Thompson, Hunter S Read Free

not optimistic about what might happen if I did. Few
     girls look with favor on a man of my stripe, a brutalizer of old people. I remembered the
     expression on her face when she saw me with the old man pinned against the window. It was
     almost too much to overcome. I decided to get some breakfast and pick up my baggage later
     on.
    The airport in San Juan is a fine, modern thing, full of bright colors and suntanned
     people and Latin rhythms blaring from speakers hung on naked girders above the lobby. I
     walked up a long ramp, carrying my topcoat and my typewriter in one hand, and a small
     leather bag in the other. The signs led me up another ramp and finally to the coffee shop.
     As I went in I saw myself in a mirror, looking dirty and disreputable, a pale vagrant with
     red eyes.
    On top of my slovenly appearance, I stank of ale. It hung in my stomach like a lump of
     rancid milk. I tried not to breathe on anyone as I sat down at the counter and ordered
     sliced pineapple.
    Outside, the runway glistened in the early sun. Beyond it a thick palm jungle stood
     between me and the ocean. Several miles out at sea a sailboat moved slowly across the
     horizon. I stared for several moments and fell into a trance. It looked peaceful out
     there, peaceful and hot. I wanted to go into the palms and sleep, take a few chunks of
     pineapple and wander into the jungle to pass out.
    Instead, I ordered more coffee and looked again at the cable that had come with my plane
     ticket. It said I had reservations at the Condado Beach Hotel.
    It was not yet seven o'clock, but the coffee shop was crowded.
    Groups of men sat at tables beside the long window, sipping a milky brew and talking
     energetically. A few wore suits, but most of them had on what appeared to be the uniform
     of the day -- thick-rimmed sunglasses, shiny dark pants and white shirts with short
     sleeves and ties.
    I caught snatches of conversation here and there: “. . . no such thing as cheap
     beach-front anymore . . . yeah, but this ain't Montego, gentlemen . . . don't worry, he
     has plenty, and all we need is . . . sewed up, but we gotta move quick before Castro and
     that crowd jumps in with . . .”
    After ten minutes of half-hearted listening I suspected I was in a den of hustlers. Most
     of them seemed to be waiting for the seven-thirty flight from Miami, which -- from what I
     gathered of the conversations -- would be bulging at the seams with architects,
     strip-men, consultants and Sicilians fleeing Cuba.
    Their voices set my teeth on edge. I have no valid complaint against hustlers, no
     rational bitch, but the act of selling is repulsive to me. I harbor a secret urge to whack
     a salesman in the face, crack his teeth and put red bumps around his eyes.
    Once I was conscious of the talk I couldn't hear anything else. It shattered my feeling
     of laziness and finally annoyed me so much that I sucked down the rest of my coffee and
     hurried out of the place.
    The baggage room was empty. I found my two duffel bags and had a porter carry them out to
     the cab. All the way through the lobby he favored me with a steady grin and kept saying:
     “Si, Puerto Rico esta bueno . . . ah, si, muy bueno . . . mucho ha-ha, si. . .”
    In the cab I leaned back and lit a small cigar I'd bought in the coffee shop. I was
     feeling better now, warm and sleepy and absolutely free. With the palms zipping past and
     the big sun burning down on the road ahead, I had a flash of something I hadn't felt since
     my first months in Europe -- a mixture of ignorance and a loose, “what the hell” kind of
     confidence that comes on a man when the wind picks up and he begins to move in a hard
     straight line toward an unknown horizon.
    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