“He’sgonnagetusbusted. He’llgetstoppedbythecopsandpulluphisshirtandsayI’vebeendoing’shroomswithHunterThompson.”
Hunter’s diction was murky as usual, but the image was crystalline. The kid opening his shirt for the cops, swelling with pride.
Mick hadn’t actually witnessed Doc consume so much as a single beer since he had arrived, but the baggie full of mushrooms bore a close resemblance to an evidence bag in his mind. Cops don’t much like Hunter. Mick had a future. Time to go.
Hunter didn’t make his deadline that night, or any other. Apparently that evening marked the beginning of the end of Hunter and the Examiner.
It should be noted that Kathy wasn’t really Hunter’s wife. All for the best. Hunter’s halfhearted attempt to stab her with a ballpoint pen on the flight back to Aspen probably wouldn’t have done the marriage any good.
Years later Mick was having lunch with a high powered Denver law firm. A tableful of sharply dressed attorneys were there to evaluate him as a potential associate. Almost the entire lunch was spent discussing his most important qualification: Did he really know Hunter Thompson?
Back in Aspen, one year a district attorney actually got a search warrant for Owl Farm. Along with a lot of nothing, the cops seized a videotape labeled “Child Pornography.” The tape turned out to be a PBS panel discussion on the subject. Probably touching the same points as Hunter and the four Boulder women.
When Mick returned to Aspen and became county commissioner, he once again began to receive 3:00 A.M. phone calls from Hunter. Mick was a political ally despite his offensive lifestyle. Politics far outweighed his bad habits.
And so, Mick writes: “Hunter and Nixon and the Evil Developers he hated so well are gone now and so, as a mutual friend put it, I know when the phone rings at 3 A.M., it’s probably bad news, in plain English.”
The Mayor’s Daughter and an Awkward Moment
The “Derby” parties and the Super Bowl parties were late-afternoon events. Family time. If it’s family time at your house, then it’s family time at Owl Farm. People would feel free to bring their children. Hunter had no problem with children, as long as they were willing to gamble along with everyone else. Given Doc’s nocturnal lifestyle, there usually wasn’t much chance of running into a child in the kitchen, so it wasn’t really any hardship to have them around on these special occasions. It encouraged our best behavior. Besides, I think Hunter probably viewed it as an opportunity to fleece the parents twice.
The gambling at the Kentucky Derby and Super Bowl parties was different from the usual football and basketball wagering. During the regular seasons there’d be the standard house bet on the game, twenty dollars (a figure that Hunter would always be glad to adjust…up), possibly an “over and under” bet, and lots of proposition bets during the course of the game. The quality of thought that went into the wagering varied greatly. Nobody was better informed than Hunter. He poured over the sports pages, the ever-changing betting lines, the injury situations, the matchups—and he wouldn’t hesitate to call friends across the country to get inside information to give him an edge.
On the other side, former alpine skiing coach and sports commentator Bob Beattie, filmmaker Bob Rafelson, and Sheriff Braudis could always be counted on to make intelligent, well-informed wagers. There were many others who could be best described as middling ignorant. Then there were the Ewing brothers, Wayne and Andrew. Wayne is a filmmaker who, even when based in L.A., maintained a place in the Roaring Fork Valley. His brother, Andrew, would visit several times a year. Wayne and Andrew were deeply entrenched in Hunter’s inner circle. As a rule they were both smart, savvy gamblers; they did their homework. But they had a tendency to get caught up in the moment. Wayne and Andrew would enter the kitchen and immediately start tough negotiations with Hunter over points on the game bet. This could sometimes be a long, painful process. Hunter liked the edge; these guys liked the edge. Then came the over/under: same thing. When this was settled we’d all assume our positions to watch the game.
Sometimes the first proposition bet could come with the opening kickoff. Sometimes it took a while to work into it. Either way, it was a pretty sure thing that one of the Ewing boys would be involved. In the beginning the propositions would be reasonable. A first down this series, whether the next play would be a pass or a run, something that could go either way. Hunter would almost always take up the challenge, and then some of the rest of us would jump in. As the game proceeded, these wagers would slowly increase in recklessness: long-shot first-down attempts, low-percentage chances of scoring on this drive. After a while, the drink flowing, everything else flowing, raucous goodwill abounding, these wagers would move from reckless to irrational: a team scoring late in the game from deep in their own red zone, long, long, field goal attempts.
It was at these times that the intelligent, well-prepared Ewing brothers became the “lemming brothers.” This was Hunter’s time. He would glow. Hunter thought it morally deficient not to take advantage of someone who was succumbing to his own stupidity. The proposition bets were usually of the five-or ten-dollar variety. The point wasn’t just to take all of anyone’s money; it wasn’t nearly that honorable. The point was to thoroughly embarrass and deeply disgrace the other guy. That was worth the wager. And that was usually the way things turned out. But, as noted, that was during the regular sports seasons. Then there was the Derby, something altogether different.
There was plenty of side betting at the Kentucky Derby parties, but a lot of that kind of energy, out of deference to the non-regulars, was focused on “the pool.” For the Derby, the pool involved drawing horses’ names out of a hat, a matter of pure luck. Hunter would set it up so that the winner walked away with several hundred dollars. But in light of all the kiddies, the buy-in was never too expensive. If Mommy wanted to buy in for you, great. If a child used his own money, earned shoveling snow over the course of a long, cold winter, that was okay, too. We always respected a young person’s right to be fleeced as much as an adult’s.
The living room was used mainly by the women to get away from us, and for large overflow events.
The crowd at the Derby parties consisted of the inner circle and their significant others, old friends with their families, and occasional newcomers and guests. Many of the kids who attended these parties had been regulars from an early age and were very hip. They knew the score and were often put in charge of the pools. One good lad, Matthew Goldstein, not only ran the Super Bowl pool but also won it with annoying regularity. Aspen mayor John Bennett, his wife, Janie, and their young daughter, Eleanor, came under the “old friend” category, often attending the special events but not part of the less-savory regular gang.
As the Kentucky Derby itself lasted only minutes, the party would begin a couple of hours before hand. There was always good food and more than enough to drink, of course. Hunter’s bedroom TV would be brought into the living room for these occasions, as the assembled crowd was far too big for the kitchen. There was plenty of eating and drinking before the race, a little side betting, and of course the pool. As post time approached, the party would be in full swing. Everybody had a horse, especially the kids.
On one particular Derby day, the mayor’s daughter, Eleanor, had coughed up the cash and drawn her horse; she was pretty excited about this new grown-up thing, gambling. Unfortunately, she had a previous engagement that coincided with the exact time of the race itself. It was a strange time to leave, just before the big event, but Eleanor’s mom, Janie, a force in her own right, took her daughter in hand, made their excuses with the promise that they would return shortly, and off they went. The race in all its glory came and went in less time than it is possible to have any other kind of meaningful experience. As fate would have it, young Eleanor won the pool without being present. Hunter, after surely wrestling with the prospects of ripping her off, decided that we shouldn’t tell Eleanor about her winning but should instead replay the tape of the race and let her experience it as if she
were watching it live.
All major sporting events were taped at Owl Farm. An extremely prudent policy, considering the state of consciousness people were capable of achieving by the end of any given competition. It gave a reassuring credibility to the reckoning. Eleanor Bennett and her mother returned to the party after a while. Hunter grabbed a crony and told him to put in the tape of the race. In the meantime he began to set up Eleanor for the big event, building the suspense with all his considerable skills.
Having worked the mayor’s daughter into a fever of anticipation, Hunter hit the remote. The room fell silent. Silent, except for the peak volume sounds of the hard-core porno film that appeared on the enormous TV screen. There’s something about the audio track of a top-drawer porno film that, when played at high volume, is even more obscene than the visuals. Of course the visuals were pretty good, too. Wrong tape. An easy mistake. There certainly were plenty of tapes lying around in front of the TV. God knows what else was in there. Pandemonium ensued.
With the strangled cry of the wounded and feral, Hunter snatched up the remote, wildly thumbing every button, with zero effect. As later investigations revealed, someone had put a glass down in front of the electric eye that received the signals from the remote. But for now there was only chaos. Hunter flung the remote across the room. Close to a dozen remote controls were in front of him, scattered to either side and on top of his typewriter. He snatched them up one at a time, crazily hitting buttons at random. Small appliances sprang to life—radio, CD player, air-conditioner—each one mocking him in turn, as the porn film played on, still at top volume. Some fled the scene in terror or hysterical laughter. Some discovered a renewed interest in television. All the while, the mayor’s sweet young daughter stood impassively, watching closely, waiting for the race to begin.
Hunter expresses his frustration with the remotes as the mayor’s daughter watches.
Cleverly’s Short Road Trip
Nothing has to be simple. Things can be as complicated, exciting, or horrifying as you want to make them. If you’re the kind of person who can say, “Excitement is my copilot,” even the most mundane event can become an adventure. If you’re the unfortunate fool who happens to, temporarily, find himself in that first person’s copilot’s seat, you might end up asking yourself, “Why me? Why isn’t Excitement here doing his job?”
As usual, it started out simply enough. What could possibly go wrong? The Jeep had to be serviced. Hunter and I would drive six miles to the airport, pick up a rental, and drive both cars back to Owl Farm. When all was done, Hunter would have an extra vehicle, and he and Deborah could take the Jeep in to the garage at their convenience. Cake.
I was asked to come by around three, which I did. When I got there, Hunter was still struggling toward consciousness. I was given to understand there had been nightmares. I wonder what constituted a nightmare in Hunter’s mind. I suspect that what the rest of us would consider a terrible nightmare would be another boring night at the office for Doc. Did I really want to know what Hunter’s dreams were? No.
I asked Deborah if maybe I should come back later. She said this had to get done now. The rental car place closed after the last flight; it was off-season and the last flight came early. She popped me a beer, and I waited while she continued to try to rouse Hunter.
It had to be Hunter and me on this project because the Jeep rental was also a test drive. Hunter had just received one of his big advances and was thinking about getting a new rig and giving the old one to Deborah. The old Jeep only had thirty thousand miles on it. Practically a new car. This was all a secret, so Deborah didn’t know.
I sipped my beer for a while, and eventually Hunter came tottering out of the bedroom. In his bathrobe, kind of shaky. Not exactly ready to go. Three in the afternoon was a little early for Doc on a non-football afternoon. It wasn’t Sunday. It wasn’t even football season. He said good morning, slipped behind me to his stool, and Deborah began to prepare breakfast. She cut up some fresh fruit, started some eggs and toast. A Bloody Mary sounded good to Hunter, so did a beer and of course a nice big tumbler of Chivas and water. He jammed a cigarette into the holder, lit it, opened “the drawer,” and hauled out the coke grinder. “No thanks, Doc. A little early for me. When we get back.” Self-control. That’s my motto. Then came the hash pipe. Deborah served up the eggs and toast. “None for me, thanks.” That meal had come seven or eight hours earlier. Hunter started picking at the food. Sipping the drinks. Breakfast seemed to be coming along nicely.
Two hours later. I’m on my third beer. I’ve been nursing them, refusing drugs. I have to drive. Hunter has to drive, too, but he has a different set of standards. Deborah, a woman of infinite patience, is a touch agitated. We’ve called out to the rental car place two, maybe three times. Each time Hunter says that we’re on our way, and then asks some question or other—the color of the car, model, accessories—something to suggest to the rental guys that research is being done. As opposed to our sitting around the kitchen getting loaded. Research is not being done. The other thing is being done. At least by someone.
The place will be closed in an hour; they’ll go home. It’s time to get Hunter dressed. Deborah nags him off his stool and into the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, Hunter comes out dressed. The afternoon has slipped by. We’ve gone from having plenty of time to having no time. Let’s go. We can’t just go, we have to “get ready.” Get ready! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, I think, leaving these incredibly appropriate words unspoken. “Getting ready” means packing up, and I don’t mean jammies and a toothbrush. First a new, huge tumbler of scotch. Then a fresh beer; no need to open it, there’s an opener in the Jeep. A fresh pack of cigarettes; forget the fact that there are always several packs in the Jeep. A couple of cigarette holders; don’t want to run out. The coke grinder. Drag that out, fill it up, and grind, grind, grind. Stick that in a pocket. Finally the hash pipe. Fill that up, stick it in another pocket. Okay, lets go. Six miles to the airport, you never know.
Out to the car. “Do you want me to drive? I’m good, just a couple beers.” A naïve question. Hunter always drove, no matter what. As far as I was concerned, this was definitely a “no matter what” situation. We loaded up. I got into the copilot’s seat—remember what I said about being the fool in the copilot’s seat? Off we went.
We were okay. We had time, a few miles down Highway 82. Cake. So why the hell was he driving so fast? We had time! Why was he weaving through this traffic? We won’t have time if we have to go to jail first! Why was he driving like this? Either the answer was painfully obvious or there was no answer at all. I buckled my seatbelt. I never buckle my seatbelt. That’s for people who want to survive the crash. I dug my fingers into the sides of the seat, jaw clenched, I felt fillings disintegrating.
There it was, the traffic light, the turn to the airport. Hunter maneuvered into the right-hand turn lane. Okay, he set up the four-wheel drift, tires screaming. We’d done a 180, we were heading up the access road, we took the left toward the terminal, smoke billowing from the tortured tires. We came to a screeching halt in front of the terminal, a perfect parallel-parking job. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a parallel-parking situation. It was a straight-in parking situation. I knew this because, (1) that’s the way it had been for all the decades and decades that we’d both lived here, and (2) that was the way ALL THE OTHER CARS WERE PARKED. Hunter was lighting the hash pipe. As the smoke from our exhaust and burning tires was clearing outside, the other smoke was beginning to permeate the interior. I looked around nervously. Shit, two uniforms approaching from the rear, their brisk gait suggesting that they’re on duty. Shit. One airport security, one sheriff’s deputy.
I powered down my window. Hunter’s stayed up. Thank God, they were coming to my side. Instead of sticking their noses in the window to look for probable cause, they stopped about ten feet away. Airport security. “Hi, do you think you could park…” The guard made a series of hand gestures, kind of sketching out how he’d like us to rethink
things. “Hi, officer,” I responded. “Sure, sure, ha ha! We were just about to do that. Ha ha! Thanks.” Hunter, wearing a cheerfully accommodating smile, hash pipe replaced by his cigarette holder, slowly slipped the Jeep into gear and carefully backed up and reparked. Perfect citizen, perfect driver, perfect parking job. The officers were standing there watching. We got out, nodding, nervous smiles, making a little wave of appreciation for the responsible officers doing their responsible jobs responsibly.
We entered the terminal. It was almost deserted. The last flight had arrived, the last bag had been claimed. The concessions were in the process of shutting down. All except for one. There was a small crowd around one of the rental car booths. Our rental car booth. Could it be that we were expected? Maybe all those phone calls saying, “Here we come?” Of course. Hunter Thompson was coming to pick up a car. There were plenty of people who thought that might be fun to watch.
We neared the booth, and I hung back. His rental, his fans, he could handle this. And he did, smiling, nodding, and chatting amiably. The rental car guys were grinning and nodding back. There was only the one problem, the usual problem: they could hardly understand a word he was saying. I could see he was getting frustrated. They seemed friendly enough, but they weren’t responding. I looked out the large plate-glass window behind the counter. The cops seemed to have stationed themselves out there on the sidewalk and were pointing and talking. If things started to go south, they could go south fast, really fast. I was beginning to get a little edgy.
The Kitchen Readings Page 13