The Kitchen Readings (10 page)

The artist Richard “Dick” Carter first met Hunter Thompson at a Christmas party around 1980. The party was at the home of fellow artist Missie Thorne. Predictably, the guests were painters, sculptors, and assorted artsy types. Hunter always felt a kinship with artists, and enjoyed their company. He wasn't quite as fond of “artsy” types.

At Missie's party, Hunter had sought refuge in a back room with a TV. He was watching a college basketball game when Carter wandered in. They started talking sports and hit it off, and began to make small proposition bets. This was always an excellent way to get to know Hunter—partly because of forging a bond in the common interest in sports, and partly because it
was a way to start getting used to the fleecing, or attempted fleecing, as early on as possible.

Carter learned fast.

Carter and Hunter's next meeting was on the periphery of a heavyweight championship bout. It was the dark ages of techno television, and singer Jimmy Buffett was the man who had a satellite dish to receive the closed-circuit telecast. Everyone was going over to Buffet's to watch the fight. Hunter, a huge boxing enthusiast, was looking forward to the evening; Dick chose not to attend. It was one of those fights that was over far too quickly, and within minutes there was nothing left to do but party. As a rule, Hunter had no real problem with a good party, but a much-anticipated sporting event ending in disappointment left him a bit off his feed. He had to move on, so he called Carter.

Hunter had decided to interpret Dick's failure to attend the fight party as an act of great wisdom. He wanted to hook up with his new buddy who had had sense enough to stay home. In fact, Carter's real reasons for not going to the party were completely pedestrian: he didn't know Buffet that well, and he preferred to stay in his studio and work that evening. It didn't turn out that way.

Hunter always traveled with whatever he figured it would take to get him through the night. On this occasion it got them both through the night. How much progress—or, to be more correct, how little progress—the artist made on his painting was not the issue. It was an evening when schemes were schemed, plots were hatched. That's what counted.

A rich fool who lived nearby had installed a life-size white plastic statue of a rearing stallion in a pasture right next to the road. This beautiful manicured and fenced-in meadow would have been paradise to a horse with a pulse. No one knows how the synthetic
steed felt about it. Some of the
Homo sapiens
in the neighborhood, however, had very clear opinions on the matter. People's aesthetics were bruised by the statue. “General” Thompson had a strategy. At some point during the long aftermath of the disappointing boxing match, a guerilla action was proposed.

A team was assembled—an elite group of mature, intelligent adults who all continued to harbor preadolescent cravings to commit acts of petty vandalism. Carter provided the tools and raw materials. On the evening of the raid, the crew traveled to Owl Farm to collect General Thompson. Hunter was nowhere to be found. We'll never know where he really was that evening. Some are sure the raid simply slipped his mind. Others suggest that, during the time between conception and execution, he had been studying obscure texts on military strategy, highlighting passages involving the vast difference between the officer corps and the cannon fodder—and pondering his desire to remain part of the first group. That night the cannon fodder had no choice but to go ahead without their leader. Wheels were turning. The raid was unstoppable.

The sun rose bright and clear the next morning on a proud, rearing zebra. The crime made the front page of the
Aspen Times.
General Hunter called the cannon fodder and congratulated the team on a “righteous mission,” with extra points for creativity.

In truth, Hunter was often a no-show. He obeyed only his own laws in life, but the laws of physics are immutable. The inertia of rest was often the most compelling force in his day. Sometimes it could prove impossible to get out of the kitchen.

DICK AND DOC MOVE WEST

By the mid-eighties, Carter was living in the Bay Area and Hunter was writing for the
San Francisco Examiner.
Doc was writing a
weekly column and staying in Sausalito; Dick was painting in a garage studio near Redwood City. There would be late-night phone calls while they were both working. Hunter was always nocturnal; Dick could be when he was engrossed in his work.

During that period,
Playboy
magazine assigned Hunter to do a story on porn. As part of this agonizing duty, he was given the job of night manager of the O'Farrell Theater, a one-of-a-kind porn palace run by the Mitchell brothers.

The Mitchell brothers were pioneers in their field. They had discovered legend Marilyn Chambers and had produced such film classics as
Behind the Green Door
and Ms. Chambers's
Insatiable
series. The boys thought the world of Hunter. They had given him a beautiful nickel-plated, high-tech pellet gun. The gun had inscribed on it
BECAUSE THIS IS THE WORK WE DO
, a quote from
The Godfather: Part II.

Hunter and Carter took that weapon out into Hunter's backyard one day. The guys were plinking. Their target was a small metal lapel pin depicting San Francisco mayor Dianne Feinstein with eight breasts. Feinstein had some issues with the O'Farrell, and the Mitchell boys had the button made in response to her concerns. Hunter had attached the button to the end of a fishing line and dangled the pole over the edge of the deck. With the button swinging in the breeze, Hunter and Carter proceeded to take turns shooting. Suddenly there was screaming from below. Those shots had to land somewhere.

Buy a box of .22-caliber bullets and the warning on the package reads, “Caution: Range 1 Mile.” The range of a pellet gun is far less. Just about to the guy's house down the hill. He seemed upset. Hunter immediately identified the situation as a simple misunderstanding between the target shooters, who were guilty of a minor oversight, and a foolish homeowner who had clearly
put his house in a bad spot. Never wishing to offend, Hunter denied everything and told the unhappy neighbor to “fuck off.”

At this point they quickly decamped for the O'Farrell. Hunter was going to show Dick around. They took two cars, Thompson in his Wagoneer and Carter in his old MGB. They got down to the O'Farrell, and Hunter introduced Carter all around. The joint was pretty much jumping by that hour, with customers and beautiful girls all over the place. It was a sophisticated operation. Many different rooms with all kinds of different porn shows going on more or less simultaneously. Hunter told one of the guys who worked there to make sure Carter got to see everything. So he did. Dick was constantly hit on by these amazing chicks—because that's how these clubs are but also because Hunter had put out the word that Carter was with him. Hunter was going to get a real kick out of this. Carter's most vivid memory was a room with red shag carpeting all around and up over the benches that ran around the walls, and all mirrors above that, and these two beauties going at each other with four of those flashlights with the long extensions, the ones that they use to guide 747s into the gate at the airport. Those flashlights illuminated every orifice and part imaginable.

Beautiful women kept approaching Carter. He knew what they wanted. They hoped they knew what he wanted—and could provide it. It was business. Dick kept declining kind offer after kind offer. “No, thanks. I'm just here with Hunter doing research,” he said. The women were relentless. Dick eventually made his way back up to the office to see what Hunter was up to. They had some drinks, snorted some coke, smoked some weed, and played pool. All while appreciating a constant parade of hot, mostly naked, women.

As Robert Frost once wrote, “The woods are lovely dark and deep, / but I have miles to go before I sleep.”

Hours later, Hunter handed Carter a vial of cocaine. Carter couldn't seem to locate an implement with which to snort the stuff. Hunter handed him the keys to his Wagoneer as a useful tool. They continued chatting and shooting pool. It was late; the place was closing up. Hunter and one of the guys had to lock the doors and shut down. Dick left first, waving as he passed them. They were closing the metal shutters on the front of the building.

Carter was home in bed, battling his way toward sleep, when the phone rang. It was Hunter. “Carter, you have my car keys, I couldn't get into the car. Had to go back into the theater, had no ride.” Holy shit! thought Dick. The keys were indeed in his pocket, where he had put them after doing the coke. Carter apologized with huge sincerity, and offered to head back to the theater with the keys. “NO. NO, don't apologize. You're going into the Drug Hall of Fame! These things happen when you're doing important work. Call me tomorrow.” Hunter hung up.

Carter felt like an asshole, but, wow, he was going into the Drug Hall of Fame. The kids would be so proud.

DICKIE GETS HIS GUN

Hunter liked guns; Carter was not a big gun enthusiast. Dick had little affection for Charlton Heston–loving NRA types. He did enjoy target shooting, though. The rest of us shoot at targets so we can get better when it comes time to shoot at things that annoy us. For Dick, shooting at targets was an end unto itself. A curious notion.

Hunter would take Dick out into the backyard of Owl Farm and they would assassinate the old hot water heater, the beer keg, all the debris that Hunter used as targets. Sometimes they'd shoot at little exploding targets—three-inch-square boxes, about half an inch thick, with a small charge in them. Hunter liked a good conflagration. He was proud of being an excellent marks
man, so hitting the target was a good thing, but if it could end up looking like Dresden—or Hell—it was that much better. He'd tape the exploding targets to gallon containers of gasoline. One doesn't need to paint a picture.

One's first experience with the exploding target/gallon of gas continuum is always memorable. Carter's was no exception.

One sunny summer afternoon, a bunch of people were at Owl Farm. It was kind of unusual because there was no particular occasion for their presence there, just a pleasant afternoon. Friends with their children, cronies, drinking buddies. It seemed a perfect time to haul out the weaponry, do some shooting—a “kids having fun” sort of day. So, out came the toys. Everyone was either on the deck or gathered around the picnic table that was about fifteen feet from the deck or somewhere in between. The table was littered with firearms and ammo, plastic gallon jugs, and the little targets. Doc had these big gas tanks, like ranches have. He sent someone off to fill the gallon jugs. The shooting had already begun

Those who shot were blasting away with twelve-gauges, .357 magnums, .44 magnums, AK-47s, and whatever else. Not all at once, of course. Responsibly taking turns. The children watched as if it were a fireworks show. When the jugs of gas showed up, the firing was halted. Hunter took one of the jugs, hiked into the field, and placed it on a log that was upended out there, about fifty feet from the table. The little targets had adhesive backing, and he attached one to the jug.

When he got back to the table, he asked Carter to go inside and grab a fire extinguisher from next to the fireplace. When Carter returned, Hunter said, “Okay, if I catch fire, you put me out.” Carter's jaw dropped noticeably, and he backed up about ten paces. “No, no. Stand right here next to me,” Hunter said.
Carter did some quick calculations in his head and concluded that if he stood right next to Hunter, and Hunter were engulfed in flame, then Carter, too, would be engulfed in flame. Carter explained his theory to Doc and also admonished the mothers who were standing around to take their children someplace pretty far away. Hunter muttered something no one quite got, but the tone was pure disgust. Carter backed up a little farther.

What followed was a textbook example of “Responsible Shooting and Blowing Things Up.” Hunter took careful aim, fired, hit the target. There was a huge fireball. It was like war. He spent the next few minutes directing Carter in extinguishing various patches of lawn that had caught fire. Luckily, no people had. Some of the mothers started herding their children toward their cars.

Hunter had a huge inventory of weapons, from the pedestrian to the exotic—mostly the exotic. Carter was particularly fond of a Browning nine-millimeter. It held twelve rounds in the clip, with one more in the chamber. A serviceable weapon. The exotic stuff would be an acquired taste.

Doc wanted a Carter painting, so Dick proposed a trade, and Hunter bit immediately. Art for weaponry. Doc coughed up the gun right then and there, but Dick asked him if he'd hang on to it. Carter had two young children at home, not to mention an extremely level-headed wife, Claudette, who would consider the notion of a handgun in the house worthy of the Bad Idea Hall of Fame. Dick would use the gun only when he was at Hunter's. Done deal.

Years later Hunter and Carter were having lunch at the Tavern. Dick asked Hunter if he could get the gun. The kids were older, Claudette could be reasoned with. This was fine with Hunter. Doc had some calls to make, so he suggested that Dick
come up to Owl Farm in twenty minutes. Hunter headed home to make the calls.

Carter had another soda pop and made his way up to the farm. He arrived to find Andy Hall working on some bookcases in the Red Room. The Red Room connected the house proper with the garage. It had large picture windows on the two exterior walls and fire engine–red carpeting. Dick could hear Hunter on the phone in the kitchen, so he started bantering with Andy to give Hunter some privacy. Hunter appeared in the kitchen doorway, cordless phone up to his ear and the Browning in the other hand. Dick was on the opposite side of the room, standing in the door to the garage, about fifteen feet away. In between, Andy was kneeling down, building bookshelves under the picture windows. Hunter was casually chatting away. Just as casually, he raised the gun. Suddenly the room exploded. Rapid fire in a small, enclosed area. Those things are not indoor toys. Shooting from the hip Hunter ripped a series of holes in the picture windows directly above Andy Hall's head. Andy was not amused, not even a bit. Describing Andy's reaction, Carter used the term
apeshit
. Andy was flattened on the fire engine–red carpet, his head covered, screaming with rage. He had served in the military. All of this was terrible etiquette.