May
19, 2018
Dear
Ed:
The
old lawyer joke is: “When did you stop beating your wife?”
You
would think a writer at the RFT would
have by now asked, “When did you know who you are?” That would be one day in
1966 when I was sitting on a sewer lid at Melanie & Delaird with a now
deceased friend. I had erected a 40 foot radio tower, and when a male adult
approached, he looked up and it and said: “You ought to put a motor on your
bike.” It was not until 2014 when I saw a photo of Howard R. Hughes, Jr. next
to his. Howard made it himself, and later studied engineering.
I
also thought it odd that a police officer would assist with model rocket
launches by offering the cop car battery. The not so funny today quip was:
“Don’t tell anybody.” That same year, my alleged dad would come in my room and
say, “If the plane goes down, you’ll need a guardian.” Of course someone stole
the stack of TWA envelopes, but I had started to wonder how Charles E. Hughes
lived high on the hog by visiting places like the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami and
a luxurious golf course in Pebble Beach. “They pay for it Bill,” he would say.
Who were they?
When
Charlie lay dying at DePaul Hospital, some old guys came over to discuss where
I would go and what would happen to my two alleged sisters if he died. (The
“sisters” are NOT related to me). These fellows were not my uncles. They were
not truck company owners. They were with the United States Secret Service, and
they looked the part. As my college professor Delores Williams put it later, I
handled this meeting with, “considerable aplomb.” One of those men said, “Don’t
you ever cry?” I did not miss a day of school as Charles battled for his life,
and marveled when he was later seen dancing with one of the nurses who cared
for him to “Light My Fire” by The Doors. My mother liked their albums, and so
did Charlie. There was a whole other side to this man. For that, a movie
“ProdCo” must pay me big money.
What
do I want? I’d like to go back to Wales where the Hughes family is from. If one
movie of mine is made, they would try to make me governor of California. I’m
“grandiose?” Not with ripped pants and nowhere to go. My quip I don’t use much
lately is: “I write books.” The problem has been the Blum family prevents them
from being published. Want an allegation? I think Senator Feinstein is a
Russian “mole.” That said, maybe there is such a thing as a “good mole.” You
would have to ask her pal Leon Panetta about that. He ran the C.I.A., whereas I
have a letter from them that says, “You need to better prove your identity.”
That was one time those criminals were right!
I
turned down the C.I.A. recruiter in 1975. I published a website for a few years
called AbolishTheCIA.org. Most of the page views were on the east coast during
business hours. Perhaps some within the agency liked it. Why? As a kid, my
uncles told me a story about a guy taking an exam for a promotion. He looked at
the test and told the proctor, “Screw you; I’m not taking this exam.” He was
promptly promoted by the Central Intelligence Agency. So often the family tale
matches what I’ve read in published sources the past 10-12 years. The joke is:
“I guess they knew the guy.”
Nobody
wants to publish my book. In it, I wrote about the early days of the C.I.A.
Their first civilian director, “Wild Bill” Donovan, was supposedly in trouble
over a new hire. Spread his reasoning please, because when supposedly called on
the carpet by the president he said:
“I
know the guy is a communist. That’s why I hired him.”
In
the Truman Library I looked at the original memos from Donovan to Truman. They
all were short and said, “I think this will be of interest to you.”
I
see the problem today as opposite of Truman’s. People are acting like fascists,
and I don’t like it. I won’t tolerate it. For example, I like talking to people
who support Trump and assorted arch-conservatives. They are allowed to think
what they think, yet I am supposed to be tossed to the curb from the Wayside Motel
because the guy next door won’t give me the money back from a failed van purchase.
My best California helper, before he died said, “Aw, that car won’t make it
here.” Jim owned a gas station long ago; I never asked what kind of gas he
sold. My Northrop contact has also died, but not before saying, “You need a
little more work.”
I
called him “The Diode Man” in my illegally seized journals. Why? One day he
stumped me by approaching with this line: “What does a diode do?” I should have
known a diode is like a “gate” for electrical current. I deflected my ignorance
by discussing capacitors with him. That man worked on the B-2 bomber and did
not disclose anything “secret,” but others did. Yes, I had a defense industry
“fan club” out there, and all of you domiciled in Clayton government buildings should
not wonder why. The first guy in the door from Hughes Aircraft now has a name,
and his spouse is busily creating a website from his “white binders.” Those are
my people, Hughes should have been my company, and that is a FACT.
What
do I want out of you?
I
think the Saint Louis County Police owe me a written apology, at a minimum. I
refuse to say why without legal counsel. I further think it is time for
your boss to retire. If I am allowed to run for governor here, as schoolteacher
J--- J-----said of the presidency, I might win. In a “Red State,” I might not. Many
times in California I was told, “We like you.” Unfortunately, I do not like
California at all. Sacramento is the only town I really felt comfortable in,
and as Charles Hughes taught me, it’s all about geography. He explained to me
why Germans settled in Herman, Missouri. Looks like home! This was the case in
Sacramento.
I’m
in trouble out there? (These stories are worth money, by the way). Early on, I
discovered that like Howard and Ronald Reagan, I liked exploring desert lands.
There was a microwave tower on top of a hill near Coalinga, CA where I would
sit and reorganize items in my car. Several times a California Highway Patrol
car came up the hill, and window-to-window I was asked, “Are you doing okay?” I
said, “Yeah, I’m alright,” and the car would go down the hill. Later I realized
this is as much “mental health” information they wanted, because CHP might have
a thick file on me that goes back to grade school. Scared yet? Later still, LAPD
gave me an e-mail address that is my old car model plus a “5.” If I wanted to
think like a psychotic spy, I’d conclude that meant “Gimmie five” like a
congratulations. Maybe it does; you’d have to ask them.
The
sergeant from LAPD who checked on the lack of a bereavement fare at Amtrak I
will never forget. He’s from India, yet named “Johnson.” I said, “I guess your
family changed their name.” He brought along a young detective, and I do not
know why. Many out there just wanted to, as they say in Hollywood, “Meet and
greet” yet I ended up sleeping on the sidewalk. If you know anyone in this predicament,
look for an old guy I called “The Thief.” He kept encouraging me to apply for
General Relief and stay. One day he looked up at me and said: “Trust us.” I did,
because he was referring to every mugger and killer in LA!
Why
did an Iranian woman give me a hat, and a Swiss woman paid the fare?
As
my late dad would say, “I don’t know.” (Now abbreviated by America’s youth to
“IDK”). I do know why, and it is very simple. Many in St. Louis must realize and admit this: “I am related to Howard
Hughes, and you are not.”
I’ll
stay in touch,
Bill
Hughes
[16 votes in the 2008 New Hampshire Primary
and now I can’t vote? Nuts!!]
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