The Kitchen Readings (12 page)

 

One summer a few years later, the phone company was trenching along the side of Woody Creek Road, burying fiber optic lines. It was a long project, and Jesse had befriended the guys working on it. He might have thought twice about doing this, though, if he had known that it would mean he'd become the unofficial liaison between the crew and the neighborhood. Specifically, Hunter.

One day, when they'd trenched their way fairly close to Owl Farm, Jesse hooked up with the guys after work. He pointed out that there was a lot of stuff buried under Hunter's driveway: electric conduits, security gear, and more. There was also a large water line that came down from the Salvation Ditch behind Hunter's, crossed under the road, and provided irrigation water for the hay field (the one Hunter didn't drive around in anymore). The 8-inch line carried water under about 143 pounds of pressure. At the time, it seemed that the boys had taken due note of these facts. Unfortunately these guys were enjoying all that Aspen could offer, partywise. It was a rare treat for their work to bring them so close to a sexy resort town, so they tended to show up for work a little hungover.

Jesse's helpful tips apparently slipped their collective mind. When they hit the water main, it blew the trenching machine clear out of its trench. The geyser was forty feet high. People
could easily have been killed. Eventually, replacing the pipe was going to require digging a ditch thirty feet long, fifteen feet wide, and seven or eight feet deep. Fortunately, the force of all that water had created a sinkhole almost that size. Unfortunately, that sinkhole was formerly known as Hunter's driveway.

The event roused Hunter from his slumber.

Jesse got wind of the crisis and rushed to Owl Farm. He headed up to the ditch and turned the water off.

Normally Hunter could go days without leaving the farm. He could go days without looking out the window. The fact that it was now utterly impossible to get a vehicle out of the driveway made for a new, urgent, desire to go for a spin. He swelled to twice his normal size with righteous indignation. He set Deborah to alerting the media, his attorneys, and the police—in that order. She did this, and they all showed up.

Hunter's house is on a narrow bend on Woody Creek Road. All these people, plus the work crew, converging at the same time created their own traffic jam. Possibly the first in Woody Creek history, if you don't count cows. It was chaos: with Hunter yelling, reporters reporting, photographers photographing, cops taking statements, lawyers computing billable hours, and trenching crew skulking and sulking.

Since Jesse was the only one who had any kind of rapport with the crew, in Hunter's mind, this was all his fault. What was he going to do about it? Hunter was frothing. He wanted blood. Heads must roll. Things were becoming unpleasant. There was no question there'd been a mistake, and no small one. Hunter had pointed this out, and continued to do so. The crew was freaked out; they were in deep shit and it was getting deeper. It was a good gig and they were in serious danger of losing their jobs, plus there was the matter of whatever happened next. What
happened next could be a lot worse than mere unemployment. Hunter's behavior was making that clear.

Eventually, Jesse couldn't take it anymore. At the closest possible range, he reminded Hunter that Hunter Thompson was traditionally and famously a champion of the little guy, and that his insistence on tacking these fellas up on crosses wasn't consistent with that policy and that maybe he could back off just a little bit. Hunter actually listened to reason. The repairs took the rest of that day and all the next. Hunter was nowhere to be seen.

The crew was understandably eager to put Owl Farm behind them. With the driveway repairs complete, they continued trenching along in front of the Owl Farm yard. They still had a way to go before Hunter was a thing of the past. Between the crew and Hunter was Hunter's split-rail fence. Behind that was the long row of cordwood, which acted as another fence, and behind that, a row of beautiful cottonwoods. It seemed like sufficient insulation.

The work crew reached and passed Hunter's property line on a typically pleasant Woody Creek summer afternoon. Surely there was a lot of relief going around. A nice little wind kicked up. Deborah was on the deck when the first cottonwood came down. When it hit the lawn, the uppermost branches were eight feet from the deck. Deborah was rooted to the spot; the trees weren't. A second tree came down. Deborah's mouth hung open, frozen with fear. A third toppled. The crew had trenched right through their root systems and the trees were just standing there waiting for a stiff breeze.

Deborah had been with Hunter long enough to pick up a few of his personality traits. Hence, she wasn't given to understatement. Hunter's slumber was once again disturbed.

Neither Jesse Steindler nor God Almighty could chill Hunter out this time. “There's one other thing about little people: they shouldn't be incompetent” was the phrase that echoed in Jesse's ears for some time to come.

The phone company bought Hunter not three but six lovely new cottonwoods. Along with the trees, they sent a crew of non-English-speaking Latinos to plant them, the idea being to keep verbal intercourse between the workers and the homeowner to a minimum. Hunter watched them like a hawk. He didn't sleep, probably didn't eat. His interest was so up close and personal that the laborers, even without language skills or knowing the history of the situation, were getting edgy. The idea of the workers not speaking the language was a good one from the phone company's point of view, but not great for Jesse. Hunter had things to say and he wanted them understood. Jesse spoke Spanish, so he was once again in the middle. Deborah was constantly on the phone to him to come over to translate for Hunter. Once the Latinos got a load of what was on Hunter's mind, and saw the inventory of weapons that he was sporting when he came out on the deck to glare at them, they worked in a state of abject terror.

They finished the project in record time and did a fine job. The feeling in the neighborhood was that the Latinos' next move would be to make a break across the border…straight back to Mexico.

 

When the temperature of the indoor pool at the Flying Dog Ranch wasn't to Hunter's liking, Hunter would call Jesse. Jesse had nothing to do with the pool.

When Hunter's car wouldn't start, he'd call Jesse. Jesse was good with machinery, but his job description at the ranch was
“cowboy.” He suggested that Hunter call him when his horse wouldn't start.

Hunter would take Jesse's girls on high-speed convertible rides in the Shark. The girls were growing up hot. Jesse would ask where they were and be told that Hunter had taken them for a ride. He'd wring his hands and be unable to concentrate until they were returned. They'd come back full of McDonald's, bearing souvenirs autographed by Doc, making statements like “Gee, I've never driven so fast in a car. I thought Julia was going to blow right out of the backseat!”

 

Hunter placed a high value on Jesse's friendship. Of all the skills that Jesse possessed, the one that Hunter valued most was his talent and creativity with explosives. Anyone can speak Spanish or get a car started, but blowing the crap out of stuff—now that was something special.

The boys got an inner tube from the tire off a John Deere 966 loader. The tire on that loader is about five feet high. When you take the tube out and inflate it, without the tire to contain the thing, it can swell beyond all expectation. The guys were counting on this because they were going to fill the tube with acetylene, which they did. A risky and technically demanding process, it involved hoses that had to be flushed with water afterward and a total absence of combustibles. Once inflated, the tube was huge, a giant black doughnut eight feet across and four feet high, full of acetylene. Acetylene requires an open flame to ignite. They duct-taped a dynamite fuse to the tire, which would burn down and when it got to the tire, would melt the rubber and…

An enthusiastic crowd gathered at Owl Farm for the event; this was to be a first. No one knew what would happen. No one had even heard of this sort of thing being attempted before. Jesse
lit the fuse before the assembled congregation of conflagration aficionados. He had used four feet of fuse to make sure that he had sufficient time to get a safe distance away. Nonetheless, it took all his willpower to turn his back and walk away. Every fiber of his being said run.

Jesse joined the crowd and watched the fuse. It burned slowly, and the audience, as one, inched farther back as the seconds passed. When the fuse disappeared under the tire, they waited. It seemed like long seconds were passing. They began craning, jockeying for position, slowly inching closer.

One of the gang was running late. He was four miles away when he saw a massive orange glow in the sky. Then the concussion hit him; he felt it even though he was in his car.

Back at Owl Farm everyone was flat on their backs. It was beautiful, a fierce orange-pink glow rising fifty feet into the air. No smoke, just the glow rising straight up, and incredible heat. The bottom half of the tube was melted into the lawn in a scorched circle.

Nobody got hurt. The only one who counted the broken windows at Owl Farm was the guy who fixed them.

THE FREEDOM TRACTOR

Zeno Beattie is the son of Bob Beattie, sports commentator and former U.S. Olympic ski team coach. The Beatties moved to Woody Creek in 1976, the year Claudine Longet, singer, actress, and ex-wife of crooner Andy Williams, shot Spider Sabich, former Olympic skier and well-liked local. The murder was national news, and Beattie had been very close to the victim. Woody Creek seemed peaceful compared to what had been going on in Aspen.

Zeno was raised across the street, a stone's throw from Owl Farm. He grew up with a love of the outdoors, including hunting. Zeno and Hunter shared a common appreciation of firearms,
though to different purpose (if it can be said that Hunter's love of firearms had purpose). They were buddies from the get-go, and as Zeno got older he became increasingly helpful to Hunter around the farm, usually with guy stuff, tractor stuff.

At one point early on, what used to be Hunter's two cabins and acreage became a farm, “Owl Farm.” If his spread was a farm, then Hunter was a farmer, a gentleman farmer of course. As this idea took hold and grew in his mind, he began to think about the accouterments of farming and began to lust for a tractor. Zeno and his dad had purchased a John Deere in 1983. The John Deere became the object of Hunter's desire, and it was just across the street. Hunter could see it, he could taste it. The idea of Hunter's needing a tractor wasn't totally frivolous. Doc had a lot of yard to mow, and sometimes things, once blown up, needed to be buried. Sneaking a backhoe up to Owl Farm to bury evidence wasn't always convenient or easy; having a tractor on hand could make stealth disposal a relative snap. There are entire motor vehicles buried on Owl Farm. As far as I know, none is occupied.

Bob Beattie, Zeno, and Zeno's boys, R.A. and Ben.

The “Shark” waiting for summer.

Reflecting Hunter's sense of persecution at the hands of the authorities.

In the mid-eighties, Hunter had a little dustup with a porn actress that had him facing criminal charges in Pitkin County. It was serious stuff: assault, drugs, weapons, nothing to joke about.

Hunter had been researching porn for a magazine article. Ultimately that research evolved into a book that never happened, but it was the research that counted. Fortunately for Woody Creek, the research involved women who were part of that industry flying into Aspen to be interviewed by Doc. They'd make their way to the Tavern from the airport and the bartender would call Hunter to clear them, make sure they were invited guests. Hunter would come down and pick them up, but not until they'd cooled their heels for an hour or so. This was Hunter's little gift to the boys at the bar. Usually things went fine; you can write that scenario yourself. On this one occasion it was different. The young lady in question exited Owl Farm screaming, and the authorities were called. Some said there was an incident in the hot tub. The thing went to court, the broad got a case of amnesia, and the case was dismissed, but not before Doc and his circle experienced a long period of intense anxiety. Hunter and everyone who cared for him were euphoric about the dismissal of the case, and there
was to be a huge celebration at Owl Farm. Hunter called Zeno from the courthouse steps. “Get me a tractor!” It was Hunter's victory treat to himself. Zeno told Hunter he'd start looking into it the very next day. “No, I want it now, today!” “Are you planning to pay for it?” Zeno asked.

Zeno had done business with a tractor/farm implement dealership in Grand Junction and was on pretty good terms with them. He called his guy, Marv, and told him that Hunter needed a tractor just like his. Marv was predictably pleased; it was an easy sale. Then Zeno told him that it had to be delivered that day. This was a different story. Same-day delivery service for tractors isn't as common as you might think. After a great deal of dickering and wheedling, Marv agreed to load the thing up and bring it to Woody Creek. He made the 125-mile trip from Junction, and Zeno met him at the Tavern to guide him up to Owl Farm. When they got there, the party was in full swing, and it wasn't a Grand Junction sort of party. Things were taking place that Marv probably wasn't used to. He and Zeno unloaded the tractor, and Zeno left a nervous Marv to search for Hunter and get a check.

He first ran into Hunter's trusted friend Michael Solheim, who was functioning as Doc's business manager/check writer at the time. Michael had heard nothing of this tractor business and said there was no way he was cutting a huge check. “Hunter has no money. Load it up and take it back to Junction,” he said. Hunter appeared, and the argument began. Ten minutes later, he came walking out of the house with a check for Marv, and the John Deere became “the Freedom Tractor,” to commemorate Hunter's not going to jail for doing something disgusting and illegal to a porn actress.

Hunter was thrilled with his new toy. Zeno gave him a quick course in Tractor 101: shifting, working the mower attachment, finding where the fuel goes. Doc was always good with machinery and was a quick study. He started the tractor up and off he went, mowing away in no discernable pattern, back, forth, circles, across, with partygoers scrambling to avoid the mower blades that could be coming at them from any direction at any time, all this at high speed, bouncing through areas of rocks, wire, and debris that had never before seen a blade. When Hunter tired of it, he just parked his prize in the middle of the front lawn.

Hunter's beloved tractor, Jesse Steindler, and Doc's personal film biographer, Wayne Ewing.

There the Freedom Tractor sat. After a month, Zeno couldn't stand it any longer and decided to finish the mowing job. Obviously the lawn was more than ready, and he thought he might set a good example. He had wisely kept a spare key, assuming that
Hunter was bound to lose his. He jumped on and started mowing, round and round, in an orderly professional pattern. A few laps into the project Doc came screaming out of the house spewing obscenities and waving his favorite nickel-plated machine gun. He was wearing purple sunglasses, so Zeno couldn't see his eyes. “Who'sfuckingwithmytractor?” Zeno considered diving off the thing but instead hunkered down low, next to the steering wheel, and waved, hoping to be recognized. “Ohuhit'syouZeno.” Hunter's sputtering was winding down. “Just thought I'd do some mowing,” Zeno called from behind the wheel. “Gooduh. Lookslikeitneedsit.” Zeno finished the lawn, and Hunter retired to the kitchen.

Hunter adored his tractor. He'd drive it around with no real purpose in mind. Once a month he'd have Zeno come over and they'd change the oil and do whatever other maintenance was deemed necessary. One of these occasions was prefaced by a phone call from Hunter suggesting that he “wasn't sure” if the tractor was running. “What do you mean? You're not sure if the tractor will start?” Zeno asked. He made his way across the street to Owl Farm and started the tractor with no problem. He then shut it off and proceeded to drain the oil. While the oil was draining he began a general survey and…“HUNTER, WHY DID YOU SHOOT YOUR TRACTOR?” The hole in the fuel tank was unmistakably that of the “bullet” variety. Hunter denied everything; he would never do such a thing. “You're goddamn lucky it's a diesel. If it were gas it would have blown up!” Hunter once again denied any knowledge of tractors and bullets and started sputtering about searching for the culprit. It was a simple welding project for Zeno to patch the hole; Hunter's job was to track down the sniper. Zeno had the greater success.

THE INTERVIEW

The following winter, the World Cup ski racers were in Aspen. It was a big deal; Aspen has always coveted these premier ski events. The races were sponsored by Subaru and were being covered by ESPN. This meant that Zeno's dad, Bob, who had a long association with both companies, would be doing the TV commentary. Also on the TV team was announcer/commentator Andrea Joyce. Joyce would later marry anchorman Harry Smith. While Bob Beattie was to report the races as they happened, Joyce's job was to prerecord “color” pieces about Aspen and other things of interest. She decided that a piece on Woody Creek's famous Hunter S. Thompson would be fun. She knew that Bob was Hunter's neighbor and asked if he could set things up with Hunter. Bob thought it was a very bad idea. He refused, trying to explain that he knew Hunter, and she didn't, and that she'd just have to take his word. This of course piqued her interest even more, so she asked Zeno if he could speak to Hunter on her behalf. Of course Zeno also knew it was a bad idea, but being young and frisky, he figured it could be pretty damn funny, too. “Sure, I'll ask Hunter,” he said.

At first Hunter didn't want anything to do with it, but Zeno convinced him that it might be good for business. He could reach a whole different audience: people who watch ski racing on TV. Hunter eventually acquiesced. Zeno made arrangements to meet Joyce and her camera crew at the Aspen Airport liquor store. At the store, Zeno outfitted them with the largest bottles he could find of all of Hunter's favorites; it was a lot of booze. Off they went to Owl Farm.

The little band arrived. Hunter greeted them and ushered the eager group inside. After a quick tour it was determined that they'd set up in the living room. Hunter and Zeno retired to the kitchen while Joyce supervised the setting up of the cameras and
sound equipment. This event happened to coincide with a period of time when Hunter had actually bugged his own house. He had microphones in all the rooms and speakers by his stool at the kitchen counter. Hunter and Zeno listened to every word that was said during the setting-up process. I guess you could say that at times Hunter could be a weasel in the purest sense of the word. It was, however, entertaining as hell. When one of the crew would come into the kitchen to announce that they were ready, Hunter would stall, say he wasn't ready, and he and Zeno would go back to eavesdropping and giggling at the grumbling and moaning that was going on in the living room. The crew was kept waiting for a very long time. Then, when it was clear that everyone was right at the breaking point, Hunter decided he was ready.

Zeno recalls that it was a great interview, and that it actually made the telecast. Andrea Joyce had obviously done her homework and was knowledgeable about a broad range of things “Hunter Thompson.” She asked a lot of great questions and finally came to the guns. “What's the deal with the guns?” she asked. Hunter reached under the couch, pulled out the nickel-plated machine gun, and in the same motion, pulled back the slide. “Is that thing loaded?” a number of people asked all at once. The atmosphere had changed instantly, and
nervous
would be the word to describe it. Hunter threw open the front door, stepped out onto the deck, and let rip until the weapon was empty.