The Kitchen Readings (4 page)

Edgy Biker, Arctic Racer, and a Fetching Geisha

Tex was a good friend of Hunter's for many years, and they remained buddies until Doc's death. A builder by trade, with a military background, he was known for being able to take care of himself, and would occasionally be called upon when Hunter felt muscle was required. Tex was, and remains, a very private person.

He first met Hunter in San Francisco in 1965. It was 2:00
A.M
. and Tex was driving his bike through Golden Gate Park as fast as he possibly could. Just for the fun of it. Suddenly, far ahead, there was a headlight coming at him. Tex eased the bike over to the right. The distant headlight mirrored his move. He eased to the left. Same thing. At that speed, the distance was closing fast.
Every maneuver resulted in the other bike heading straight at him. Tex started to brake. The two bikes missed each other by a few feet.

Tex skidded to a stop, wheeled around, and gave chase. He caught up to Hunter and they came to a halt about twenty yards apart. The men got off. Tex was enraged. Hunter said cheerfully, “I thought I killed you back there!”

Tex pulled his gun. This was a simple case of mistaken identity. A single headlight in the night looks much like the next. Hunter had taken Tex for someone who was at the party he had just left. There was some tension nonetheless. Tex calmed himself and put the piece away. He pulled out a two-gram vial. Hunter had been fairly blasé about the gun, but his eyes widened when he got a load of the cocaine. Tex approached Hunter while unscrewing the cap. When he reached Hunter, he grabbed his hand, turned the vial over and dumped the entire contents out on the back. Doc knew what to do. The men were bonding. Hunter knew of a bar by the water; Tex followed him. They settled onto their barstools, and Tex ordered a shot and a beer. Hunter ordered a Chivas. Tex took a look at Hunter's drink, swept his own off the bar, and ordered three double Chivases apiece. It was the beginning of their friendship.

 

A snowy winter night in 1976, it was the heyday of the J-Bar. Eleven o'clock, prime time, and the bar was full. Outside, the snow, blowing sideways, had accumulated and drifted. The entire town, including Main Street, was covered by at least a foot of the stuff. Inside, Tex and Hunter were part of the mix. It being the seventies, we'll never know exactly how many of the revelers were on acid that night, but we can be sure of two. Tex and Hunter had dropped two hits each, and it was taking
hold quite nicely, thank you. Their conversation had turned to their respective driving skills. Hunter always fancied himself an ace driver, and Tex was of the same opinion regarding his own talents. Fact was, they were both absolutely sure that, given the opportunity, each could drive the other into oblivion. A challenge was inevitable. The twelve inches of unplowed snow on the roads wasn't a factor.

Hunter had “the Shark,” a 1972 Chevy Caprice, fire-engine red 454 convertible, directly out front in a convenient No Parking zone. Tex was piloting a metallic gray Coupe de Ville. It was parked, more or less legally, just across the street. After some conversation regarding the relative merits of the vehicles, it was decided that a fair handicap would be to race in reverse, culminating with a 180-degree turn and a parallel park in front of the J-Bar. The race would begin at the Hickory House restaurant a mile down Main Street. The judges were then-sheriff Dick Kienast, and Michael Solheim, who ran the J-Bar. There was no traffic.

Hunter and
Rolling Stone
editor Tobias Perse in “the Shark”: an all-weather racer.

“The Shark,” grazing in a field beside the Tavern with Woody Creek writer Gaylord Guenin.

So much snow had accumulated that it took several large men to push the behemoths out of their parking spaces. Once in the street, they were ready to go. For some reason no one wanted to accompany the guys to the Hickory House to be the official starter. It would have meant walking all the way back to the Jerome in a blizzard, or riding with one of them. Neither option seemed prudent to even the most loaded of those assembled. A crowd gathered on the sidewalk and watched the two monstrous vehicles disappear like spirits into the storm. As snow began to accumulate on the windward side of their faces, people glanced around at one another. Why were they standing there in the snow? All but a few slipped back into the bar. Those who stayed out on the sidewalk were tourists not wanting to take the chance of missing Hunter Thompson racing in reverse in a blizzard. The locals, warm and drinking inside, knew that they'd get the word when something actually happened.

It wasn't long before one of the tourists, covered with an inch of fresh powder, came charging into the bar. “I think they're coming!” Everyone headed out to the sidewalk. In the vague distance, taillights and back-up lights appeared. Reverse racing is exciting in its own way, but not in the sense of high speeds. Even if you are willing to blow an engine, the reverse-gear ratio is such that truly dangerous speeds aren't possible. The crowd hadn't missed much between the announcement and actually getting out to the sidewalk. The contestants were still just barely coming into view. Steering is the true challenge in reverse. Especially through twelve inches of snow. Total concentration is required. One too-abrupt crank of the wheel and you're doing 360s until all your momentum is dissipated. Through the driving snow the lights slowly grew larger, holding steady, not swerving. It was the whine of the engines that was painful, revving so far beyond the red line, tortured beyond reason. The Jerome was the finish, and the No Parking spaces directly in front were the destination.

The great Red Shark was ahead by a length and a half when the racers became clearly visible. The crowd could hear Tex's de Ville winding down, but Hunter maintained speed. He spun the Shark around and braked—to no avail. The inertia of the huge machine was too much. The Shark glided past the Jerome and through the intersection beyond without slowing—up over the curb and through the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the lawn of a small restaurant, coming to a rest on its doorstep. In the meantime, Tex had executed a perfect spin and slid up next to the curb in a textbook example of parallel parking. He was declared winner without protest, by everyone but Hunter. Hunter insisted that getting there first had made him the winner, even though he got “there” and then some. Never mind the parking job on the lawn of the restaurant. Naturally Tex ended up buying the drinks anyway.

 

Halloween was usually pretty interesting in Aspen. It was 1984 and Hunter was sitting alone in the kitchen at Owl Farm. There was a knock on the door. Hunter opened it to find three geishas standing there. Not an everyday occurrence, at Owl Farm or anyplace else in Woody Creek. Always good with the composure, Hunter graciously invited them inside.

The week before, Tex had been remodeling a space to accommodate Aspen's next sushi bar. He had been befriended by Masa, the owner, and the other Japanese who were constantly coming and going. They were excited about Halloween; relatively new in town, they had heard the wild stories. On the day of Halloween, one of them asked Tex if he was going to dress up that evening. When the large, somewhat violent biker announced that he was planning on going as a geisha this year, his new Japanese friends were enthusiastic. Later that afternoon they showed up with a homemade geisha wig attached to a baseball cap with the bill cut off. This was great. The wig was going to be the hard part. The rest of the outfit—kimono, etc.—fell into place with no problem.

That evening Tex found himself at a very high-tone party in Aspen's exclusive Starwood subdivision. Remarkably, unbelievably, there were two beautiful Asian girls there, dressed as geishas. Maybe they actually were geishas; we'll never know. Tex was not a shy man anyway, but what an ice-breaker. There he stood, full geisha attire, white pancake makeup, the works, chatting up these two beautiful women. Tex didn't let the fact that they described their function at the party as “entertainment” keep him from suggesting that they split and go meet the famous author. I guess they didn't take their jobs too seriously, because they thought the idea was just dandy, and off the three went to Owl Farm.

When they arrived, Tex didn't identify himself and maintained almost complete silence. Hunter was particularly enchanted by the tall, quiet geisha. She said almost nothing, but partook of the hospitality of the Owl Farm kitchen just as eagerly as the two smaller ones. As the evening unfolded, a mixture of substances did their work on the inhibitions in the room, and Hunter felt that a special, exotic sort of love was in the air. Tex was becoming a little uncomfortable with all the options that might present themselves to him if he stayed. Coming clean with Hunter and a houseful of weapons definitely wasn't one of them. Showing true wisdom, Tex slipped out into the night, leaving the two girls there.

No one will tell the story of how Hunter found out the truth, but from that night on, Tex's name at Owl Farm was the Princess of Darkness.

Documentary filmmaker Wayne Ewing chronicled Hunter Thompson's adventures for twenty years. His efforts produced a trilogy of films,
Breakfast With Hunter
,
When I Die
, and
Free Lisl: Fear and Loathing in Denver.
Hunter and Wayne's relationship was much more than professional: they were close friends and, occasionally through the years, neighbors. Wayne was often described as possibly the most decent man to frequent the kitchen. It was Hunter's kitchen; the bar wasn't too high. Being Hunter's friend was an ongoing learning experience; the early lessons were often the most exciting.

Hunter had decided that he needed a new camera. Wayne, being a professional cameraman, got discounts and was glad to
order whatever Hunter needed. The camera arrived, and Wayne called Doc to see if he wanted to take delivery. Hunter told Wayne to come right over. “Just walk in and make yourself at home. I might be in the shower.” Wayne was puzzled. Why not just wait until Hunter was out of the shower? Go over in a little while. Not wanting to argue unnecessarily, Wayne and his girlfriend headed out for Owl Farm. They arrived and knocked for a fair amount of time. After a while Wayne tried the door; it was unlocked.

Well, okay. Hunter had said come on in; Wayne was uneasy. He told his girlfriend to wait as he gingerly pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Hunter! Hunter, it's Wayne…I've come with the camera.” No response. Then, perhaps, a small sound from the next room. Wayne crept through the living room toward the kitchen. “Hunter, it's Wayne. I'm here.”

Standing in the kitchen doorway, he observed Hunter in the middle of the room—in his bathrobe and dripping wet. The only thing to suggest that he wasn't just out of the shower was the sawed-off twelve-gauge in his hand hanging by his side and a maniacal grin on his face. “My god,” Wayne thought, “he can shoot me dead and claim he thought I was an intruder.” Hunter fired from the hip. The blast tore a four-inch hole in the doorframe, twelve inches from Wayne's thigh. Wayne bolted for the porch, grabbed the girlfriend, and ran for the car. Hunter gave chase.

When Doc caught up with the unnerved couple he was laughing. He persuaded them to come back. Wayne had just learned that this was just one of Hunter's many unique ways of giving you a little hug. He also learned that you really could get hurt.

When asked what he gleaned from all his years with Hunter, Wayne paused as if he'd never given it any thought before, after a moment he said, “Hunter taught me how to gamble, how to be a good gambler.” You bet. It was always a gamble.

Wayne pointed out that on the rare occasion when Hunter would have to write a check to pay off his kitchen gambling debts, he would always write “bad gambling debt” in the memo portion of the check, in the hope that the check would end up framed on a wall rather than be cashed. It often worked.

Over the course of the years of trailing after Hunter, documenting his antics, Wayne evolved into a de facto road manager. When Hunter was invited to Washington to participate in George McGovern's eightieth birthday celebration, Wayne was the obvious choice to be Hunter's advance man. He was from D.C. and knew his way around as a local.

On the day of Hunter's arrival, Wayne was supposed to rent a limousine, pick Hunter up at Dulles airport, and get him checked into his hotel suite. Hunter's plane touched down, and Wayne waited at the gate. And waited, and waited. Wayne waited so long that he figured there couldn't possibly be anyone left on the plane. He concluded that Hunter had missed the flight, and he was about to leave when Hunter appeared. He was like a rubber man. His legs weren't supporting him and he was groping from handhold to handhold. “I need a wheelchair” was Hunter's greeting to Wayne. No shit. Wayne looked around and, amazingly, there sat a wheelchair, as if they had ordered it. Wayne poured Hunter into it. As they wheeled their way toward the limo, Wayne was thinking that, yes, there was surely an interesting explanation but, no, he would probably never hear it. Hunter proceeded to explain.

Boarding the plane in Denver, Hunter almost immediately got into an argument with the stewardess. Clearly the woman had no idea that she was talking to someone to whom the usual rules did not apply. Hunter found this offensive. Apparently there was a thing or two about his behavior that the stewardess
found offensive. One rule that she must have been unaware of, in regard to Hunter, was that you don't fight back. Things got ugly. Hunter, in a breathtaking moment of insight, decided that things could get worse. He went to his seat and took a halcyon, or two, or…His reasoning was that if he were unconscious, the problems would diminish. Unfortunately, the sleeping pills lasted longer than the flight.

The limousine wove through D.C. traffic and reached the hotel forty-five minutes later. Sans wheelchair, Wayne escorted Hunter to the hotel bar and left him. At the front desk, Wayne checked “Ben Franklin” into a suite. Then he returned to the lounge to fetch Hunter. The whole process had taken about five minutes, and in that time Hunter had not only regained his composure but was in the process of successfully picking up a woman. An exceptionally attractive, straight-laced lady lawyer from Memphis was saying, “Aren't you that…uh…writer?”

 

Back in Colorado, back in the kitchen, Wayne and some of the boys were waiting for the game to start. We were also waiting for Hunter to come out of the bedroom. We were always excited about the beginning of a new football season, but it was hell on Hunter's schedule. The early game would start at eleven o'clock Mountain Time, sleepy time for Doc. It was, in fact, hours and hours earlier than his usual wake-up call. So the first few games of football season involved a fair amount of waiting. We'd set ourselves up in the kitchen, and Deborah or Anita would begin the process of getting him up and running.

On this particular occasion, we were passing the time talking about the kind of expectations people have of Hunter. We'd all seen it: an outsider would come into the kitchen hoping to find some kind of crazed caricature, only to encounter a sedate
middle-aged man in thoughtful conversation. A student attending a lecture by the world-famous author would end up watching people getting blasted with a fire extinguisher. Wayne told us about an incident in a very fancy London restaurant.

Hunter was in England on business, having meetings with his overseas publisher. The publisher was wining and dining him at all the best places. This particular evening they were at a posh joint with the oak paneling and the very proper East Indian staff. The publisher was obviously well known there, and it was clear that they were expecting the great writer from the States. While they were enjoying their meal, an American couple seated on the other side of the room spotted Hunter and the publisher. The couple recognized Hunter and were big fans. They sent a note over by way of the Indian maître d', whose exotic accent and perfect diction probably intimidated everyone but the queen. The note was lovely and gracious, indicating that they didn't wish to interrupt his meal but wanted Hunter to know that they were fellow Americans, and what high regard they held him in. What might these folks' expectations have been?

Hunter read the note, paused for a bit, then affected a look of utter horror and outrage. He beckoned wildly for the maître d' to come to the table. The Indian arrived, all formality and propriety. Hunter had him lean low over the table so he could whisper in his ear. Hunter whispered, and the maître d' straightened instantly. He glared at the American couple across the room. The Indian motioned at minions as he strode briskly toward the American couple. When he arrived at their table, his body language and gestures were intimidating even from ten yards away. He put his hand on the man's shoulder as if to physically pick him up out of his chair. The woman rose as waiters rushed toward them with their coats. The maître d' ushered them to the front of the res
taurant with a hand on each of their elbows. When they arrived at the door, he finally raised his voice. “And never return to this establishment,” he declared in his perfect diction and accent.

Hunter had told the Indian that the couple had been trying to sell him drugs.

 

On football game days the boys waited in the kitchen. There was no rule about not going into Hunter's bedroom, but there was no reason to; Deborah was already in there. Sometimes Doc would just disappear, and after a while you'd have to go check to see if he was ever coming out. You might find him fast asleep or just needing some quiet time. There were some rules, however. Most of them weren't written down, but some were.
NEVER DIAL
911, handwritten and taped to the refrigerator.
FRIENDS OF FRIENDS CAN'T BRING FRIENDS
, printed on a little sign. Hunter was very serious about the former, not as worried about the latter. There was also a sign in the bathroom, on the toilet, indicating the sorts of things that weren't supposed to be thrown in there. It was a sensitive, high-tech toilet. Then there were the rules that weren't written down anywhere but that you might be informed of. There were also unspoken rules.

One spoken, and generally accepted as good sense, rule was that if you brought someone into the kitchen, you were responsible for that person. The consequences for not tending to a guest who might have gotten caught up in the moment, or possibly ingested something that didn't agree with him, could be unpleasant indeed. An example of the very worst kind of guest one might bring by the kitchen would be litigious women. Hunter really hated it when someone invaded his space and then sued him. Unbelievably, this sort of thing happened. It led
to the “Never encroach on Hunter's physical space” rule. He actually had next to his chair one of those red velvet ropes that keep people like Cleverly out of trendy nightclubs. And there were occasions when he had to use it. The thing about getting into Hunter's space behind the counter was that he had countless weapons within arm's reach. Getting too close could be dangerous.

On one occasion I brought my landlady to a crowded playoff game. Hunter was glad to have her; she was a neighbor, a major landowner, and something of a legend in the community. We said hello to Hunter, and she immediately took up position directly behind him. I couldn't stand it. I kept waiting for him to lash out with a cattle prod or a dagger. She stayed there for the whole first quarter. When she finally moved off to the buffet in the living room, I thanked Hunter for not doing her in. She was the best landlady I ever had, and I didn't want to lose her.

Another practical rule was to never make reference to an HST quote in front of Hunter if you couldn't instantly put your hands on it. Most of Doc's books were right there, and you had better at least know which book to look in. Chapter and page was the only way to be totally safe. Hunter needed to be quoted accurately and would almost certainly want the whole shooting match read aloud. Being less than completely informed could be dangerous.

If watching a game, which the boys were about to do, it was a good idea to not discuss anything but the game during the game. You could find yourself sitting next to the most interesting person in the world, but what started out as a whispered aside could evolve into an engrossing conversation and could eventually catch the attention of Hunter, and unpleasantness could ensue.

It was an extremely good idea not to interject when Hunter was talking to an attractive woman. It was a good idea not to get between Hunter and an attractive woman. It was a good idea not to get anywhere near the view plane that existed between Hunter and an attractive woman. Should any of this occur, it was a good idea to remember the rule about not fighting back.