There were probably a hundred and fifty people waiting around to make this happen. It might have been Laila who was the clever one who lured him out on the floor by introducing him to the best-looking girl extra on the set, whom we then sat opposite him at a table in the club. He actually seemed quite happy, and he settled in and was chatting her up. While this was going on, we came shooting through there with a camera—and Johnny was doing all this very complicated stuff, and all these extras, a hundred people, were singing and dancing—and when we came by, Hunter paid no attention whatsoever because he was too busy charming the girl as best he could. He had completely forgotten about the film.
So okay—take one was fucked, and on take two he was still not paying attention, so Johnny actually went over, while staying in character, and gave him a nudge. Hunter spouted one of his trademark “huh?”s and sort of woke up, and we moved on. We did one take which wasn’t particularly great but was passable. On the next take, Johnny was walking by the table, and Hunter jumped out and did something really stupid. I mean, once we actually got him on the set, it was like, “Why did we do this?” In fact, the one we used works very well in the film, but at the time, everything felt like we had just brought this two-year-old onto the set and given him a house to play with.
When we finally finished it and felt really good about it, we had to show it to him. Both Johnny and I were terrified of what he might think. We’d arranged these screenings, and Hunter, at the last minute, kept failing to make them. It turned out he was as terrified as we were about seeing the film because he didn’t want to be disappointed. But he finally saw it, and I’ve seen a tape of him from the end of that screening, and he’s so happy—it’s one of the moments that made it all worthwhile.
JOHNNY DEPP
It was the moment that in Kentucky they’d refer to as the “come to the quiltin’”—the moment of truth. They flew the film up to Aspen for Hunter to see, and I was scared to death because I really did believe that he would potentially hate me for the rest of his life. After he’d seen the film, I got him on the phone, ’cause I had to know. I said, “Okay, do you hate me? Was I right?” And he said, “Oh, fuck no, man. Christ—it was like an eerie trumpet call over a lost battlefield.” Those words just came out of his mouth. I thought, “Well, okay. We’re solid.”
TERRY GILLIAM
On the other hand, when it came to the premiere, I was very nervous. Hunter turned up in one of those strange public moods that he was into—which usually meant making an ass of himself—and he had this giganzo bag of popcorn that stood about five feet tall. Whether it was the result of his own nervousness or what I don’t know, but he ended up making me so pissed off at him that I couldn’t even sit and watch the film. I went to a bar and got drunk.
JOHNNY DEPP
There was a photo op, and they wanted a few of us from the movie to line up—myself, Benicio [Del Toro], maybe Gilliam, and Hunter. As we were about to do it, Hunter grabbed this massive bag of popcorn and started whaling on us. Popcorn flew everywhere, of course. I think that was just Hunter staking his territory—and he was right to do it, because those kind of movie premieres, with the hullabaloo and the actors and filmmakers and celebrities or whatever—I think Hunter just felt, “Well, hey man, let’s not forget why we’re all here in the first place.”
TERRY GILLIAM
It was wonderful, and I’m glad we did it, but at the end of the day you just wanted to go home and lie down and be very quiet.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Where Were You When the Fun Stopped?
They put him in the ICU unit, which was insulated from the general patients, because he was screaming and acting out. They had him on an IV for hydration and alcohol. At one point he whispered in my ear, “Get me out of here.” I said, “You want me to spring you?” And he goes, “No, take me to the bar.”
DEBORAH FULLER
One of Hunter’s legs was shorter than the other by a small distance, and he wore Converse tennis shoes for so many years, which were not good for his back. He had also spent years, before he moved into the kitchen, sitting in an Adirondack-style chair in the living room, where he leaned forward over a typewriter for hours at a time writing, which didn’t help. On top of that, he had sciatica. Starting around ’98, the pain was getting excruciating. He never liked going to the doctor, but when things got that bad, he had to have something done about it.
JUAN THOMPSON
The more the pain in his hip progressed, the less he would move. He spent more time sitting at his kitchen counter. He had an extremely high tolerance for pain, and he wouldn’t carry on about it, but sometimes I could see: He just didn’t move around much. He was on painkillers to help manage it, but he was mostly quiet about it.
DEBORAH FULLER
The doctors in Glenwood Springs discovered that his hip was in worse shape than his back, though, and it was time for surgery. Juan and his wife Jennifer and their young son, Will, were there, along with myself and Hunter’s assistant at the time, Heidi. We’d take turns staying up—we never left him alone for a minute.
JACK NICHOLSON
He made me feel his displaced hip one night. That was so shocking to me, just to feel it. It was not a displaced hip. This thing was practically loose. It was insane.
DEBORAH FULLER
The staff at the hospital had to know exactly what his tolerances were, and Hunter was tested for it just like anybody else. But he also happened to have this amazing constitution and will, and those things make a difference when you go into surgery. I was never worried that he was going to die, but everything had to be well researched. Hunter knew damn well who the anesthesiologist was and who everybody else in attendance was, but it was still tough on everybody.
JUAN THOMPSON
They had everything scheduled, and he canceled it; it was a huge production, but he finally agreed, I’m sure just because it was becoming so painful. But the bigger issue was the gradual degeneration of his body.
DR. STEVE AYERS is an emergency room doctor and the Pitkin County coroner.
There’s a medical term for Hunter’s special needs for medications: tachyphylaxis. You develop a tolerance to a medication—like opiates, for example—and you need more of it. Hunter had some horrible pain. His back and some of his other orthopedic injuries hurt. He might have needed a lot more than the average person because he had so much pain and he’d been taking stuff for several years. That’s not uncommon, but at the same time, I don’t know how Hunter could tolerate some of the stuff he did. He had a phenomenal constitution when it came to medication or drug use. He was able to function and perform and do things that most people can’t.
DEBORAH FULLER
Eventually, Hunter called a few good friends, and they came and sprung him out of the hospital—much to my dismay at the time, but it all worked out. Hunter did physical therapy afterward—he’d go into town to see somebody, and a therapist came out two or three times a week to take him to Stranahan’s pool for exercises in the water.
TIM FERRIS
I was after him for a while, particularly when he was rehabbing from his various injuries, to be more healthy or more active. But it’s very difficult to influence a person’s behavior, even your own, and there’s no point in nagging at people beyond the suggestion. I’d send him a case of grapefruit, or I’d advise him not to drink so many of these dark liquors because of all the conjoiners in them. Conjoiners are the non-alcoholic components of booze other than water, and they typically consist of various wood poisons from the oak barrels in which things are aged, and sugars. A lot of what messes up heavy drinkers is not just the alcohol but the conjoiners. A professional drinker will lower their conjoiner level and just deal with the alcohol, because that’s the only thing they really want anyway, so I used to talk to him about that stuff. But he was not getting enough exercise. He would swim a bit at night, but it wasn’t enough to come anywhere near a proper rehab from the sorts of physical problems he was starting to have.
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JUAN THOMPSON
The hip replacement made such a difference in his mood. He was just a much nicer, happier guy. It’s all relative, but he was calmer, less likely to have outbursts, more patient; a lot more pleasant to be around. I don’t think he realized how much that chronic pain had dominated his life and his mood until it was removed. He put up with it for a long time, and he didn’t realize how painful it had been until he replaced it. The top of his femur had worn away.
BOB BRAUDIS
Juan spent a lot of time with his dad in the hospital when Hunter had the hip replacement down in Glenwood. I think Hunter was asking Juan to give him the paternal assistance that he needed, you know? It was a role reversal. And Juan stepped up.
JUAN THOMPSON
I gave my wife, Jennifer, a little speech before she met Hunter for the first time. She’d been an admirer of his for a long time. I think Hunter was sizing her up. If he’d decided he didn’t like her, I don’t think he would have said anything, but luckily he approved. He would sometimes judge someone by how they reacted to certain things to determine if they were trustworthy—or if they were fun. He’d do something that would throw someone off—throw something at them, maybe—and then, depending on how they reacted to it and how they handled it, they’d go up or down in his estimation. But she passed, and then they became very close.
ANNA STEADMAN is Ralph Steadman’s wife.
Getting Hunter to Juan’s wedding was interesting. We had to hire an airplane to get him there, but he was very good when the time came. He looked lovely in his white jacket.
JUAN THOMPSON
He got there—almost on time. He was not known for his attendance. And, yeah, it was a memorable day. He could be very elegant when he wanted to be. And later, when we had our son, Will—once Hunter adjusted to the idea that he was a grandfather, he liked that role. He liked Christmas. He liked buying toys for Will, and they could play for a while, but he’s not someone you’d want as a babysitter. I’d always want to be close by, just because he might not understand the limitations of a very small baby.
DEBORAH FULLER
After Juan and Jennifer were married, they started coming for long weekends on a regular basis. That’s when the relationship between Hunter and Juan—and now Jennifer—developed even more. Hunter loved it. It was a very special time, and they became close.
DOUG BRINKLEY
One night I was out at Owl Farm working with him and called it a night around four a.m. and walked out the door, then realized I had left my address book in his kitchen and went back to get it. I didn’t knock, and when I walked in, Hunter had the laptop computer—which he hated—and was sitting by himself looking at all the photographs of his grandson that Juan had put up. When Hunter saw me, he tried to cover up the screen. I said, “Hunter, are you a computer guy now? What are you looking at?” He said, “Oh, I was just looking at Will.” It was heart wrenching, but it was sweet—here was a grandfather who didn’t want people to know that he was staring at photos of his grandson. He was actually blushing.
BOB BRAUDIS
Hunter was much more generous with some of his friends than with his own son, but in the last handful of years, they really connected. Juan would come up, and Hunter would pay him to clean all of his guns. I think it was five bucks or ten bucks a gun. You’d walk in there to watch a football game, and the house reeked of solvents. Juan would be buffing and oiling guns, and Hunter would inspect them and say, “Good job.”
JUAN THOMPSON
The change in our relationship was very gradual. It took decades, but it started with my actually going up to Owl Farm again. I’d take little visits on weekends when I was back from boarding school or when I was living in Aspen, and that was a whole different kind of relationship. It was more intentional. But mostly we just hung out.
Hunter wasn’t one to sit down and talk about all the details of life. He had a different lifestyle. He did not relish sitting around and talking about a relationship. It had to be translated.
It’s been a long process of first, acceptance—that there was no way to change who he was—and then second, a kind of understanding that just because the way he was able to express his love didn’t take the form that I would have preferred or expected didn’t make it any less real or powerful.
On top of everything else, he was also born in the late thirties. He wasn’t a New Age dad. And his father died when he was a teenager, and I don’t imagine they were a real demonstrative pair.
His way wasn’t my way, but the important thing was to understand that he had his way and try to learn how to translate that and see it so I could understand it. I started reading his books when I was a teenager. The first one was Hell’s Angels. That’s still one of my favorites. And Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas—as a teenager it didn’t make a lot of sense to me at first, but those books both helped me to learn more about who my dad was, really. He didn’t talk a lot about his past, especially the time when he was in his twenties.
Hunter had a coherent and meaningful philosophy. Individual freedom—that’s a core part of Hunter. It could be the freedom to shoot guns on your property or just to own a gun, or the freedom to do the drug of your choice, as long as you’re not doing harm to other people. It could have been part of his campaign platform in the sheriff’s race—to legalize all drugs but punish dishonest drug dealers. And he really believed in the possibility of change for the better—socially or through politics. He was an idealist about what was possible for this country.
ANNA STEADMAN
Being around Hunter, I stuck to the same approach as when I was with animals and children: I don’t approach them and stick my head in their faces. I never ventured into that area of the kitchen where he was, and I spent most of the time on the deck outside because I loved the view and I used to read and write in my diaries. He was always quite nice. I think he appreciated the fact that I was slightly scared of him and wanted to keep my distance—and I think he appreciated my relationship with Ralph, because probably he couldn’t manage that sort of relationship himself. That’s all I can say.
I found that kitchen very claustrophobic. I mean, it suited him, I suppose. He had everything ’round him, you know: a button for this, a button for that, click this, click that, move the channels, where’s the football game, quick, get this on. And he had the television set going on, phone calls going off. And he liked people to read his words. Everybody read his words.
GERRY GOLDSTEIN
It could be something twenty years old, and he would correct you and direct you: “Faster!” “Slower!” He would scream at you if you stumbled, if you mispronounced a word, if you didn’t stop at the end of the sentence, and he meant it all. He knew every speck of ink that he ever dropped on paper, and he cared desperately about the language.
BOB BRAUDIS
Some of the best readers were guys like Don Johnson. He could really get into the drama of it—until he came upon a polysyllabic word. Don Johnson read the Woody Creek Manifesto for the first time at a party at Ed Bastian’s house, and when he got to the word logarithmic, he stumbled about six times. I busted his balls and we all laughed. But for the most part, guys like him and Depp—actors—could add to what Hunter had written with emotions and inflections and timing and tempo.
DON JOHNSON was a Woody Creek neighbor of Hunter’s for years.
Fortunately for me, I traveled in and out of Aspen a lot, so I had built-in breaks from Hunter. I never really got burned out with him. I always looked forward to time together with him. He was an elegant gentleman.
I could talk to Hunter about any subject on the face of the planet, and if he didn’t already have some common knowledge of it, he would be extraordinarily astute about it. He cocreated or was the coprogenitor of Nash Bridges along with me. It just came out of our friendship, and I had a commitment that I had to fulfill at one of the networks. We were goofing off. We weren’t really doing anything; we were sitting around shooting the breeze and watching sp
orts, and it just came up. It started off as something we called “Off-Duty Cops,” and then eventually it morphed into Nash Bridges. Every year I would take two weeks off to set the story lines for the next season, and I would always go to Hunter and kick around ideas. Those were some of the funniest times—we’d come up with outrageous story lines.
He never quite made it to the set while we were filming, though. I mean, there’s real time, there’s media time, and then there was Hunter time. But he loved the show, and he would send me faxes in my dressing room, sometimes six a day. He would critique the characters for us, and he would always be dead-on and painfully funny.
He really embodied that feeling of the constant neighbor to me, in an old-fashioned sense. When I was living in Woody Creek, I traveled a lot, and if I had a sick animal or a sick horse, Hunter would get up and go visit the animal and check in on my wife, ask her if she wanted to go get a bite to eat. He was always bringing her orchids or something like that. Every Thanksgiving I would either have him over, or if he was otherwise engaged, I would always make a plate for him and whoever was around, and we’d take it over to his house. We would always exchange gifts. Hunter never came to my house without bringing me something—it could be weapons or books, but he would always bring something. The last Thanksgiving, he brought Kelly an amaryllis plant, and when he came over at Christmas, he was happy to see that it was blooming.
I mean, Hunter helped and watched me raise my children. All of my kids were dearly fond of Hunter, and he of them. He never forgot their birthdays or any of that. He was a brother.
JANN WENNER
Don was a buddy of Hunter’s, and they had similar appetites and backgrounds. I went up to a couple of Thanksgivings at Don’s with Hunter, and there was madness in the air. Hunter’s name for Don was Boris.
One time in New York, we went to visit Don in some lavish, three-bedroom penthouse suite Don was given at the Four Seasons, and after Don left, quite drunk, for some party, Hunter recruited me to help him cut down the very prickly branches from the potted trees, stuff them into every bed in the suite, and leave some Mansonesque messages soaped on the mirrors so that when Don came to the next day, he would be terrified about what he had done the night before.
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