Bob Beattie, Zeno, and Zeno’s boys, R.A. and Ben.
The “Shark” waiting for summer.
Reflecting Hunter’s sense of persecution at the hands of the authorities.
In the mid-eighties, Hunter had a little dustup with a porn actress that had him facing criminal charges in Pitkin County. It was serious stuff: assault, drugs, weapons, nothing to joke about.
Hunter had been researching porn for a magazine article. Ultimately that research evolved into a book that never happened, but it was the research that counted. Fortunately for Woody Creek, the research involved women who were part of that industry flying into Aspen to be interviewed by Doc. They’d make their way to the Tavern from the airport and the bartender would call Hunter to clear them, make sure they were invited guests. Hunter would come down and pick them up, but not until they’d cooled their heels for an hour or so. This was Hunter’s little gift to the boys at the bar. Usually things went fine; you can write that scenario yourself. On this one occasion it was different. The young lady in question exited Owl Farm screaming, and the authorities were called. Some said there was an incident in the hot tub. The thing went to court, the broad got a case of amnesia, and the case was dismissed, but not before Doc and his circle experienced a long period of intense anxiety. Hunter and everyone who cared for him were euphoric about the dismissal of the case, and there was to be a huge celebration at Owl Farm. Hunter called Zeno from the courthouse steps. “Get me a tractor!” It was Hunter’s victory treat to himself. Zeno told Hunter he’d start looking into it the very next day. “No, I want it now, today!” “Are you planning to pay for it?” Zeno asked.
Zeno had done business with a tractor/farm implement dealership in Grand Junction and was on pretty good terms with them. He called his guy, Marv, and told him that Hunter needed a tractor just like his. Marv was predictably pleased; it was an easy sale. Then Zeno told him that it had to be delivered that day. This was a different story. Same-day delivery service for tractors isn’t as common as you might think. After a great deal of dickering and wheedling, Marv agreed to load the thing up and bring it to Woody Creek. He made the 125-mile trip from Junction, and Zeno met him at the Tavern to guide him up to Owl Farm. When they got there, the party was in full swing, and it wasn’t a Grand Junction sort of party. Things were taking place that Marv probably wasn’t used to. He and Zeno unloaded the tractor, and Zeno left a nervous Marv to search for Hunter and get a check.
He first ran into Hunter’s trusted friend Michael Solheim, who was functioning as Doc’s business manager/check writer at the time. Michael had heard nothing of this tractor business and said there was no way he was cutting a huge check. “Hunter has no money. Load it up and take it back to Junction,” he said. Hunter appeared, and the argument began. Ten minutes later, he came walking out of the house with a check for Marv, and the John Deere became “the Freedom Tractor,” to commemorate Hunter’s not going to jail for doing something disgusting and illegal to a porn actress.
Hunter was thrilled with his new toy. Zeno gave him a quick course in Tractor 101: shifting, working the mower attachment, finding where the fuel goes. Doc was always good with machinery and was a quick study. He started the tractor up and off he went, mowing away in no discernable pattern, back, forth, circles, across, with partygoers scrambling to avoid the mower blades that could be coming at them from any direction at any time, all this at high speed, bouncing through areas of rocks, wire, and debris that had never before seen a blade. When Hunter tired of it, he just parked his prize in the middle of the front lawn.
Hunter’s beloved tractor, Jesse Steindler, and Doc’s personal film biographer, Wayne Ewing.
There the Freedom Tractor sat. After a month, Zeno couldn’t stand it any longer and decided to finish the mowing job. Obviously the lawn was more than ready, and he thought he might set a good example. He had wisely kept a spare key, assuming that Hunter was bound to lose his. He jumped on and started mowing, round and round, in an orderly professional pattern. A few laps into the project Doc came screaming out of the house spewing obscenities and waving his favorite nickel-plated machine gun. He was wearing purple sunglasses, so Zeno couldn’t see his eyes. “Who’sfuckingwithmytractor?” Zeno considered diving off the thing but instead hunkered down low, next to the steering wheel, and waved, hoping to be recognized. “Ohuhit’syouZeno.” Hunter’s sputtering was winding down. “Just thought I’d do some mowing,” Zeno called from behind the wheel. “Gooduh. Lookslikeitneedsit.” Zeno finished the lawn, and Hunter retired to the kitchen.
Hunter adored his tractor. He’d drive it around with no real purpose in mind. Once a month he’d have Zeno come over and they’d change the oil and do whatever other maintenance was deemed necessary. One of these occasions was prefaced by a phone call from Hunter suggesting that he “wasn’t sure” if the tractor was running. “What do you mean? You’re not sure if the tractor will start?” Zeno asked. He made his way across the street to Owl Farm and started the tractor with no problem. He then shut it off and proceeded to drain the oil. While the oil was draining he began a general survey and…“HUNTER, WHY DID YOU SHOOT YOUR TRACTOR?” The hole in the fuel tank was unmistakably that of the “bullet” variety. Hunter denied everything; he would never do such a thing. “You’re goddamn lucky it’s a diesel. If it were gas it would have blown up!” Hunter once again denied any knowledge of tractors and bullets and started sputtering about searching for the culprit. It was a simple welding project for Zeno to patch the hole; Hunter’s job was to track down the sniper. Zeno had the greater success.
THE INTERVIEW
The following winter, the World Cup ski racers were in Aspen. It was a big deal; Aspen has always coveted these premier ski events. The races were sponsored by Subaru and were being covered by ESPN. This meant that Zeno’s dad, Bob, who had a long association with both companies, would be doing the TV commentary. Also on the TV team was announcer/commentator Andrea Joyce. Joyce would later marry anchorman Harry Smith. While Bob Beattie was to report the races as they happened, Joyce’s job was to prerecord “color” pieces about Aspen and other things of interest. She decided that a piece on Woody Creek’s famous Hunter S. Thompson would be fun. She knew that Bob was Hunter’s neighbor and asked if he could set things up with Hunter. Bob thought it was a very bad idea. He refused, trying to explain that he knew Hunter, and she didn’t, and that she’d just have to take his word. This of course piqued her interest even more, so she asked Zeno if he could speak to Hunter on her behalf. Of course Zeno also knew it was a bad idea, but being young and frisky, he figured it could be pretty damn funny, too. “Sure, I’ll ask Hunter,” he said.
At first Hunter didn’t want anything to do with it, but Zeno convinced him that it might be good for business. He could reach a whole different audience: people who watch ski racing on TV. Hunter eventually acquiesced. Zeno made arrangements to meet Joyce and her camera crew at the Aspen Airport liquor store. At the store, Zeno outfitted them with the largest bottles he could find of all of Hunter’s favorites; it was a lot of booze. Off they went to Owl Farm.
The little band arrived. Hunter greeted them and ushered the eager group inside. After a quick tour it was determined that they’d set up in the living room. Hunter and Zeno retired to the kitchen while Joyce supervised the setting up of the cameras and sound equipment. This event happened to coincide with a period of time when Hunter had actually bugged his own house. He had microphones in all the rooms and speakers by his stool at the kitchen counter. Hunter and Zeno listened to every word that was said during the setting-up process. I guess you could say that at times Hunter could be a weasel in the purest sense of the word. It was, however, entertaining as hell. When one of the crew would come into the kitchen to announce that they were ready, Hunter would stall, say he wasn’t ready, and he and Zeno would go back to eavesdropping and giggling at the grumbling and moaning that was going on in the living room. The crew was kept waiting for a very long time. Then, when it was clear that
everyone was right at the breaking point, Hunter decided he was ready.
Zeno recalls that it was a great interview, and that it actually made the telecast. Andrea Joyce had obviously done her homework and was knowledgeable about a broad range of things “Hunter Thompson.” She asked a lot of great questions and finally came to the guns. “What’s the deal with the guns?” she asked. Hunter reached under the couch, pulled out the nickel-plated machine gun, and in the same motion, pulled back the slide. “Is that thing loaded?” a number of people asked all at once. The atmosphere had changed instantly, and nervous would be the word to describe it. Hunter threw open the front door, stepped out onto the deck, and let rip until the weapon was empty.
You might be surprised how many people could lead their whole lives without ever hearing the sound of a submachine gun being fired at close range. Judging from the reaction, some of those people were at Hunter’s that evening.
Expensive equipment that had taken an hour-plus to set up was literally thrown into their rental car. Five minutes later the crew was packed up and heading out the driveway, trailing cords and random bits of high-tech equipment.
Andrea Joyce was left to ponder which of the Beattie men had been right. Sure, she got her interview, but was it a good idea?
A Lawyer Learns from an Expert
Mick Ireland was a Pitkin County commissioner; he was also a lawyer. Before that he was a reporter for the Aspen Times. As a politician, he was to the left, pretty far. As a human being he was pretty conservative. He didn’t smoke, drink, or do drugs. He seemed to enjoy eating, but you’d never know it to look at him. He was as lean as they come. Probably because he rode his goddamn bicycle about a million miles a week.
It could be said that Mick spent his political career pissing people off. Particularly rich people. His enemies tried to recall him on three occasions. Their efforts never succeeded. Each time Mick ran for office, a group of wealthy conservatives threw piles of money at the opposing candidate. Always anonymously. Mick would win, and they’d throw piles of money at a recall effort. Always anonymously. And they would fail. Always anonymously. Why were they so upset? Mick could be direct, abrupt—okay, rude sometimes. Regular people are used to rudeness; we get it all the time, we’re inured to it. The wealthy aren’t; it hurts their feelings, or whatever they have in there.
Mick first came to Hunter’s attention in the early seventies. A local rancher thought that he would solve Aspen’s housing problems by making himself incredibly rich. The guy really wasn’t fooling anyone, but in those days people, and the newspaper, leaned toward civility. Mick wrote a scathing column for the Aspen Times in which he compared the rancher to Nixon and his “secret plan,” and in general vilified the guy three ways to Sunday. Hunter approved. From then on, even though it would be years before Mick sought office, Hunter knew that he had a political ally.
In the mid-eighties Mick was still reporting for the Aspen Times. A local “import/export” guy with what seemed to be excellent Bolivian connections had just finished a couple sets of tennis at a fancy local club. Someone had carelessly left a pipe bomb on the undercarriage of his Jeep directly beneath the driver’s seat. When he started it up, he was blown to smithereens. This was a big deal for Aspen. That sort of thing never happened. It made people think.
One thing that people thought about was how many of their friends were either in rehab or jail. What they concluded (some of them) was that maybe drugs weren’t good for you. Mick had always been of that opinion. During the course of the police investigation, Mick got hold of the smithereens guy’s papers, which included a lot of names, and published fifty-four of them. The implication was that these people were in the import/export business, too. For a small town like Aspen, this was a big scandal. It was also the kind of behavior that would get you on Hunter’s shit list till the end of time. To his credit Hunter never held it against Mick. He understood that he and Mick had fundamental disagreements regarding their respective hobbies, and they basically agreed to disagree. Mick was doing what he thought was right, no matter how much Doc disapproved of the concept of outing small businessmen.
It wasn’t long after that Mick decided to go to law school. He figured he’d become a lawyer instead of just creating all these clients for other people….
By 3:00 A.M. on a Monday in August 1987, Mick was a law student living in a Boulder apartment with no air-conditioning. It was hot. When the phone rang he wasn’t thinking “party.” “Hi, is Mick there?” asked a cheery female voice in tones better suited to the middle of the day. Mick quelled his instincts, the sarcastic ones, and admitted to being himself. “Yes, how may I help you?” “I need some beer” was the cheerful response. Of all the people in Boulder, Mick was the last person to be likely to have beer kicking around at 3:00 A.M. He didn’t use it. He biked, he ran, he went to class, and he slept whenever he could. Three o’clock in the morning had always seemed like a great time for the sleeping part.
But, as fate would have it, Mick actually did have some beer in the wee hours of that summer morning. He had recently hosted a party for new law students whom he’d been tutoring and there were leftovers. “Who is this?” he asked. “Kathy. You know, Kathy. Hunter’s wife,” she said. People’s wives don’t generally call Mick at that hour—and Hunter? The only “Hunter” that Mick could think of was, well, Hunter. But it didn’t make any sense to Mick. And he didn’t know anything about any Kathy.
Kathy explained that Hunter was in town and couldn’t write his column without beer. She acted as if she and Mick had been buddies for years and the request couldn’t be more ordinary. Mick asked the same question that so many of Hunter’s friends have asked themselves on so many occasions over so many years. “Why me?”
Kathy explained that the beer had to be delivered to a motel in Boulder so Hunter Thompson could write. Mick was inclined to accommodate. He had enrolled Dr. Thompson in the CU class of 1988 by adding his name to the seating charts circulated by the less-than-hip professorate. The joy of hearing a professor address a fellow student as “Mr. Thompson” and ask for the holding in some obscure law case lingered.
Mick shook his next ex-girlfriend awake. He offered her the chance to meet the famous celebrity, author, political junkie. By his own admission, the lady in question, Eileen, was smarter than he. She practiced law in areas whose boundaries Mick was soon likely to cross. She didn’t fancy junkies of any kind, including political ones. She declined. Mick had a difficult time understanding. The chance to deliver beer to a degenerate in a seedy hotel at three in the morning? What’s not to like? She might get to watch him write something. Eileen stuck with “no.”
Mick soon found himself wandering down hallways carpeted in mildew red and accented with duct tape and lit by fluorescent lights. The air-conditioning rumbled and wheezed ineffectually in the background. A little bit of real America, with the new center for creative writing in Boulder serving as a counterweight to the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, just up the road.
The Doctor himself answered the door. This was important. He had made 108 consecutive deadlines since he started writing for the San Francisco Examiner and this improbable streak was on the line. Hunter spoke: “Wantsomecoke, hash, smoke-something? Thanksforcoming.” He was surprised, gracious, and a little apologetic. Someone had actually gotten up at three in the morning to deliver beer to him. Police Story was on the TV in the background. It lent a pleasant ambient din of sirens, fistfights, and gunfire. Kathy was in the corner, cute and perky, still a total stranger to Mick. Kathy explained Hunter’s current process. He was on one of his perpetual speaking tours and he would use his “lectures” as material for the column. He would bait the audience and direct the ensuing give-and-take to his needs, all the while taping. Afterward, he’d retire to his room and work from the recording.
On the whole, this approach worked pretty well. But on that particular evening he had run out of tape during a spirited exchange with four Boulder women. The topic was the soc
ial implications of pornography. It had the potential to be a great column, and Hunter was hoping that Mick and Kathy could recreate that portion of the evening. Mick was dubious, not having attended the event. Kathy was optimistic. The two retreated to a corner and left Hunter to Hunter. Recreating isn’t easy work. All Mick knew about porn were some case studies saying that you can’t use zoning to keep it out of your neighborhood. Nothing firsthand. He decided, instead, to try to get Kathy to apply to law school. Mick knew people in admissions; Hunter hated lawyers.
There was a knock on the door. Hunter turned, “SorryMickIdidn’t knowifyou’dmakeitsoIorderedsomebackup.” Like something that crept out of Hunter’s subconscious, a short, sweating, wild-haired, twentysomething kid entered the room holding a baggie aloft. “I got them; I got the ’shrooms,” he announced proudly. Now Mick couldn’t tell psychedelic mushrooms from grass clippings, but he had an idea that he knew what was in the bag.
It took the untidy youth a good half-hour to make Doc understand that he didn’t want to be paid for the drugs. He wanted to be able to say that he’d done mushrooms with Hunter S. Thompson. (Someone was on something already.) He would not accept money from his hero. Hunter wanted the kid to leave, go back to wherever, so he could try to get back to work. What the kid wanted was for Hunter to sign his chest, his greasy, sweaty chest. That seemed reasonable. Someone produced a red Magic Marker. “Hunter Thompson is weird” is what the kid wanted Hunter to write. Hunter proceeded, in capital letters. As he wrote, the sweat dissolved the marker, creating a Steadmanesque drool. Hunter got to the word weird and paused. He had forgotten how to spell it. He asked for input. How was it possible that Hunter Thompson couldn’t spell weird? The combined talent in the room spelled it out for him one letter at a time. The kid left, inscription dripping.
The Kitchen Readings Page 12