First Big Mike, with his searing, scorching hungers. Then Luke with his desperate dreams of which she was the helpless living victim. And after them—after them . . . How many were there to be?
The more Joan tried to escape, the more she was drawn into this new and unknown maelstrom of lust and emotion. For hers was that most unexplored of worlds, the hell on wheels inhabited by wreckless nomads driving endlessly into tomorrow—the American trailer camp.
Orrie Edwin Hitt was born in Colchester and died from cancer in a VA hospital in Montrose, NY. He married Charlotte Tucker in Pt Jervis, NY (a small town upstate where he became a lifelong resident), on Valentine’s Day, '43. Orrie & Charlotte had 4 kids—Joyce, Margaret, David & Nancy. He was under 5’5″, taking a 27' inseam, which his wife altered because no one sold pants so short.
Hitt wrote maybe 150 books. He wasn’t sure. “I’m no adding machine”, he answered on the back cover of his book Naked Flesh, when asked how many he’d written. “All I do is write. I usually start at 7 in the morning, take 20 minutes for lunch & continue until about 4 in the afternoon.” Hitt wrote a novel every 2 weeks in his prime, typing over 85 wpm. “His fastest & best works were produced when he was allowed to type whatever he wanted,” said his children. “His slowest works were produced when publishers insisted on a certain kind of novel, extra spicy etc.”
Most of Hitt’s books were PBOs. He also wrote some hardcovers. Pseudonyms include Kay Addams, Joe Black, Roger Normandie, Charles Verne & Nicky Weaver. Publishers include Avon, Beacon (later Softcover Library), Chariot, Domino (Lancer), Ember Library, Gaslight, Key Publishing, Kozy, MacFadden, Midwood, Novel, P.E.C, Red Lantern, Sabre, Uni-books, Valentine Books, Vantage Press, Vest-Pocket & Wisdom House.
He wrote in the adults only genre. Many of such writers were hacks, using thin plots as an excuse to throw tits & ass between covers for a quick buck. Others used the genre as a stepping stone to legitimate writing, later dismissing this part of their career. There were few like Hitt, whose writing left an original, idiosyncratic & lasting mark even beyond the horizons of '50s-mid 60s adult publishing. What made him unique was his belief he was writing realistically about the needs & desires, the brutality (both verbal & physical), the hypocritical lives inside the suburban tracts houses & the limited economic opportunities for women that lay beneath the glossy, Super Cinecolor, Father Knows Best surface of American life. He studied what he wrote about. Wanting to write about a nudist camp, he went to one tho “he wouldn't disrobe”.
His research allowed him to write convincingly. S. Stryker, in her Queer Pulp: Perverted Passions from the Golden Age of the Paperback, says, “Only one actual lesbian, Kay Addams, writing as Orrie Hitt, is known to have churned out semipornographic sleaze novels for a predominantly male audience.” She thought “Orrie Hitt” a pseudonym, & “Kay Addams” a real lesbian author! Orrie’d like that one.
It wasn’t just about sex. It was also about guts. “The characters,” Hitt’s protagonist–a movie producer complimenting a screenwriter on her work–says in the novel Man-Hungry Female, “were very real, red blooded people who tore at the guts of life. That’s what I’m after. Guts.” If anyone knew about guts, it was him.
Life started out tough for Hitt. His father committed suicide when he was 11. “Dad seldom spoke of his father, who'd committed suicide, because it was a very unpleasant chapter in his life,” said his children.
After Father’s death, Orrie & his mother moved to Forestburgh, NY, where they worked for a hunting-fishing club. He started doing chores for wealthy members for $.10 hourly. Management offered him a better job later, at .25 hourly. Eventually, he became club caretaker & supervisor. “Dad talked a lot about working as a child to help his mother make ends meet,” his children recalled. “He wanted his children to have a better life while growing up.”
Tragedy struck Hitt again during those years. His children explain: “Dad’s mom died at her sister’s house on the club property during an ice storm, so Dad walked to the house to get his mother & carried her back to his car"
Orrie Hitt exposed the seamier side of a wide variety of businesses. Here he takes on the Trailer Parks so prevalent in the 1950s. The book follows Joan Baker, a young woman who inherits the responsibility of running a trailer park when her parents leave on an extended tour of Europe. She loses her innocence on every level.
Joan Baker is 22 and running her parent's trailer camp while they are off on an extended vacation. The camp starts filling up with workers who are building a pipeline in the area. The foreman is Big Mike and before you can say trailer camp Joan and Big Mike are in love. But there's Luke, Joan's former boyfriend, whom she maybe still loves and who loves her. Millie, the hooking housecleaner. Nora, who opens a "massage parlor" in one of the trailers and puts Millie to work. It's all pretty mundane until the weird way things wrap up with a murder at the end. This could have had a good crime/noir plot line, but that was not Hitt's forte, and he doesn't pull it off here, tacks it on more as an after thought. What this does have that is less typical of Hitt's novels is a deep dive into Joan's inner life. So many of his books feature thin rationalizations or we are told the character's motives. Here, about half the book is Joan thinking and feeling, so it's a deep emotional dive into her character. That may or may not be a recommendation.
"There seemed no corner of human spirit that could serve as refuge from follies of the body."
60% quarter-life existential crisis, 40% soap opera—at the ol' trailer park. A quick and enjoyable palate cleanser with a good ending to break up my usual genre-focused reading habits.