Stories I Tell Myself

by Juan F. Thompson

  Hunter and Ed Bradley in the kitchen at Owl Farm. Ed was one of Hunter’s closest friends and a man he respected deeply.

  He was also wondering what to wear, and had suggestions for me. He insisted that I wear a tuxedo, but not just any tuxedo, it had to be an Armani. We explained that I couldn’t rent an Armani tux, at least not in Denver, at least not in our price range. He was disappointed, but he understood. If he had had the money, I think he would have ordered one from New York, or just bought one for me, crazy as that would have been, but that was not an option, and I didn’t care.

  He met Sandy’s father for the first time at our wedding. George Taylor Conklin III was a very traditional, thoughtful, conservative man who started working for the Guardian Life Insurance Company in 1939 and retired as chairman of the board in the 1980s. He was a quiet, brilliant man who was in many ways Hunter’s polar opposite: a Republican, an economist, and an academic who had graduated from Dartmouth and gotten his PhD in economics from NYU while working at Guardian. I’ve only heard parts of the story, and perhaps someday my mother will tell more of it, but the gist is that she and her father had very different ideas about how Sandy should proceed in life, and he didn’t like the sound of this Thompson fellow, who seemed to represent the destruction of everything her father believed in and that had made him successful. When Sandy and Hunter eventually got married, it was without his consent. More than thirty years later he finally met Hunter at the marriage of his grandson. Later he said he was impressed by him and that he seemed to be a real gentleman.

  We had decided to pay for the wedding ourselves. Though it was very inexpensive by most standards, about $10,000 including our honeymoon and vacation time, none of our parents were in a financial position to give us substantial help. Hunter didn’t mention it, but I think it was difficult for him not to be able to help us. We did ask Hunter to pay for the rehearsal dinner at the Med restaurant in Boulder, which he agreed to, though he never showed up.

  Oliver Treibick lived up at the end of the road in the old lumber town of Lenado. He was Hunter’s closest friend, his confidant, and his advisor. Oliver was another big man, well over six feet. He had a little goatee and smoked cigars, so that he looked like an aging biker, and in fact he owned a couple of Harleys that he would ride in good weather. I don’t know just what Oliver’s job was; he said it had something to do with building cell phone towers. He would fly to New York City and work there for a few weeks, then come back for a week or so. Whatever he was doing was paying him well, and one day he heard from Hunter that we were having some trouble raising enough money for the wedding. He called and told me to send him the wedding budget. He said, I’m in a position to help you, and your dad isn’t right now. So send me the budget, and don’t you dare tell him that I’m doing this. Oliver ended up giving us $1,000 toward the wedding expenses and also paid for Jennifer’s wedding dress. Hunter never knew.

  Hunter did pay for one other thing. A week or so before the wedding, Deb came down to Boulder to help us with the final planning and preparation. When she learned that the ceremony was going to take place outside in the yard next to the restaurant in the middle of the day, she told us we needed a tent. Yes, that would be nice, we said, but a tent costs several hundred dollars and we can’t do it. She said Hunter couldn’t sit out in the sun for two hours in the middle of the day. She called Hunter and explained the situation. Later that day she informed us that there would be a tent, that she had ordered it and that Hunter was going to take care of the cost. He was right, of course. It was a longish ceremony, roughly two hours, and though we were in the mountains and the air temperature was mild, somewhere in the mid-70s, in Colorado’s thin air the sun’s rays are not buffered and they burn and scorch.

  Hunter, Deb Fuller, me, and Jen on the front porch swing at the Gold Hill Inn outside of Boulder, Colorado, on our wedding day, 1994. The four of us were a family.

  The ceremony was to begin at eleven a.m. I was very worried that Hunter would not make it in time. It was close to a five-hour drive from Woody Creek, but eleven o’clock came and there he was, with the Red Shark, the 1972 red Chrysler convertible with the white vinyl seats. It was to be our limo after the reception.

  He was very happy. His son was getting married to a good woman. He told Jennifer several times how beautiful she looked, and hugged us both, at one point muttering, “We’ll get through this.” He was dressed in a white tuxedo with a bow tie but still wearing his Converse All-Stars. He looked elegant, distinguished, and just a bit strange.

  With Hunter on our wedding day. He wore a tuxedo for us, but he also wore his Chuck Taylor All-Stars.

  He was a gentleman throughout the day. Sandy had asked Hunter to walk her down the aisle to their front row seats. He was not happy about this, and he asked me, “Is this important to you?” I said, “It’s important to Sandy.” They walked arm in arm, smiling, for the first time in around sixteen years, since their separation in 1978. At one point in the ceremony we were to light a candle, but there was a light breeze that made this difficult. Hunter joined us, pulled out his lighter, and cupped his hands around the wick as he got it to catch fire. It was a simple, thoughtful act, without drama. At one point in the ceremony we asked our parents to come up and join us for some private words. We huddled together and Hunter had his arms around Jennifer and me. He pulled Jennifer close and said, “I never liked you anyway,” and gave her a squeeze. This was his way of saying he loved her.

  We had worked hard on the ceremony to make it as meaningful as we could, and though some people considered it overly long and others probably found the combination of Catholic, Hindu, and Buddhist elements unsettling at best, everyone agreed that it was a great success. The reception afterward in the restaurant was loud and festive, and Hunter was proud and happy. For months afterward he told us that everyone was talking about the wedding and how many people had said it was the best wedding they had ever been to.

  I think he was happy; first of all, because I was marrying a good woman, and he wanted me to be happy. But there was more to it. Hunter was a romantic at heart, and he believed in marriage not in the contemporary practical sense of a long-term partnership defined by the spirit of compromise, acceptance, and commitment, but as a romantic adventure. He wanted me to have that adventure, and to be successful where he and Sandy had failed. Finally, I think marriage was a demonstration that I had sufficient emotional health to gain the love and confidence of a good woman like Jennifer, and that this was to some degree a pardon for his shortcomings as a father.

  EIGHT

  RECONCILIATION: AGES 30 TO 41

  The hidden language—Better Than Sex—The letters books—Still cleaning the guns—Building the fire—“Ace” and the birth of a grandson—Celebrated in Louisville——The titanium spine

  HST TIMELINE

  1994 Gonzo Papers, Vol. 4: Better Than Sex: Confessions of a Political Junkie published.

  1996 Hunter S. Thompson tribute in Louisville, Kentucky.

  1997 The Proud Highway (first collection of HST letters) published.

  1998 The Rum Diary published.

  Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas movie released.

  1999 Hell’s Angels and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas released as Modern Library editions.

  2000 Screwjack published.

  Fear and Loathing in America: The Brutal Odyssey of an Outlaw Journalist, 1968–1976 published (second letters book).

  2003 Kingdom of Fear: Loathsome Secrets of a Star-Crossed Child in the Final Days of the American Century published (collection of previous writings and columns).

  2005 Hey Rube: Blood Sport, the Bush Doctrine, and the Downward Spiral of Dumbness: Modern History from the Sports Desk published (collection of ESPN columns).

  Hunter and Warren Zevon shooting at Owl Farm

  IN 1996 I told Hunter, in his language, in a speech, that I loved him. That year a poet and professor from Kentucky named Ron Whitehead contacted him about a Hunter S. Thompson tribute to be held
in Louisville, Kentucky, Hunter’s hometown. It would be held in the Memorial Auditorium in downtown Louisville. A number of his friends would pay tribute, either by speaking or in song. Hunter agreed to go, and began recruiting. Johnny Depp agreed to appear, along with Warren Zevon, Doug Brinkley, Roxanne Pulitzer, and musician David Amram. Bob Braudis, the sheriff of Pitkin County, would be bodyguard and road man, and Ron asked me to come as well to say a few words. I had never spoken in public before, and certainly not about Hunter. I had no idea what to write or how to write it. I borrowed a laptop from work and figured I’d write something on the plane, or in the hotel room.

  I took a day off from work at the University of Colorado and joined Hunter and Bob in Denver, where we all flew to Louisville. Ron put us all up at the Brown Hotel, an elegant old place downtown. Hunter had a corner suite on the top floor overlooking the city, where he entertained a steady stream of people who had come for the event, including old friends from his childhood, students from Ron Whitehead’s classes, and the various presenters. That was the first night I met Johnny Depp, who had spent the last several months living in the basement at Owl Farm and shadowing Hunter in preparation for playing Raoul Duke in the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

  After dinner I went back to my room to write my speech. I was scared. What if my speech was bad? What if I froze? What if I couldn’t come up with anything? I got a couple of sentences down, but finally gave up and went to bed, hoping for a clearer head in the morning.

  With Hunter and Will on the John Deere tractor. Hunter was showing off for Will in the driveway at Owl Farm, 2001.

  We went to the auditorium early the next afternoon for the light and sound check. While Warren Zevon sat at the piano and practiced, I sat on the low bleachers at the back of the stage and finished my speech on my laptop.

  By seven p.m. the auditorium was packed. More than two thousand tickets had been sold and it was standing room only. Hunter’s mother, Virginia Thompson, who lived her whole life in Louisville, was in the front row. Doug Brinkley kicked off the evening, followed by a series of speakers such as Roxanne Pulitzer. Harvey Sloane, the previous mayor of Louisville and a childhood friend, presented Hunter with a key to the city. Johnny Depp read from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas in his recently acquired Hunter Thompson persona, and Warren Zevon performed several songs. David Amram played a variety of instruments, and a local college student read a poem she had written in honor of Hunter. The whole time he stood offstage, just behind the curtain, watching the performances, whooping now and then, and soaking up the tributes.

  I was the final speaker, and as my time approached I became more and more nervous.

  It didn’t occur to me at the time how remarkable it was that Hunter was willing to let me speak at this event. He had no idea what I was going to say. This was a huge day for him, the troubled young man makes good and returns triumphant to his hometown, and he was letting me speak, and speak last. He trusted me.

  Doug Brinkley introduced me, and I walked up to the podium, reminded myself to speak slowly, and began.

  A week ago I received this opportunity to pay tribute to my father at this event. I was first very excited, as you can imagine. It is not every child who has the chance to honor his father in their lifetimes, or even in solitude. I am very fortunate. Thank you, Ron Whitehead, for putting this event together, and thank you all for coming.

  A few days later, I started to get nervous. How on earth am I going to honor him? What can I say? I decided to start with the question I am most often asked, which is, “What was it like to have Hunter Thompson as your father?”

  On one level, it is an empty question. It is like being anyone’s son, it is unique. I have nothing to compare it to, I have one father and one childhood. What I can tell you, however, is what I learned from my father, what I respect and admire in him.

  First of all, he is impossible to categorize or define. He is original. More than anyone I can think of, he crosses boundaries, he embodies more contradictions than any ten ordinary people. He is both a madman and southern gentleman, a prophet and a hooligan, an idealist and a cynic. He thrives on disruption, unpredictability, and thwarting expectation, yet is bound to social conventions.

  Years ago he chastised me for not minding my manners and shaking someone’s hand at the proper time, yet he will set off a roll of five thousand firecrackers in his best friend’s bedroom at three a.m. I respect and admire, and sometimes fear, the way he lives moment to moment.

  I appreciate his power and courage. My father is nothing if not powerful. He is like an extremely volatile chemical that illuminates with flashes of fire and thunder the lives of those who come in contact with him. He is not afraid, as I think most of us are, to make an impression. He makes us wake up and take notice. We may not like what we see, I don’t think he cares at all what people LIKE—the important thing is that we wake up and take notice.

  I have learned that the surface truth is rarely the real truth, and as a result I have become cynical about the motivations of corporations, politicians, and law enforcement. Above all, he makes me think and pay attention. He demands in everything that he does that you set aside your habits of perception and pay attention to what is happening right now, and deal with it. That’s where the fun and excitement are, in not knowing what’s going to happen.

  I have learned to appreciate words. Whatever else brings you all here, I hope that you all recognize my father’s genius for using the English language. He is an artist, which to me means he is a magician with words, he makes them express his vision of the world in a way that cannot be attained by study and effort and even practice, though he has done all these things. It is more than mechanical mastery, it is expressing the living essence of a scene or a person directly. A few years ago he sent me a three-volume set of the Webster’s Third New International Dictionary of the English Language, bound in brown leather. That summed up, I think, the values he wished to convey to me. Though I have not inherited his magic, I have inherited a love of words and books and fine writing.

  I learned to appreciate the beauty of guns and the thrill of shooting them. Anyone who has shot a large caliber pistol or a shotgun and felt the rush of so much raw power in your hand knows what I mean. I’ve spent many nights with Hunter cleaning shotguns and oiling pistols. I was shooting a .22 rifle by the age of ten, and at my engagement party a few years ago I shot with a twelve-gauge shotgun loaded with double-0 buckshot, dead center, a propane canister attached to a can of gasoline, which made a spectacular fireball in the night outside Owl Farm. I was proud, and I know he was too.

  I have learned to appreciate family and loyalty to one’s friends. I have never seen a community closer than the one in Aspen that I grew up in and that Hunter helped to create and hold together. These people are serious about friendship, and whatever their flaws, inherent in being human, they protect each other. When there is legal trouble within or without, they come together and pool resources and support. When someone is going through difficult times, there are suddenly more invitations to dinner, to watch the football games, subtle invitations to talk and unload. If someone is done wrong by an outsider, then the offender finds himself on a collective blacklist.

  I have learned to appreciate driving fast and following the fall line through a curve. I know the pleasure of driving a red 1973 Chrysler convertible with the top down on a sunny fall day. I love the adrenaline, focus, and vitality that come from riding a motorcycle at eighty miles per hour on a winding country road. These things I learned from Hunter.

  I learned that some cops lie. This was a brutal and profoundly disturbing realization: Those in control are not necessarily trustworthy. More importantly, authority is not necessarily to be obeyed, and certainly not feared. There is always a way to challenge authority, either in the courtroom or in the media or in the voting booth. He has done all of them many times, and usually successfully. In other words, he believes that it is possible to change a situation for the better, even in
the face of entrenched authority.

  So what am I saying? I am proud of this man. I respect and admire his vitality, his courage, his insight, his perverse resistance to security and predictability, his deliberate disregard for propriety, his ability to make me see and think differently. Ultimately, I love and respect him because he really lives, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, he lives his life.

  It wasn’t a long speech, maybe five minutes. I remember how quiet it was in the auditorium just before I started to read, and then the sound of my own voice booming through the hall. Once I started to read, slowly, my nervousness evaporated and I felt an unfamiliar sense of calmness and intensity. When I finished, Hunter walked onto the stage from the wings where he had been watching with a fire extinguisher and blasted me a few times, which I took as a sign of his approval. He grabbed my shoulder and said, “Well done, man.” That was it, nothing more. But it was enough.

  With the event over, chaos erupted as hundreds of people surged onto the stage to find Hunter and thank him, or touch him, or get his autograph. One guy brought his book with him to be signed, and then realizing that he would not be able to penetrate the crowd around Hunter on the stage, came up to me and asked me to sign his book instead. I signed it, “In honor of my father.” Hunter stood on the stage for a long time signing books and talking with fans. Then a fire broke out in the green room backstage and I heard a rumor that some fans got out of hand and began breaking furniture. Hunter escaped out the back door and into a limo, and I did not see him again until the next morning. I heard stories of him driving a car down sidewalks in downtown Louisville at high speed, a wall on one side and trees on the other, while Braudis hung on, white-knuckled. Bob said the next day that it was his last trip as Hunter’s road man.