The Kitchen Readings (15 page)

Hunter's short fuse was a thing of legend. No one liked it, but those of us who were around him all the time took it for granted and did our best to overlook it. Most of us could just leave if it got to be too much, and people who lived at the farm had their hiding places. The thing was, it never lasted long. It was kind of amazing to see someone go from normal to a rage and then back to normal again in such a short span of time. That's why it wasn't so bad; you knew he'd be back.

Unfortunately, people who weren't in the know could become the object of his wrath. They took it a little harder. (If you want a good example of this, watch Wayne Ewing's
Breakfast with Hunter
and enjoy, or watch in horror, as the Doctor takes off on
a movie director who was auditioning to work on the film
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
)

Hunter was basically a decent, good-hearted human being. He didn't have to worry about his buddies, but once in a while, after he'd taken off on a stranger, he'd feel terrible afterward, especially when the individual didn't deserve it, which was usually the case. That was what happened in the case of the stuttering professor.

Hunter's two “letters” books,
The Proud Highway
and
Fear and Loathing in America
, were the last books that he did any substantial publicity for. When
The Proud Highway
was published in 1997 a publication party was held in New York, complete with Doc's celebrity friends, old and new, and the usual phalanx of nubiles and VIPs. There were also TV appearances, the whole deal.

One sunny afternoon that summer, Hunter and I were sitting in his kitchen. He was back in Woody Creek on a break from these publicity efforts. The peacocks were wandering around the grounds, squawking at the occasional passing car or furtive chipmunk. There was a random assortment of firearms lying around the kitchen, just in case anyone had a sudden impulse to run outside and blast the crap out of something. The women weren't anywhere to be seen, perhaps in town on errands.

Owl Farm and Woody Creek were beautiful that time of year. All greens and yellows, foliage and sunshine. On any given day at that hour the blinds in Hunter's kitchen could be closed or open, depending on whether it was the end of one day or the beginning of the next. The blinds were open that day, letting the sun stream in on us. The television was on, as it was 24-7. This particular afternoon, the sound was off, but the TV itself had to be on in case current events conspired to
interfere with our meditations. One has to stay current at all costs.

We were both in fine humor, discussing matters of importance, when the phone rang. Hunter's phone was always on “speaker” so that all present could eavesdrop. The caller was a teacher from a major university. This guy either taught a course on Hunter, or taught a course of which Hunter was a major part; I don't remember which. Apparently the prof had booked a speaking engagement for Doc at a large venue in his university town and he wanted to discuss some details. Clearly he held Hunter in some sort of awe. Just as clearly, they'd never met. Not that Hunter didn't merit the awe; it's just that those who knew Doc knew that an attitude of awe rarely paid off.

After a bit of discussion, Hunter allowed that he had a few questions for the professor. Now, this guy had booked Hunter into exactly one gig, while Hunter had been booked into countless engagements in his career, which gave him a huge edge. Hunter's mind worked faster than most people's, including your average academic. He could be an impatient man. He never suffered fools gladly—at times he didn't suffer anyone gladly. This was evolving into one of those times. Hunter was peppering the prof with questions, demanding details that weren't immediately available. As the grilling continued, it was clear that this guy was becoming increasingly upset with himself for disappointing the great man. Hunter in turn was becoming more agitated. I guess it was inevitable: Hunter went off.

A cloud passed over the sun in Woody Creek, the peacocks fell silent, and a chilling breeze came through the window. Now, I knew this pyrotechnic display was a state of mind that would pass—and a fine, affable gentleman would soon enough be restored to us. But for those who didn't know Hunter, there was
no reason to think that his rage—so towering and so deep—would not last forever. In this particular case, Hunter's rant was phrased in the form of a question, so he stopped and waited for a reply. We waited, and we waited. There was only silence from the despairing professor. Finally, Hunter loosed another barrage of invective at peak volume, hoping, you know, to jump-start the conversation. More pregnant moments passed, and then out of the speaker came what sounded like a random assortment of vowels and consonants, maybe some syllables.

Jesus, the guy was a stutterer or, more correctly, a recovering stutterer—he'd been fine early in the conversation, but now that the pressure was on, he'd fallen apart completely. I couldn't stand it. Hunter had broken him; he'd taken a perfectly nice man who clearly idolized him and reduced him to what I'm sure the man hated most about himself. I looked at Hunter; his face was contorted with shock and remorse.

I empathized with the poor professor, his was a tragic case. But it was the grief on Hunter's face that got me. I don't know if I'd ever seen anything just like it before. I charged out of the kitchen and into the living room—just in case I couldn't suppress my laughter.

It took me lots of time and substances to regain my composure. When I returned to the kitchen I found Hunter still on the phone, coping with the awkwardness of the situation as best he could—in his own particular fashion.

I guess you could say that the art of apology wasn't something that Hunter ever really bothered to master. I'm sure if he had, he would have been great at it, but it wasn't his thing. He was, however, talking soothingly at the speakerphone. I paused for a moment, hoping to hear a non-stuttered reply, but there was only silence from the other end of the line. Hunter kept on.

I felt awfully bad for the guy, but I'm sure Hunter felt worse. I could see that right away. Of course that didn't mean that he wouldn't do it again as soon as the mood struck him.

As I walked toward my truck, the cloud had passed and the sun was shining brightly, the breeze had warmed and the peacocks were again strutting and squawking. I felt these men should be left alone to their business.

DOCUDRAMA

I was trotting across the lawn toward the driveway waving two pornographic calendars; the young filmmakers were trotting faster. This was kind of surprising because they were burdened by a lot of heavy equipment. Of course they had more incentive, and several more trips to make. The electric cords and fixtures that they were trailing must have made it awkward for them.

Of all the film crews I'd encountered at Owl Farm over the years, these guys seemed the most professional. What I know about filmmaking would fit in a shot glass with plenty of room left over for whiskey. So, when I say they seemed professional, I mean they had lots and lots of equipment. Big bright lights, big shiny cameras.

I'd first encountered them around four in the afternoon that same day. I was heading out the door and they were pulling into the driveway of Owl Farm. When they got out of their rig, I placed myself between them and the door. Hunter's friends tended to screen strangers. They could see what I was doing and good-naturedly said that it was okay, they were expected. Hunter and I had just been having a nice, neighborly afternoon visit, nothing degenerate, so I introduced myself, wished them luck with whatever they were up to, and scrammed.

A few hours later I was making myself some dinner when Hunter's voice came on my answering machine. “Michael, are you there? Pick up. You have to get over here. I need help.” This not being my first rodeo, I gauged the actual urgency in his voice as moderate, listened, and ate my dinner. When I finished, I speed-dialed Owl Farm and when Hunter's machine picked up I just said, “It's me. I'm coming right over,” and headed out.

I arrived in Hunter's kitchen minutes later. Doc was on his stool, and the two film guys were there. Thirtysomething, clean-cut, and sober, they looked fine to me. Hunter gave me a hug, told me to grab a beer, and hauled out the coke grinder to make me feel welcome. As the guys and I were introducing ourselves I peered around them and into the living room. Lots of high-tech equipment in there.

Filmmakers. These guys were filmmakers. They'd driven out from L.A. just to interview Hunter. They were making a documentary on George McGovern and his presidential bid, which had been the inspiration for Hunter's book
Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail
. The senator had called personally and asked if Hunter would do him a favor and talk to these guys. It had been set up for weeks. Sure. Time passes, moods change. Now they were at Owl Farm and things weren't going so well. It had been hours since they'd arrived and all they'd been able to accomplish was to move about half their equipment into the living room and piss Hunter off.

They were nice fellas. Smart, courteous, and professional. What could they have done wrong? Nothing. But timing is everything. Hunter simply didn't feel like being bothered at that particular moment, so he decided that they were half-assed and ill-prepared. And now they were paying an unpleasant price. I was there for what? To back Hunter up? To help boot the poor
bastards out? I really didn't feel like helping Doc crucify them, because, to me, they seemed whole-assed and well-prepared. I didn't, however, mind hanging around, swilling a couple of beers, and snorting some after-dinner gag. So, I was in for the show.

Now, this being-interviewed-on-camera thing was something that Hunter had done a thousand times, and when he was enjoying himself, he was great at it. He was smart enough and professional enough that, even in traction, he should have been able to pull it off with no trouble. Hunter felt fine, but was disinclined to put himself out on this particular evening. I tried to reason with him. Just do it, get it over with. They'll leave. It seemed so simple. Too simple, apparently. Hunter raged, I mollified, the filmmakers wrung their hands. Hunter and I drank, the filmmakers wrung their hands. Hunter and I snorted, the filmmakers wrung their hands. Hunter accused them of knowing nothing of his work. Jesus, they had every book he'd ever written with them. Not new copies, either—beat-up, dog-eared pages marked, passages highlighted. They knew a lot more about his work than I ever would. The interview was about as close to scripted as you could get. Piece of cake. No surprises, no ambushes. I suggested that we read from some of the highlighted stuff. I suggested that I read. Okay.

Hunter, a funny writer, enjoyed hearing his work read, liked to hear people laughing at it. Like clouds parting in the middle of a terrible storm, a patch of blue appeared with a couple little birds flying around up there. Hunter lightened. I hoped this would be a window of opportunity. “Okay, go get your stuff,” Hunter said. The technical guy charged out of the kitchen. He proceeded to set up these huge lights and what-all in the living room. The interviewer guy stayed with Hunter and me in the kitchen. I kept reading. There was lots of setting-up going on out
there; they had tons of shit, and it was taking time. The clouds closed in again; no more blue sky. The birds were gone, probably dead. The window closed; too bad. The abuse resumed. I felt bad for the guys, although, I must confess, making them think that everything was going to be all right was a nice touch.

My mind raced. I was running out of gambits to try to make the situation less ugly. Then I thought of it: the calendar. The calendar combined the two things Hunter loved most: naked women and Hunter. “Doc, have they seen the calendar yet?”

I had produced a dirty calendar a couple of years earlier. Hunter had been asked to write a one-line endorsement to try to help sell the thing and he ended up writing a whole essay. It had its own page. The calendar was coveted by the hip, in-crowd, from New York to L.A. It was a fine bit of writing, never published anywhere else. And the images were depraved.

No, they hadn't seen the calendar, but Hunter had run out of them. As I had hoped, the thought seemed to cheer him. All those naked girls, his own words. I said I'd go back to my cabin and grab a couple. I should have considered the downside of my leaving. When I returned to the kitchen I saw that things had gone to a place that is usually reached in a handbasket. The guys were huddled by the front door clearly planning a break. Hunter was raging. I heard the door opening, looked into the living room to see them heading out with armloads of equipment. “Jesus, Hunter, at least sign these for them.” Hunter was beaming, his mission accomplished. He cheerfully signed the calendars, and I chased after the filmmakers. I caught up with them at their van and pressed the calendars on them. They were grateful and thanked me for trying to help. That was it. I went inside and visited with Hunter while the film guys continued to make trips loading up equipment. I said goodnight, and left before they had finished.

FUCK

The next set of documentarians arrived while Hunter and I were sitting in the kitchen chewing the fat and watching some tube. They were expected—I mean, God help them if they hadn't been—but not by me. It had been several weeks since the last cinematic incident at Owl Farm. Maybe Hunter thought it would be a nice surprise for me to see more movie guys coming through the door, or maybe he didn't think it worth mentioning. All of a sudden they were in the kitchen. Earnest and beaming. Owl Farm! Hunter Thompson's lair! Just like they'd imagined it! Oh, yeah.

There were two guys, Steve Anderson, director of the narrative feature
The Big Empty,
and a sound technician/cameraman. Both were sharp. The last guys were sharp, too, but sharp isn't enough. Dumb luck is what it takes, and these guys were lucky, at least that night. Hunter was in a fine mood and ready for whatever was going to happen next. So this new crew was welcomed, and we introduced ourselves. Once again the subject of the film wasn't Hunter. Why would anyone make a film about something other than Hunter? Remarkably, their subject was interesting anyway. It was the word
fuck.
They had been crisscrossing the country interviewing well-known and influential people about their attitudes re.
fuck.
Clearly, this was a high-concept film. The kind of out-of-the-box, lateral-thinking sort of thing that appealed to Doc. I was appalled.