An Evening With Hunter: Part I

May 31st, 2008 at 05:36am Keith Hemstreet 8

The following is an excerpt from Keith Hemstreet's novel-in-progress, tentatively titled "Owl Farm."

I met Hunter S. Thompson on a cold April night in 2004. The moon was full, though muted, shining as a flashlight would through dense fog as we drove the long winding road, navigating ice and an occasional elk on our way to Thompson’s home in Woody Creek, Colorado, a fortified compound infamously known as the Owl Farm.

My friend, Justin, moved to Aspen after college, found work as a physical therapist and through great luck or great misfortune, depending on whom you spoke with, had taken Hunter S. Thompson as a patient soon after his hip replacement surgery. Hunter requested the rehabilitation take place at his home and that the sessions begin soon after he awoke from his long day’s sleep, typically around 9:00 pm. “Hunter,” I was told, “is nocturnal.” His day typically began in the late evening, well after dark, at which time he made his way from his bed to his writing chair and began the night’s work.

Justin thought it would be good for me to meet the famous writer. I had taken an interest in Thompson’s work while in college. Inspired by the frankness and inebriated wit with which his books were written, I had seriously reconsidered my course of study. If it had not been for a long heart-felt discussion with the Dean of the Business School, during which he convinced me of the vast opportunities available to a young man with a finance degree, I would have surely changed my major to creative writing.

Justin prepped me before the visit.

“Just be yourself,” he said. “Hunter can be skeptical of new people. But don’t worry, I told him your cool. We’ll just hang out, talk, have a few beers. If he’s up for it, we’ll do some therapy.”

Apparently, rehabilitation depended on Hunter’s mood, which was less than predictable.

“He expects people to jump when he needs something,” Justin said. “Stand your ground. That’s how you’ll gain his respect. The other night he told me to refill his drink. I said, ‘fuck you, I’m not your servant.’”

“What did he say?” I asked.
“He was pissed. Said I was fucking worthless. But, if you fall all over Hunter and do whatever he says, he’ll abuse you. I tell him to fuck himself and he respects me for that.”

The thought of me telling Hunter S. Thompson to go fuck himself was ridiculous. If Hunter asks me to do something, I thought, be it refill his drink or clip his toenails, I would likely oblige. My plan was to act nonchalant, ignore his fame, engage in casual conversation, avoid asking questions about his writing or his celebrity pals or the infamous drug induced adventures I’d read about in his books. I planned to act as though I was sitting in the living room of a sixty-six year-old man whose history I did not know, or care to know for that matter. If it were true that people fell all over Hunter when they met him, I would set myself apart by doing the opposite. This strategy, I felt, would increase the likelihood that I would be invited back.

“This is it,” Justin said, pulling off the road and driving under a square posted gate on to Hunter’s property. A dirt potholed driveway led the short distance to his cabin. It was not at all what I expected. Hunter’s home was a small, rustic, weathered home that, in contrast to most homes in the area, seemed to belong in the harsh, rugged mountains of Western America. It was simple dwelling, modest in comparison to his achievement, and had probably not changed much since he purchased it in the early 1970’s. There was something striking about the light, the way it flowed from the windows, danced around a lamp over the door, currents visible in the billowing illumination of sky, producing a vibration, an energy that could be felt in your core. Though unintentional, this copulation of light exuded power, distinguishing the home as a place of significance. A candy apple red convertible sat in the carport, the vehicle made famous in the classic tale, “Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas.”

Stepping from Justin’s truck, my stomach turned. “This is crazy,” I thought. “Of any living writer, I would choose to meet this very man, without question, and here I am walking up his driveway.”

Justin pulled open a screen door. A string of bells twirled and slapped the wood, releasing a chime that ran away in the cold night air. Justin knocked, but there was no response. He knocked again and opened the door.

“Hunter!” he yelled, and stepped inside.

Through the front door was a small mudroom, which, judging by the collection of long since used artifacts, had been designated for storage. A stationary bike fleeced with dust, random tennis shoes here and there without a matching pair, fishing poles intertwined with cobwebs, plywood of different dimensions stacked against the wall, a coat rack draped with Mardi Gras beads, vintage Disney posters of Mickey Mouse spread out like architectural drawings, other posters rolled tightly, held together with a rubber band, piles of books stacked and protected by a white sheet turned cream color with age.

To the right, a small window offered a view of the kitchen. There, hunched in a chair wearing a black and white herringbone pattern golf hat, sat Hunter S. Thompson.

“Hunter!” Justin yelled again.
“Yeah-yeah, in here!” he called back.

At the end of the mudroom we rounded the corner and stepped into the kitchen. Hunter was at the counter, pounding three large remote controls in frustration.

“God dammit!” he shouted, a filtered cigarette dangling from his lips. “My fucking TV won’t work!”

Eye contact, that of an admirer viewing admired in the flesh, brought on a rush, warm and quickly advancing, the construct of which was many elements. Nervousness, excitement, mental deterioration to the point that you know not what to say or what to do , how to stand, where to position your hands, what sort of expression to wear, and I dare not deny that within the rush was a small dose of euphoria, a feeling that I am doing something unique, something that will set me apart from the average man on the street.

“What’s the problem?” Justin asked, referring to the television.
“All these fucking remotes, and none of them work!”

Justin picked up a remote and pointed it at the TV, pressing buttons. The television screen remained blank.

“Which remote turns on the TV?” Justin asked.
“Hell if I know. I ordered this new all-in-one TV/VCR/DVD contraption, and it came with all of these controls. They make it so fucking complicated no one can use it.”

Hunter spoke quickly, as if words were racing from his mouth. His voice, a low drone, which rose for emphasis, seemed to originate in the depths of his lungs.

Justin tried another remote, pointing it at the television and pressing buttons at random. Through lightly tinted aviator glasses, Hunter stared, dark eyes piercing and focused.

Amidst stacks of books and papers, sitting on the kitchen counter, was a bulky red Streamline typewriter. It seemed odd that a writer today would use such an antiquated tool. However, Hunter was from a different era. He had learned the craft using a typewriter, produced his best work on a typewriter. It had become, I concluded, a necessary piece of the writing equation. A word processor or laptop was piece of equipment he would never consider. Without the loud pounding of the keys, metal arms slapping letters on paper, the manic machinegun frenzy of progress, his production may come to a screeching halt.

The other thing that struck me as odd was the location of his workstation. How could one concentrate in the kitchen, an area that acts as the center of activity in most homes? I had always imaged Hunter working in a studio, detached from the main dwelling. A small retreat built of logs with a rusted tin roof, able to work in total seclusion, no phone, no connection to the outside world, just the man and his mind, pacing, yelling, frantic with ideas, working like a madman through the dark hours when all else was quiet. A maniac raving in the night. How else could one accomplish a work of brilliance?

To Hunter’s right, perched in a windowsill, was the head of a mannequin, mouth rounded with phallic intent, lips painted pink, eyes of blue. Behind him, displayed on the wall as part of the cabin’s décor, was a row of large knives, not one of which would find practicality in a modern kitchen. These blades were weathered with orange rust and much too large for standard culinary tasks such as slicing cabbage or dicing tomatoes. They were weapons, most the size of machetes, and I pondered their purpose. Was there any other than effect? Intimidation possibly? Were these weapons of significance? Where they recovered from famous battles, Little Big Horn of Bunker Hill for instance, or were they on exhibit for no other reason than to amuse his guests? To complement the blades, Hunter displayed an assortment of pistols, including a .357 magnum lying on a stack of papers, barrel pointing into the living room. In the event of an accidental discharge, I made note of the barrel’s line of fire, stepping quickly through it when necessary.

None of the remotes seemed to work.

“Do they have batteries in them?”
“Ah hell, I don’t know.”

Justin checked each one. All of them had batteries.

“This is fucking absurd,” Hunter said.

Justin put down the remotes and stepped to the refrigerator.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Hunter,” Justin said. “I guess you’re actually going to have to get up and change the channel.”
“Nonsense.”
“Do you mind if we grab some beers?”

Hunter did not answer. He was hunched over, dragging on his cigarette, legs crossed, glaring at the television, projecting hatred. I thought he might grab one of his guns and fire a bullet through the screen. I’d heard stories of him doing such things.

“This is my buddy, Alex,” Justin said, handing me a beer.
“Yes, Alex. Hello. Do you know anything about televisions?”
“Not much, but I’ll take a look.”
“We made a video tape and I need to watch it before I put it in the mail.”

I took a remote, walked to the television and hit the power button on the main unit. The television came on.

“Great Jesus!” Hunter yelled. “We have a picture.”
“Where’s the tape?” I asked.
“It’s in the machine. I’m almost certain. Wait, maybe it’s still in the camera. Jesus, I don’t know. Hit play, see what happens.”

I pressed the “play” button. The picture did not change. There were several additional buttons on the television. I pressed them, one at a time.

“Try switching antennas,” Justin said.
“What?”
“Try antenna A or B.”

There were no such buttons. I kept pressing, finally the picture changed.

“What do we have here?” Hunter said.

A grainy Thompson was now visible on the screen, split by lamplight, shot composed from mid-belly to just above his head. He was wearing a white oxford, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tinted aviators, filtered cigarette gripped tightly in his teeth. A long chain holding a silver medallion hung around his neck. Wrapping his forehead, a blue bandana.

“Yes, this is it,” Hunter said, “fine job, young man. Fine job indeed.”

I stepped back from the television and took a seat in a sunken green velvet recliner.

“Turn it up,” Hunter said. “Rewind, start from the beginning.”

I jumped from the recliner, turned up the volume, rewound. Hunter put the cigarette back in his mouth and locked his gaze. The tape began.

The following is a dictation of the videos content, or as close to dictation as memory allows. (For the record, I wrote this later that night, when I returned home from Hunter’s cabin, so as not to forget specific dialogue).

HUNTER: Yes, hello. This is the ‘Good Doctor,” broadcasting from the Owl Farm, a fortified compound in Woody Creek, Colorado. It is April…April what?
CAMERA MAN: Twenty-fifth.
HUNTER: (sipping from a glass of whiskey) Twenty-sixth.
CAMERA MAN: Twenty-fifth.
HUNTER: That’s not important. What I am about to reveal to you, here tonight, is a genuine breakthrough in modern science. A breakthrough of such importance it will likely be printed medical journals and textbooks throughout the world. What is this breakthrough, you ask? It’s what I call, ‘The Good Doctor’s Secret to Painless Dental Work.’ Now, as we know, no one derives pleasure from a visit to the dentist. It can be horrific, ghastly.
CAMERA MAN: (off-screen) It sucks.
HUNTER: What?
CAMERA MAN: It sucks.
HUNTER: Jesus, man! I can’t think with you rambling behind the camera! Christ. (Hunter drags his cigarette, exhales). So, where was I? Ah, yes, dental work. Yesterday, I went to the dentist for a root canal…and may I remind you, much research went into this discovery. I am a professional in these matters, and I take my work seriously. Okay, back to the experiment. I’m in the chair, and I place my headphones over my ears, the type of headphones, you know, that completely cover your ears, blocking all outside sounds from penetrating the ear canal. So the trick to eliminating pain is two part. One, the earphones. Two, the volume. It is also imperative that you have the finest portable stereo equipment on the market. Without it, you will fail. Now, once you have the finest portable stereo equipment, and the headphones that completely cover your ears, turn the volume up as high as it will go, brace yourself, hit play and the power of the music will send you into a state of shock. It is critical that you select the right music. Led Zeppelin, for example. I think I was actually listening to Bob Marley, which is mellow, but worked just fine. In addition to the violently loud music, there are a few things to keep in mind. Prior to my visit to the dentist I had consumed, oh, let’s see…six or seven Vicadin, the usual amount of whiskey, a bit of smoke, a variety of uppers and downers, et cetera, all of which help boost your threshold for pain. (Hunter drags on his cigarette, looks away, gathers his thoughts). As a professional journalist, it is my duty to present the truth. I’ve taken a pledge, and I live by that pledge, though I don’t remember the precise verbiage of that pledge at the moment. Ask me later. I’ll recite it. (Hunter smiles, takes a drag). So, I’m in the chair, nearly prepped and the doctor comes at me with the drill. I grab his arm and say, ‘Hold up, Doc. You’re forgetting something. Where the hell is my pain medication?’ So he gives me a mask of nitrous, what they used to call ‘laughing gas,’ and I huff away on the nitrous, but it does nothing. So the doc gives me an extra ten minutes or so with the mask, but still, nothing. At this point, I tell the Doc that I forgot something in my car, my insurance card or something. Doesn’t matter. He pulls off the drool cloth, I excuse myself, walk to the car, find my stash, and fill my head to the point that I wouldn’t feel a gunshot. Then I stumble back inside, and take my root canal like a man. (Sipping from glass of whiskey). And so goes the ‘Good Doctor’s Secret to Painless Dental Work.’
CAMERA MAN: Is that a wrap?
HUNTER: Turn the goddamn thing off.

“Who is this tape for?” Justin asked.
“Playboy. They asked if I would send them something. I asked them to be more specific. They weren’t, so I made this tape.”
“A fine piece of video.”