The Kitchen Readings (9 page)

 

By the late eighties, DeDe had parlayed her Hollywood connections into a business called Aspen Production Services. APS essentially hooked the Hollywood guys up with whatever they needed to be hooked up with in Aspen, and acted as liaison between production companies and the Aspen community, although she also provided the same service in other parts of the world.

In 1991 Brandon Tartikoff and NBC decided to produce an Aspen movie. It was to be written by John Byrum. Byrum was a huge Hunter fan and had met the Doctor on a visit to Aspen. The film was supposed to be based on a Hunter-type character using Hunter language and involving whacky Hunter-type scenarios and “gonzo” events. DeDe and her crew were told not to mention any of this to Hunter under any circumstances.

The phone call DeDe inevitably got from Owl Farm was packed with expletives and threats. “How could you align yourself with these sadistic Hollywood pig fucks capitalizing on my life?” DeDe first denied everything, “Why would you think that?” Later: “How did you find out?”

Trying to outwit Hunter was futile. Occasionally flattery could be employed, but not here. When Hunter felt exploited, no amount of cajoling could placate him. The media was alerted; ugly phone calls were traded back and forth; there were newspaper articles.

It was too late for the production company to back off; they were already in too deep. Crews were in town, locations had been arranged, the actors were cast. All DeDe could do was make the best of a bad situation. She did her job and cast her future boy
friend, then-deputy Bob Braudis, as Deputy Cujo. The movie was a piece of shit; no one saw it.

For some reason Hunter forgave DeDe. In fact, the event was never mentioned between them. Perhaps even back then Hunter could see that somewhere down the road, his best friend, Bob, and the crazy hottie DeDe would get together. On into their dotage.

Duke's phone rang at 3:00
A.M
. “DukethisisHunter, whatareyoudoing?” Hunter may have been the only person on planet earth who could ask that question, at that hour, and not be accused of being disingenuous. In Hunter's world there were lots of things one might reasonably be doing at 3:00
A.M
. As it happened, Duke was awake. “Just hanging out, hoping a couple girls might stop by.”

Did Duke have an actual reason to expect that a couple of girls might stop by? Or was it because any single guy who's awake at 3:00
A.M
. is going to be hoping that a couple of girls might stop by? What else are you going to be hoping for?

Hunter went on, “HowaboutifIcomeover? Doyouhaveanythingtodrink?”

“Where the hell are you?” asked Duke, justifiably. Duke lived miles from Owl Farm, but only about eight blocks from the Jerome Bar, where Hunter turned out to be. He must have been doing his good deed for the day, helping the bartender close up or something of that nature. We won't ask.

Duke said that he might have a couple beers. Hunter said, “GreatI'llbeoverinafew.”

Duke Dixon and Doc enjoying
Monday Night Football
levity.

Half an hour later there was a knock on the door of Duke's East Hopkins Avenue apartment. He opened the door, there was a huge potted plant standing there waiting to be let in. He jumped back. Absent LSD, visits from potted plants at that hour were rare, and a touch frightening. Duke studied the plant for a moment. It resembled ones that he'd encountered in the lobby of the Hotel Jerome. Just as he began to feel a little less uneasy, the plant spoke: “Jesuschristlemmethefuckin. Takethisthingforgodssake.” The plant wanted to come in. Duke opened the door wide, and the plant walked in, with Hunter Thompson directly behind it.

“WherethehellcanIputthis?” It was just Hunter carrying an enormous plant. That wasn't so bad. “Anywhere you want, Hunter.” Hunter put the mammoth display of foliage on the coffee table. Duke was worried; could the table handle the weight? “Whathaveyougottodrink?” Duke went to the refrigerator. “Beer.” “Nevermind, Ibroughtthis.” Hunter opened his coat and
hauled out a large, industrial-size jug of vanilla extract. This was exactly why a lot of us had always thought that Hunter's innards should qualify as a Superfund site. Duke asked himself why someone would swipe a jug of vanilla extract from the Jerome kitchen when one could just as easily swipe booze from the bar? He didn't bother to pose this question to Hunter. Vanilla extract
is
12 percent alcohol, but still…

By 9:00
A.M
. things were winding down. Duke had finished his beer and Hunter had put an impressive dent in the vanilla extract. The girls, real or imagined, had not yet materialized. Hunter was hosting a luncheon later that day at Owl Farm, and Duke was to be in attendance. The boys decided that the gals probably weren't going to show, and called it a night.

Hunter's fête the next afternoon was in honor of Semmes Luckett's eighty-year-old mother. Mrs. Luckett was a true daughter of the South and had raised a Southern gentleman. She had long wanted to meet the famous writer from Louisville, Hunter S. Thompson.

Semmes was a close friend of Jack Nicholson, who was, of course, close to Hunter. Semmes was overseeing a construction project at Nicholson's Aspen home and was a fixture at the J-Bar and other Aspen haunts. Hunter and Semmes were friends, so when his mom came for a visit, it was natural for Hunter to be gracious.

Hunter with six-pack, sketched by Jack Nicholson.

When Duke arrived at Owl Farm on his Harley with the
usual hot blonde on the back, the other guests were already in place on the deck. They didn't seem to mind the thin coat of driveway dust they were suddenly wearing courtesy of Duke and his motorcycle. As Duke and the babe climbed the steps to the deck, Hunter was busy wielding a machete, dissecting watermelons and cantaloupes that had been injected with liquor the night before. Dissecting is probably too elegant a term to use to describe what Hunter was doing. The chopping strokes he was using to cut up the melons would have decapitated an ox. A less trusting audience might have found it disconcerting, but those present were Southern aristocracy, and decorum wouldn't have allowed for unpleasant accidents.

The alcohol-infused fruit and good food made for a convivial meal. After lunch Mrs. Luckett turned to Hunter and, in her best Southern manner, asked him if she might have some small memento to remember the afternoon by. Doc was charmed by the request and cast about looking for something appropriate to give this eighty-year-old Southern belle. His glance fell on the wall behind them. There was a large, early-model stun gun/cattle prod. It looked more like a prop from a
Star Wars
movie than the nice compact devices the cops Taser us with nowadays. Doc kept it around to ensure civilized behavior. He ripped it off the wall and handed it to Mrs. Luckett, beaming all the way. Mrs. Luckett smiled and accepted the gift with only her bulging eyes betraying her feelings. Others at the table were clapping Hunter on the back and congratulating him on making such a fine choice. After a few moments Hunter asked Semmes Luckett's mother if she'd like him to show her how to operate the device. There was a long, pregnant silence. Mrs. Luckett pondered. Upon what occasion would she use it, and on whom? Her lack of response was beginning to make people uncomfortable. Could it be possible
that the stun gun had been an inappropriate choice? It seemed so right. Hunter began to have second thoughts. He excused himself and disappeared into the house. He returned to the deck a few minutes later toting a lovely turquoise pendant.

Taking the cattle prod and handing Mrs. Lucket the pendant, he said, “Itoccurredtomethatyoumighthavetroublegettingitontheplane.” It was clear that the only possible place Hunter could have come up with something like the pendant was his girlfriend's jewelry box. People chose to overlook that obvious conclusion and said nothing. Mrs. Luckett beamed with both relief and delight. Her thank-you note to Hunter mentioned that she had no trouble whatever getting the pendant on the plane home.

Weeks later Duke and some of Hunters close friends were in the kitchen watching
Monday Night Football,
where there was the usual drinking and gambling. At halftime Duke recounted the story of Semmes's mother, the lunch, and the gift. The consensus of opinion was that a Baretta would have been a better choice. A lighter weapon, better for an elderly woman. Smaller, more easily concealed in a clutch or a shawl, easier to smuggle on an airplane. Hunter waxed poetic about Mrs. Luckett's genteel grace, indicating that she reminded him of his own mother, whose birthday was that very day. The assembled lads asked what Hunter had given his mother for the occasion.

“Houston and four” was his reply.

 

New Orleans. Hunter was in town as part of a book tour. Coincidentally, Duke had also scheduled a trip to the Crescent City, for the jazz festival. They decided to hook up. Hunter had reserved several suites on the upper floors of the Pontchartrain Hotel. In the spirit of keeping order in the food chain, the
attorney general of Louisiana was occupying a suite two floors below Hunter. Doc was the first of his party to arrive, so he was uncharacteristically alone, no supervision. He proceeded to run a bath and stretched out for a bit to begin the unwinding process.

It seemed as if the phone had been ringing for quite a while, but it was the pounding on the door that really brought him back to consciousness. He swung his feet off the bed, and when they hit the floor the water immediately soaked his socks. “What the…?” The carpet was soaked. Hunter slogged to the door; the faces on the other side were concerned, agitated. “Are you all right?” they asked. “Of course I am, except the damn carpet is soaking, can you help?” At that point he became aware of the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. He asked, “Is there a leak? Has there been a mishap?” The hotel authorities excused themselves, passed him, and headed into the bathroom. Hunter followed. The tile floor was deep underwater. They turned the water off. “You'll have to move into a suite upstairs; the one below you is also soaked. The one below that, too, the one the attorney general was occupying.” Hunter was annoyed by the thoughtlessness of this inconvenience, but decided not to complain. Give the fools a break.

When the rest of Hunter's entourage arrived, they found that they weren't staying in as close proximity as they had hoped, but Hunter assured them that there was a reasonable explanation and said no more. Duke called that evening. He asked to speak to Mr. Ackerman, and the hotel operator put him through to Hunter's room.

Duke was staying at a friend's apartment on Bourbon Street. They agreed that he would attend the following day's book signing and then the two would do something fun afterward.

When the signing wound down to stragglers and Hunter's party, Doc announced that he'd just as soon go off with Duke, so everyone else could do what they wanted with their evening. Hunter and Duke found themselves an excellent restaurant in the French Quarter. As was his usual practice, Hunter ordered a glass of ice water, a beer, a Bloody Mary, and a large Chivas on the rocks. In the spirit of excess, Duke ordered a beer. They enjoyed a good wine with dinner, confining themselves to one entrée each. As the busboy was clearing, Hunter asked about dessert specials.

“Crème brûlée,” the waiter said.

“Hmm,” Hunter said. “I'll have some.” The waiter turned to leave. Hunter said, “Wait, keep going.”

The waiter turned back to the table. “We also have mud pie.”

“I'll try that,” Hunter said and indicated that the waiter should proceed.

“Cheesecake.”

“Sure, that sounds good.”

“Pecan tort.”

“Great.”

“Our house special tonight is chocolate mousse.”

“Nope, sounds a little too rich.”

After dinner the two headed out into the Quarter. They had heard that there was an interesting joint on Royale. The boys made their way to “The Wild Side,” a subterranean club with dark stairs leading down to the door.

Smoke and gloom greeted them as they entered. Even coming in from the night, their eyes had to adjust to the darkness. They identified the bar and groped off in that direction. Settling into the drinks, Hunter began to talk. As Duke's senses adjusted to
the atmosphere, he began to get an odd vibe. Sure, the bartender is flagrantly gay. So? This was the city of anything goes. There was something else, though. Sounds emanating from the darkness. While Doc was happily chatting away, Duke was beginning to see into the shadows. He picked out faces, lots and lots of makeup. The darker the shadow, the stranger, more feral the sounds. Hunter was laughing, amused by his own banter. Duke was peering. The world of the club was slowly revealing itself to him. He grabbed Hunter's wrist. “Hunter, look around.” Hunter stopped talking and swiveled his head, trying to zone in on whatever Duke wanted him to see. “See?” Duke lowered his voice to a whisper. “Hunter, everyone in here is gay or a transvestite or a transsexual, or all of it. There are people actually having sex in the corners.” Hunter continued to look around. He nodded. “I'm happy.”

The next night Hunter showed up at the Bourbon Street apartment where Duke was staying with three transvestites in tow. Word is, nothing happened.

Later, back in the kitchen at the farm, when Duke would try to recount the incident, he found Hunter a little uncooperative in helping with the details. Duke got the feeling that he shouldn't bring it up again, ever.