down to the Tombs, then beat you on the kidneys with a big stick until you straighten out.\u201d<\/p>\n

He shrugged and wandered out, pulling the door shut behind him. I went back to bed for another hour or so, and later \u2014 after the daily grapefruit juice run to the Nite Owl Food Mart \u2014 we drove once again to the Ptomaine Village for a fine lunch of dough and butcher\u2019s offal, fried in heavy grease.<\/p>\n

By this time Ralph wouldn\u2019t even order coffee; he kept asking for more water. \u201cIt\u2019s the only thing they have that\u2019s fit for human consumption,\u201d he explained. Then, with an hour or so to kill before he had to catch the plane, we spread his drawings out on the table and pondered them for a while, wondering if he\u2019d caught the proper spirit of the thing \u2026 but we couldn\u2019t make up our minds. His hands were shaking so badly that he had trouble holding the paper, and my vision was so blurred that I could barely see what he\u2019s drawn. \u201cShit,\u201d I said. \u201cWe both look worse than anything you\u2019ve drawn here.\u201d<\/p>\n

He smiled. \u201cYou know \u2014 I\u2019ve been thinking about that,\u201d he said. \u201cWe came down here to see this teddible scene: people all pissed out of their minds and vomiting on themselves and all that \u2026 and now, you know what? It\u2019s us \u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

Huge Pontiac Ballbuster blowing through traffic on the expressway. The journalist is driving, ignoring his passenger who is now nearly naked after taking off most of his clothing, which he holds out the window, trying to wind-wash the Mace out of it. His eyes are bright red and his face and chest are soaked with the beer he\u2019s been using to rinse the awful chemical off his flesh. The front of his woolen trousers is soaked with vomit; his body is racked with fits of coughing and wild choking sobs. The journalist rams the big car through traffic and into a spot in front of the terminal, then he reaches over to open the door on the passenger\u2019s side and shoves the Englishman out, snarling: \u201cBug off, you worthless faggot! You twisted pigfucker! [Crazed laughter.] If I weren\u2019t sick I\u2019d kick your ass all the way to Bowling Green \u2014 you scumsucking foreign geek. Mace is too good for you \u2026. We can do without your kind in Kentucky.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u2014 Hunter S. Thompson. Originally published in Scanlan\u2019s, June 1970<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

___
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