An Evening With Hunter: Part II

June 7th, 2008 at 05:07am Keith Hemstreet 8

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

Click here to read “An Evening With Hunter: Part I”

Hunter made another attempt to control the television with one of the remotes.

“Put that thing away,” Justin said. “You’re not going to get it to work.”
“Fucking ridiculous. I’ll have to make some calls tomorrow, get some people out here to program the entire system. Someone turn on ESPN. Do it the old fashioned way. Use the buttons on the TV.”

Justin found ESPN and took a seat. We were now just hanging out, drinking beers, watching Sports Center. I looked around the room. The walls were brick. Across the counter, on the wall opposite Hunter, a large corkboard tacked with white index cards outlining the chapters of his latest book, “The American Dream: Tales of Sex, Drugs & Violence.” Shelves lined several walls, each crammed with books and papers. The linoleum floors were checkered, black and white, and trampled with age. There was a coffee table, wood scratched and chipped. Underneath the table, magazines were stacked high. It was if the man had never thrown anything away in his life.

I tried not to look directly at Hunter, as he was seated to my right, and to look at him required a ninety-degree turn of the head, not subtle enough to go unnoticed. The last thing I wanted was to be perceived as meddlesome. The lure, however, was too much. He was doing something at the counter, and I wanted to know what, so on occasion I would take a glance, acting as though I was adjusting the recliner, or scratching my ankle, just to see what was going on.

He was fiddling with a cellophane bag, picking at something inside, tapping out his cigarette filter, opening drawers, shuffling things around, looking, not finding, slamming drawers. When his eyes lifted, I looked away. Then, a distinct series of sounds - a lighter being lit, a long inhale, silence, a billowing exhale, a coughing fit. Enough of a fit to warrant attention.

“Jesus,” he said. “What have we here? Hashish?” He lifted the bag to his nose. “Yes, I think that’s exactly what we have.” As if he suddenly remembered that a stranger was in the room, someone who could not be trusted, he shot me a look, pointing his finger as if scolding. “No it’s not! No hashish here! You heard nothing!”

On ESPN there was a story of Willie Williams, a highly sought after high school football player from south Florida. At the suggestion of a Miami Herald reporter, Willie kept a detailed journal of his recruiting trips to the nations top programs, Miami, Notre Dame, Florida State, Michigan. This diary, which included stories of private jets, limousines, women, and other extravagances, became the basis for a book, which was being written by the Herald reporter. Ultimately, Willie chose the University of Miami, escalating speculation over the school’s recruiting practices.

“Those schools are wishing they had never met the kid,” Hunter said.

We discussed the Willie Williams story, and college football in general, for sometime. It was a completely normal conversation, and I was thrilled by the fact that I could speak about sports at a level that qualified a response from Hunter and even encouraged further discussion.

“I think I’ll pick up that book once it hits the shelves,” Justin said, speaking of Willie’s diaries. “I bet it will be a good read.”

“Maybe,” Hunter said. “Who knows? Could be excellent. Could be shit.”

Reaching across the counter, he picked up a long pole, approximately three feet in length, with a claw at the end. With a flick of the wrist, he whacked a stereo that sat above the counter. Nothing. He whacked it again, and again, harder. The stereo came to life. With the claw, he cranked the volume as loud as it would go. Banjos twanged from the speakers, uncomfortably loud, loud enough to vibrate the kitchen window, though it did not faze Hunter. He went back to the contents of a cellophane bag. The song was a satirical number about cops shoving a broom handle up a Haitian’s ass. Justin and I laughed, as the song had some humorous verse. As soon as the song ended, Hunter smacked the stereo with the pole and there was silence.

“What do you do, Alex?” he asked, sipping whiskey from his glass.
“I’m an accountant at the Aspen Hotel. I also write a column for the paper each week.”
“You know what you should do?”

Incredible, I thought, guidance for an aspiring writer from a master. I moved to the edge of my seat in anticipation of some profound advice, certain he was about to impart great wisdom, a secret, invaluable knowledge granted by some higher power to the world’s literary luminaries.

“What should I do?” I asked.
“Rob a bank.”
“Rob a bank?”
“Absolutely. The bank’s policy is to give thieves whatever they ask for. No hassles, just give them what they want and get them out the door before the bastards shoot the place to hell. It’s something to consider.”
“Hmm.”
Hunter continued, “Then, what you do is learn to fly. Buy a plane that can land in a lagoon. Use the rest of money to buy an atoll in the south pacific. Buy it with cash. No paper trails. Build a hut out of palms. Grow coconuts and pineapples. Bring in girls from Tahiti. Hula dancers.”

Hunter took a hit from the pipe and shuffled through some papers.

“What do you say we do a bit of therapy tonight?” Justin said.

“Dammit,” Hunter replied, exhaling with a bit of a groan. “Ah, what the hell.”
“Stand up and we’ll get started,” Justin said.

Hunter lumbered from his chair.

“Jesus, you’re a pain in my ass.”
“That’s my job. Come on, arms over your head.”

Arms extended above his head in the shape of a Y, filtered cigarette gripped by hind teeth, Hunter leaned to his right, letting out a sigh.

“How’s that feel?” Justin asked.
“Surprisingly enough, it feels pretty damn good.”

Justin went on to direct Hunter through a series of stretches and squats. When they were finished, Justin unzipped a duffle bag and removed a medicine ball the size of a grapefruit.

“Can I sit down for this?” Hunter asked.
“Sure.”

Justin tossed Hunter the medicine ball from across the kitchen. Hunter caught it with a grunt, as if he had just been hit in the stomach.

“I always forget how heavy this damn thing is.”

They tossed it back and forth for a while. I was watching television when I noticed Hunter aiming the ball in my direction, as if preparing to take a free throw. I turned just as he lofted the ball over a lamp and caught it in my lap.

“Heads up over there. Flying medicine balls.”

I threw the ball to Justin. We now had a medicine ball triangle. Justin to Hunter–Hunter to me–me to Justin. After a few rounds, Hunter was confident with his toss over the lamp. Assuming it was a given, he fielded a toss from Justin and threw it without forethought, a hard line drive, blowing the lamp into a thousand pieces.

“Pimp-shit-mother-fucker!” he yelled.

Little shards of glass lay on my jeans. The rest of the lamp was scattered on the living room floor. I stood from the recliner to clean the mess.

“Just leave it,” Hunter demanded. “Sit down, someone will take care of it later.”

I picked up the destroyed lamp and placed it on the coffee table.

“Let’s call it a game,” Hunter said. “Jesus, that was a fucking disaster. Anyway, it’s time for me to get to work on this article.”
“What are you working on?” I asked.
“A piece for Vanity Fair,” is all he offered in response.

Justin grabbed his jacket.

“All right, Hunter. Good luck with the article.”
“Wait!” Hunter said. He reached for a stack of books, pulling his latest release, “Kingdom of Fear,” from the pile. “One of you read this. It will get me in the right frame of mind to finish this article.”

I gave Justin a nudge into the kitchen, hinting to him that there was no way I was going to read Hunter’s work aloud in his presence, sure that nerves would cause me to fumble all over the words and he would despise me for butchering his art.

Fortunately, Justin stepped up. Hunter opened the book to the passage he wanted read, and handed it to Justin.

“Start from the top of the page,” he said, placing a fresh cigarette in his filter, lighting it.

Justin read a passage about a man holding up a liquor store. Hunter interrupted at one point.

“Wait, go back a line.”

Justin read the previous line, which contained the word “didn’t.”

“Didn’t?” Hunter asked.
“Yeah,” Justin said.
“It’s supposed to say ‘did not.’ Hmmm.” He dragged his cigarette in contemplation. “Okay, go on.”

We all laughed at various lines, including Hunter, who continuously mumbled under his breath. When Justin was finished I offered Hunter a complement, assuming that even a writer of his stature appreciates a bit of praise on occasion.

“That’s great writing,” I said, realizing just as it slipped from my mouth that I sounded like a fool. Who the hell was I to give an opinion?

Hunter just grumbled and began shuffling his papers.

“Same time tomorrow?” Justin asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Give me a call. There’s bound to be all sorts of weirdness going on.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand.

We shook, though I am not sure he noticed. It was time for us to go, and we did so quietly as Hunter began a long night’s work.

Entry Filed under: Aspen, Fly Fishing, Fiction