Mecham’s whacko, loose-cannon style had cost the state of Arizona plenty of money, which was a matter that even those who could have forgiven those other little missteps couldn’t ignore. Some estimates claim that his behavior cost the state as much as five hundred million dollars, including two hundred million in revenues when the NFL decided to pull the Super Bowl out of Phoenix. A recall petition was circulated garnering twice the necessary number of signatures. An election was scheduled, but before it could be held, impeachment proceedings were begun. Mecham was accused of concealing $350,000 in campaign contributions, and misusing state funds with an $80,000 state loan to Mecham Pontiac, a dealership owned by you know who. It was a made-for–Hunter Thompson kind of story.
When Hunter arrived in Phoenix he immediately called Maria, and she refused to see him. There was nothing left for him to do but invite me and a couple of other Aspen guys to join him for a few rounds of golf. When I got to his room at a Scottsdale resort, he had rearranged it, tearing off some wainscoting in an effort to find a receptacle that would accept the plug of his IBM Selectric typewriter. He had just ordered $160 worth of shrimp cocktails and two bottles of champagne, two bottles of Chivas, and two cases of beer. The place looked like a landfill. In one corner of the mess was his golf bag. He didn’t have a traveling case for the bag, so he’d wrapped the top with two blankets and used about a roll of duct tape to keep the clubs in the bag. His rental car—a convertible, of course—had been delivered but not released to him because his driver’s license had expired.
While Maria boycotted his visit to Arizona, her brother, Bobby, who didn’t share the Khan loathing for Hunter, responded to an invitation. When he came into the hotel room, Bobby said hello as Hunter was untaping his golf bag. Hunter opened a zippered pouch, pulled out a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol, and flipped it across the room to Bobby. Bobby fielded it, and Hunter said, “Nice catch,” adding, “That’s the best way to get a gun on an airplane.”
When the phone rang, Hunter asked me to answer. It was Willie Hearst, Hunter’s editor at the Examiner. I had often run interference for Hunter with Hearst, especially in reference to deadlines. This time he was questioning the room service charges, the still-parked rental car, and the lack of reports on the impeachment. I told Hearst that Hunter had taken a cab to the hearings venue and that I would tell him to call the Examiner on his return. I lied.
Hunter eventually submitted his coverage of one of the juiciest political scandals in recent memory without ever leaving the hotel. Another in a long list of hotel rooms was utterly destroyed. Maria didn’t visit, and we never got Hunter to the golf course.
A few months later, Hunter used his wiles to convince Maria to come back to Colorado for a long weekend to attend his son Juan’s graduation, summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, from the University of Colorado. This was the only sort of bait that could work on Maria. Juan was a huge source of pride for Hunter, his ex-wife Sandy, Juan’s mother, and everyone in their orbit. People were willing to accept the smallest scrap of credit for how well he had turned out, and did their best to conceal their amazement at his achievements. Juan hadn’t grown up in a normal household.
Despite the unimaginable strangeness of being a child at Owl Farm, Juan was an excellent student from the get-go. He attended The Aspen Community School during his primary years. The Community School was an extremely liberal, progressive private institution located just up the hill from the farmhouse. Some might have called it a hippie school. The school gave over an inordinate portion of its academic year to the school play, and had spawned successful actors such as Oliver Platt and Felicity Huffman. Juan, too, was an emerging talent. At that time, a friend of Hunter’s named Paul Rubin was directing most of the plays.
Paul Rubin’s taste in theater was adult and sophisticated. He never let the fact that his cast and crew were schoolchildren affect his choices. He never pandered to the kids. Paul directed them in Eugene O’Neil’s Desire Under the Elms, in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and in James Baldwin’s Blues for Mr. Charlie. Juan Thompson always had good roles. In Blues, he had the male lead, Preacher; the female lead, Juanita, was played by Thea Bent, the cute blond daughter of a well-loved Aspen physician. Blues for Mr. Charlie was performed by the cast of whiter-than-white Aspen kids in blackface. Thea wore a huge black frizzy wig. I’m not sure if even Woody Creek was ready for Paul Rubin, but you can see why he and Hunter got along.
Acting and academics were Juan’s strengths; sports, not so much, so he was just about the perfect Community School student, as academics and the arts were what the parents were interested in. They didn’t give a hoot about jock stuff, except maybe skiing.
The last two weeks of rehearsal before opening night, the kids’ asses belonged to Rubin. They’d rehearse all day in groups and individually. When the kids weren’t rehearsing, they’d get a pickup co-ed softball game together. Paul noticed that Juan didn’t own a glove; he always had to borrow one. One weekend, Hunter and Paul were having lunch at the Jerome Bar. Hunter stopped in mid-conversation and looked up. “Tomorrow’s Juan’s birthday”—seemingly something just remembered. “What am I going to get him?” Doc had instantly made this Paul’s project. Sensible, since Paul was spending more time with the kids than their parents were at that point. Paul thought. “A baseball glove. Juan doesn’t have one; he always has to borrow one.” Doc was ecstatic. Sports had always been so much a part of Hunter’s life, and Juan had always leaned toward the academic. Hunter bolted from the J-Bar and down the block to Carl’s Pharmacy, not just close but maybe the only place to purchase a ball glove in Aspen in those days.
On Monday it was back to school and rehearsals. Paul kept his eye out for the first sign of a softball game. When he saw bats and balls being rounded up, he told the kids he was working with to take five and he sought out Juan. Paul caught up with him on the side of the field. “How’d you like your birthday present?” he asked with pride, knowing he was the author of the idea. Juan looked down at the palms of his gloveless hands, then looked up into Paul’s eyes and, with a sardonic smile, said, “I’m left-handed.”
And yet, somehow, the combination of the Community School and Owl Farm had bred a young man who was graduating from CU with highest honors.
Hunter sent Maria a round-trip ticket to Aspen, and they drove to Boulder for Juan’s commencement.
When Hunter and Maria returned to Woody Creek, he hid her purse and return ticket. He was de facto holding her hostage. Just after lunch one day, Maria called my office at the county courthouse and asked me to help her escape. She had a plane to catch in two hours.
She told me she was sitting on the bus stop bench outside the Woody Creek Tavern. Hunter was inside, at the bar. She said his house was locked tight, doors and windows, and she needed help. She emphasized that only I could possibly help. She didn’t want any “official” intervention. With chivalry in my heart and no fear of Hunter, I drove down to the Tavern and talked to Maria. Then I went inside and saw Hunter at the bar with a tall Chivas-water the hue of mahogany in front of him. I asked him to return Maria’s purse and her ticket to Phoenix, but he only grinned and told me that it was between him and Maria. I said I was going to help her, and he said, “So you’re going to take her side?” I said, “Yes, she’s right and you’re wrong,” walked out, and escorted Maria to my car. One can only speculate as to what went through Hunter’s mind in the face of such betrayal. An educated guess might be “Right? What the hell does right have to do with anything?” However, Hunter followed me out and shouted, “Good luck getting into the house. It’s a fortress, locked up tight as a drum. You’ll never get in!”
I drove Maria to Owl Farm, tried the doors and some windows. It was indeed locked tight. She suggested the bathroom window. It’s eight feet off the ground, and she hadn’t been able to reach it. My own Spider-Man skills weren’t up to the task, so I put her on my shoulders and boosted her up, an oddly pleasurable experience. She lifted the window open and climbed
in. Drifting through the house, she unlocked the front door for me just as Hunter entered the driveway, his car in a four-wheel drift. He got out and said to me, “Well, that didn’t take you long. But good luck finding Maria’s stuff. Ho ho!”
Hunter and I watched. In less than a minute Maria appeared with her purse and ticket. With jaw-dropping efficiency she’d gone right to the smoke shelf inside the chimney for her ticket and directly to the freezer for her purse. She knew where her captor hid things. It was an impressive display to me, but painful for Hunter—to be thwarted so easily. We headed to my car as Hunter watched in stunned silence. I drove her to the airport and waited until she boarded her flight.
What to think in the face of such treachery and abandonment? Later, as Hunter watched the sun slide behind the Rocky Mountains, the darkness that fell over Woody Creek was indeed greater than night.
The next evening I called Hunter, and he expressed his admiration for our “defeating” his craft and invited me for a drink, which I accepted, and we watched a basketball game. He knew he had been wrong and never mentioned that day again. I certainly did, when it benefited conversations in the kitchen.
Cleverly Tells Tales of Tex
Edgy Biker, Arctic Racer, and a Fetching Geisha
Tex was a good friend of Hunter’s for many years, and they remained buddies until Doc’s death. A builder by trade, with a military background, he was known for being able to take care of himself, and would occasionally be called upon when Hunter felt muscle was required. Tex was, and remains, a very private person.
He first met Hunter in San Francisco in 1965. It was 2:00 A.M. and Tex was driving his bike through Golden Gate Park as fast as he possibly could. Just for the fun of it. Suddenly, far ahead, there was a headlight coming at him. Tex eased the bike over to the right. The distant headlight mirrored his move. He eased to the left. Same thing. At that speed, the distance was closing fast. Every maneuver resulted in the other bike heading straight at him. Tex started to brake. The two bikes missed each other by a few feet.
Tex skidded to a stop, wheeled around, and gave chase. He caught up to Hunter and they came to a halt about twenty yards apart. The men got off. Tex was enraged. Hunter said cheerfully, “I thought I killed you back there!”
Tex pulled his gun. This was a simple case of mistaken identity. A single headlight in the night looks much like the next. Hunter had taken Tex for someone who was at the party he had just left. There was some tension nonetheless. Tex calmed himself and put the piece away. He pulled out a two-gram vial. Hunter had been fairly blasé about the gun, but his eyes widened when he got a load of the cocaine. Tex approached Hunter while unscrewing the cap. When he reached Hunter, he grabbed his hand, turned the vial over and dumped the entire contents out on the back. Doc knew what to do. The men were bonding. Hunter knew of a bar by the water; Tex followed him. They settled onto their barstools, and Tex ordered a shot and a beer. Hunter ordered a Chivas. Tex took a look at Hunter’s drink, swept his own off the bar, and ordered three double Chivases apiece. It was the beginning of their friendship.
A snowy winter night in 1976, it was the heyday of the J-Bar. Eleven o’clock, prime time, and the bar was full. Outside, the snow, blowing sideways, had accumulated and drifted. The entire town, including Main Street, was covered by at least a foot of the stuff. Inside, Tex and Hunter were part of the mix. It being the seventies, we’ll never know exactly how many of the revelers were on acid that night, but we can be sure of two. Tex and Hunter had dropped two hits each, and it was taking hold quite nicely, thank you. Their conversation had turned to their respective driving skills. Hunter always fancied himself an ace driver, and Tex was of the same opinion regarding his own talents. Fact was, they were both absolutely sure that, given the opportunity, each could drive the other into oblivion. A challenge was inevitable. The twelve inches of unplowed snow on the roads wasn’t a factor.
Hunter had “the Shark,” a 1972 Chevy Caprice, fire-engine red 454 convertible, directly out front in a convenient No Parking zone. Tex was piloting a metallic gray Coupe de Ville. It was parked, more or less legally, just across the street. After some conversation regarding the relative merits of the vehicles, it was decided that a fair handicap would be to race in reverse, culminating with a 180-degree turn and a parallel park in front of the J-Bar. The race would begin at the Hickory House restaurant a mile down Main Street. The judges were then-sheriff Dick Kienast, and Michael Solheim, who ran the J-Bar. There was no traffic.
Hunter and Rolling Stone editor Tobias Perse in “the Shark”: an all-weather racer.
“The Shark,” grazing in a field beside the Tavern with Woody Creek writer Gaylord Guenin.
So much snow had accumulated that it took several large men to push the behemoths out of their parking spaces. Once in the street, they were ready to go. For some reason no one wanted to accompany the guys to the Hickory House to be the official starter. It would have meant walking all the way back to the Jerome in a blizzard, or riding with one of them. Neither option seemed prudent to even the most loaded of those assembled. A crowd gathered on the sidewalk and watched the two monstrous vehicles disappear like spirits into the storm. As snow began to accumulate on the windward side of their faces, people glanced around at one another. Why were they standing there in the snow? All but a few slipped back into the bar. Those who stayed out on the sidewalk were tourists not wanting to take the chance of missing Hunter Thompson racing in reverse in a blizzard. The locals, warm and drinking inside, knew that they’d get the word when something actually happened.
It wasn’t long before one of the tourists, covered with an inch of fresh powder, came charging into the bar. “I think they’re coming!” Everyone headed out to the sidewalk. In the vague distance, taillights and back-up lights appeared. Reverse racing is exciting in its own way, but not in the sense of high speeds. Even if you are willing to blow an engine, the reverse-gear ratio is such that truly dangerous speeds aren’t possible. The crowd hadn’t missed much between the announcement and actually getting out to the sidewalk. The contestants were still just barely coming into view. Steering is the true challenge in reverse. Especially through twelve inches of snow. Total concentration is required. One too-abrupt crank of the wheel and you’re doing 360s until all your momentum is dissipated. Through the driving snow the lights slowly grew larger, holding steady, not swerving. It was the whine of the engines that was painful, revving so far beyond the red line, tortured beyond reason. The Jerome was the finish, and the No Parking spaces directly in front were the destination.
The great Red Shark was ahead by a length and a half when the racers became clearly visible. The crowd could hear Tex’s de Ville winding down, but Hunter maintained speed. He spun the Shark around and braked—to no avail. The inertia of the huge machine was too much. The Shark glided past the Jerome and through the intersection beyond without slowing—up over the curb and through the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the lawn of a small restaurant, coming to a rest on its doorstep. In the meantime, Tex had executed a perfect spin and slid up next to the curb in a textbook example of parallel parking. He was declared winner without protest, by everyone but Hunter. Hunter insisted that getting there first had made him the winner, even though he got “there” and then some. Never mind the parking job on the lawn of the restaurant. Naturally Tex ended up buying the drinks anyway.
Halloween was usually pretty interesting in Aspen. It was 1984 and Hunter was sitting alone in the kitchen at Owl Farm. There was a knock on the door. Hunter opened it to find three geishas standing there. Not an everyday occurrence, at Owl Farm or anyplace else in Woody Creek. Always good with the composure, Hunter graciously invited them inside.
The week before, Tex had been remodeling a space to accommodate Aspen’s next sushi bar. He had been befriended by Masa, the owner, and the other Japanese who were constantly coming and going. They were excited about Halloween; relatively new in town, they had heard the wild stories. On the day of Halloween, one o
f them asked Tex if he was going to dress up that evening. When the large, somewhat violent biker announced that he was planning on going as a geisha this year, his new Japanese friends were enthusiastic. Later that afternoon they showed up with a homemade geisha wig attached to a baseball cap with the bill cut off. This was great. The wig was going to be the hard part. The rest of the outfit—kimono, etc.—fell into place with no problem.
That evening Tex found himself at a very high-tone party in Aspen’s exclusive Starwood subdivision. Remarkably, unbelievably, there were two beautiful Asian girls there, dressed as geishas. Maybe they actually were geishas; we’ll never know. Tex was not a shy man anyway, but what an ice-breaker. There he stood, full geisha attire, white pancake makeup, the works, chatting up these two beautiful women. Tex didn’t let the fact that they described their function at the party as “entertainment” keep him from suggesting that they split and go meet the famous author. I guess they didn’t take their jobs too seriously, because they thought the idea was just dandy, and off the three went to Owl Farm.
When they arrived, Tex didn’t identify himself and maintained almost complete silence. Hunter was particularly enchanted by the tall, quiet geisha. She said almost nothing, but partook of the hospitality of the Owl Farm kitchen just as eagerly as the two smaller ones. As the evening unfolded, a mixture of substances did their work on the inhibitions in the room, and Hunter felt that a special, exotic sort of love was in the air. Tex was becoming a little uncomfortable with all the options that might present themselves to him if he stayed. Coming clean with Hunter and a houseful of weapons definitely wasn’t one of them. Showing true wisdom, Tex slipped out into the night, leaving the two girls there.
The Kitchen Readings Page 3