The Kitchen Readings (18 page)

The call came in the middle of a sunny summer afternoon. “Michael, you have to get over here. There's been a security breach!” This is the sort of message I'd usually get on my answering machine at three in the morning. At 3:15, when the message ended, I'd pull my fingers out of my ears, roll over, and go back to sleep. It was different this time. Perhaps there was something to it. I asked Hunter what was going on. “Just get over here right now. This is important.” I could tell that he meant it. “Here I come.” I eyeballed the sawed-off shotgun on the wall. Nah. Far too pretty a day for that kind of solution, no matter how bad the situation.

There's a long history of fans coming to Woody Creek in search of Hunter. One day I was called to the Tavern to check
out a guy who claimed to be a filmmaker needing directions to Owl Farm. It took about a minute to size him up and decide that the term
would-be
should precede anything he claimed to be. He was alone, no crew, and his camera was about the size of a cell phone—maybe it was a cell phone. It looked pretty silly sitting on top of this large, professional-type tripod. I told him Hunter was sleeping, which might have been true, and that if he didn't have an invitation, which I knew he didn't, there was no way he was going to get into Owl Farm. He complained that he had been on his way to the “Burning Man” festival and that he had driven a thousand miles out of his way to meet Hunter. I told him that was his problem and to go away. He asked if he could interview me. I said no and split. When I got home I left a message of warning on Hunter's machine. The guy ended up finding his way to Owl Farm anyway and stole a liquor delivery and some dry cleaning that had been left on Hunter's porch. A loving gesture by a devoted fan.

On another occasion a young fella got a job as a busboy at the Tavern. This may or may not have been a gambit to get close to Hunter. He was a nice clean-cut kid who wanted to be a writer, and if it was a ploy, it wasn't a bad one. Hunter was always as decent to Tavern employees as his mood allowed, and in some way they were instantly part of the family. The kid was bright and drove an old beater motorcycle, so if he'd been patient and bided his time I suspect he and Hunter could have hooked up cordially. Unfortunately it wasn't to be. He got himself completely shitfaced one night and made his way up to Owl Farm. Hunter had no idea who he was, and there was no way it could have ended well anyway. In this particular case, it was a warm summer night and the Shark was parked in the driveway with the top down; puking in it was no way to get on Hunter's good side. The kid's tenure at the Tavern didn't last long.

To my way of thinking there were three distinct types of people who would come to visit Hunter uninvited, all of them fans, of course.

There were those who actually understood that it was a bit odd to travel a great distance to impose themselves on someone they'd never met. This category of fan was a little embarrassed and maybe a little puzzled by their own behavior. I found these people to be generally benign and I always tried to treat them gently and with a measure of courtesy.

Then there were those whose judgment was impaired; you know, whacked, loaded, a bit fucked up. These folks would probably be fine the next day, but at the time, they weren't very pleasant company. They usually were sure they were right and were often belligerent. One tried to reason with them, to make them go away. It wasn't an easy project. Those situations would often end up with people with badges getting involved.

Then there were the true nutcases. Sober or straight, they would wake up one morning and decide that it was a perfectly reasonable idea to drive (or hitchhike or teleport) themselves thousands of miles and drop in on someone they'd never laid eyes on. These types were convinced that because they'd traveled all that way, Hunter owed them something—despite the fact that no one had asked them to come or wanted them there. If they couldn't find Hunter, then Hunter's friends, employees, or family owed them something. Those were my favorites. They didn't sober up the next day. They rarely took no for an answer.

So, on this particular sunny afternoon, guess what sort of person had driven himself off the road across from Hunter's driveway.

I had noticed a pair of black tire marks heading toward the pasture across from Doc's the day before. The pasture was home
to alpacas, llamas, guinea fowl, turkeys, and God knows what else. The black tire marks suggested to me that someone had come to a screeching halt inches before crashing through the fence that kept the critters where they belonged. I got a feeling that I was about to meet the author of those tire marks.

When I got there, Deborah was leaning into the passenger-side window of a car that seemed to have stopped just short of rolling over. The fact that it was deep in a ditch and almost on its side actually made Deborah's position quite comfortable. I pulled my Jeep across the entrance to Hunter's driveway, effectively blocking anyone from pulling in or out. As I stepped out of the Jeep, Deborah pulled her head out of the car window. Michael, I'd like you to meet so and so. So and so, meet Michael. Michael's a good friend of Hunter's. Deborah's tone was casual and gracious, as if she were introducing people at a cocktail party. This wasn't her first crazy person. I took up Deborah's head-in-window position and said hello.

The inside of the guy's car looked like what I presumed the inside of his head must have looked like. It was a goddamn mess. There was shit everywhere. Not just the usual slob debris. There were strange devices; perhaps he used them to talk to the “voices.” I motioned for Deborah to back up and suggested that she go inside and tell Hunter that I was here. I wanted her out of the line of fire, should there be a line of fire. He was a good-size lad. I realized that this wasn't our first meeting. He'd been at the Tavern the day before. A great big kid sitting at the end of the bar, brooding and asking about Hunter. Well, there we were.

I proceeded with some small talk. He wasn't making much sense, but I didn't get the feeling that he was loaded. We continued to chat; it all seemed affable enough. I thought that things were going well; then I noticed a beater pickup truck heading
toward us at a high rate of speed. Tex. Evidently, Hunter had called Tex and me at the same time. I lived a little closer and got there first. The vehicle approached and Tex slammed on the brakes, skidding sideways in our direction. Tex was out of the truck almost before it stopped moving. He had a lever-action carbine in his hand. Clearly he had come to a different conclusion than I had when he eyeballed his arsenal on the way out of the house.

He ran full speed to the car and stuck the rifle in the kid's face. I was pretty sure that this was running counter to my chilling-the-kid-out strategy. I told Tex that I thought I had things covered and that maybe he should go establish a perimeter. Reluctantly he withdrew the weapon. Tex melted into the scenery. I went back to trying to re-chill the kid.

A few minutes later, Doug Brinkley walked down the driveway and stopped in the middle of the road. Doug was a dear friend of Doc's. He had been very helpful to him on a number of projects and happened to be visiting that afternoon. Doug is a presidential historian and a Jimmy Carter and Rosa Parks biographer. Doug is on TV a lot for CBS News. I could think of any number of accurate phrases to describe Doug but “up from the streets” wouldn't be one of them. “Camera ready” would be more like it. Doug had an affinity for starched white shirts.

I pulled my head out of the car window and met up with Doug in the middle of the road. Just as I got there, a guy on a bicycle came down the road. He stopped and told us that on his way up the road this guy had forced him off the road and into a ditch. Hmmm, just the kind of thing that Hunter would have seriously considered doing. Maybe the kid was all right. The bicyclist told us that he had called the cops. Damn cell phones. No one's safe from the decent citizenry. I told Doug that everything was fine
and suggested he go inside. The bike guy pedaled off, and Doug went back up the driveway, relieved, I suspect. I stuck my head back inside the car and told the kid that he might have misbehaved and that the authorities had been summoned.

I explained that the sheriff was Hunter's friend and mine. I told him that Bob's people were out to do the right thing, not to see how many arrests they could make. Everything was going to be okay. I told him that in the spirit of cooperation and not getting into too deep shit, if he had any weapons in the vehicle it would be incredibly intelligent to pitch them out the window right now. I also mentioned that if he had any drugs in there, he should go ahead and give them to me. I saw the Sheriff's Department cruiser coming up the road. I soothed the kid as best I could.

The sheriff's boys pulled up in front of the kid's car, thus blocking the neighbor's driveway. Naturally, the neighbor drove up almost as soon as the deputies got out. He gave me the “what's going on?” look. I explained to the deputies that they were parked in this guy's driveway, and explained to the neighbor, who was in fact a rock-and-roll star, that he had a different sort of fan base than Hunter and should be glad of it. He understood instantly; the deputies let him pass. I introduced myself to the constabulary and introduced them to the kid. I handed off and excused myself knowing that things could have gone much worse.

I made my way up the driveway to the house and into the kitchen. Doug was there, Deborah, Tex, Anita, Hunter of course, and I think a couple of part-time assistants. As always, Hunter's gratitude was almost suffocating. “I'm sick of you people running in here and hiding behind me” were the first words that I heard from him. My distinct impression had been that people were running out the door in an effort to place themselves between
Hunter and the nut job. Realizing how wrong I must have been about that, I simply agreed with Hunter. “Okay, Doc, got to be going.” I asked Tex if he was coming along, figuring that nothing but abuse could follow. Tex allowed that he was going to stay a bit and bask in the warmth of the moment.

Things were quiet in Woody Creek for the rest of the day.

It was midnight. I was shifting up through the gears on the entrance ramp to I-70 East, headed from Glenwood Springs to the Denver airport. We were trying to beat a blizzard that was likely to close DIA for another forty-eight hours just as one had done the week before.

Instead of leaving much earlier in the day and spending the night in a hotel near the airport, DeDe and I had dinner at Ed Bradley's house in Woody Creek. Ed had died forty-nine days before, and today was the Bardo, the day that his spirit would take residence in a new life form, according to Tibetan Buddhist beliefs. Ed's wife, Patricia, had arranged for monks to chant, burn incense, and help Ed's spirit to find its release. Later, she had a dinner party for close friends.

 

Hunter and Ed were very close. Hunter had brought Ed to Aspen, and Ed became a resident of Woody Creek. Two “journalists in residence,” they shared an enthusiasm for fast cars and they are both gone now. I thought back to our adventures and the vehicles we drove.

Hunter and machines had always enjoyed a close relationship. The mobility of cars or motorcycles meant independence and freedom to him. Hunter felt trapped if he didn't control his mobility. On the road there was always a rental car parked close by, in case he wanted to disappear. If I drove him in his car (I hardly ever rode with him), he would ask for the keys as soon as I parked.

“Never lose control of your ride,” he once told me as I handed him his key ring. “I've made that mistake a few times,” he added. I could relate. Handing him his keys meant that suddenly I wasn't in control of my mobility.

Ed and Doc; one was more gonzo and one was more golf.

Bradley called Hunter one morning and suggested that they fly to Denver to do some car shopping. Hunter had just acquired a (for that time) state-of-the-art video camera. He put this twenty-pound monster into a duffel bag, and off to Denver they went. The cab rides to a couple of car dealerships were recorded,
as was the negotiation that concluded with Ed's ownership of a Porsche Carrera convertible. Ed, who had been a New York City guy for many years and not a car owner, couldn't get anywhere with insurance. Hunter, by phone with his agent in Aspen, got Ed a binder and they drove off the lot with Hunter videotaping. Hunter called the tape “Mr. Ed Goes to Market.”

The trip home took them to Leadville, where sundry purchases were made and memorialized on video, and where Ed handed Hunter the keys to the Porsche. Hunter packed the camera into his duffel, adjusted the seat and mirrors, and headed toward Independence Pass, a narrow, winding mountain road over the Continental Divide to Aspen. The camera was in the bag with the lens cap on but was still running, recording audio. After several minutes of wind and road noise and banter, Ed could be heard saying, “Hunter, you might want to slow down a little.” No response. “Hunter! This is a bad curve coming up, a thousand-foot drop-off! Slow down!” Hunter: “Don't worry, Ed. I'm a pro.” Ed: “You motherfucker! You're gonna kill us. Slow down!”

That's one of the reasons I never rode with Hunter. He took pleasure in scaring the hell out of people, and often did. But as is often the case with people who are good at dishing it out, he didn't take it well.

Ed enjoying a peaceful evening with the Doctor and friends.

One night, returning to Woody Creek from Aspen, Hunter's next-door neighbor Ed Bastian was at the wheel, with Hunter in the backseat. Bastian
declared that we were going to “run silent,” meaning that he was turning off the headlights. As Ed wheeled his Ford Explorer through the curves on McLain Flats Road in total darkness, Hunter screamed from the back seat, “Ed! You're gonna kill us! Ed! For Christ's sake! What about people coming at us?” Boys at play. Ed in some small way getting even.

After a couple of years enjoying his Porsche convertible, Bradley pulled into the parking lot at the Woody Creek Tavern one summer evening. Hunter and I had just finished dinner and it was suggested that we go into town for drinks. I had my car, but HST wanted to ride into Aspen in the Shark. Ed said that he needed gas and followed us to Owl Farm.

We gassed both convertibles from Hunter's three-hundred-gallon tank, and Ed pulled out of the driveway first. Hunter and I were right behind, with me at the wheel of the Chevy. Hunter ordered me to pass Ed, but Ed wasn't going to be passed. Hunter was yelling at me to go faster as the Porsche disappeared from view. Porsche versus Chevy: Porsche wins. We arrived in Aspen and walked into the bar. Ed was sitting in the lounge and asked, “What took you so long? I'm on my second drink.” Somehow I got stuck with that check.

In 1970, Hunter and I pulled out of Owl Farm and turned left on the dirt road to Lenado. We were both riding Bultaco Matadors, Spanish dirt bikes that were built for racing. I followed him up the road. He was comfortable in the seat and understood counter-steering and gyroscopic force. We were two of the few riders who appreciated this motorcycle designed by Señor Bulto; it was still superior to Japanese bikes. Hunter had logged a lot of miles on his BSA in California and on his BMW in Colorado.
Cycle World
magazine would arrange for him to test-ride motorcycles from Ducatis to Triumphs and write about them. Over the
years to come, as his motor skills began to deteriorate, I began to worry about him on two wheels. Riding with him eventually became out of the question.

One day he called me at home and wanted to know what I was doing. I told him that I was about to have dinner with a bunch of friends and invited him over. We were on the back porch eating when we saw Hunter on his BMW riding through the next-door neighbor's backyard. He saw us and turned into my yard, lost control of his motorcycle, and fell. He was lying on the grass under the 750-cc bike with gasoline running from its tank and onto his chest. I lifted the giant motorcycle off him, gave him a clean shirt, and filled his drink order. I insisted that I drive him home after dinner. Two weeks later he called and asked if I could deliver his bike. I rode it to Owl Farm. The throttle stuck, and the brakes didn't work. I told him that the motorcycle was not safe, but I knew he was going to ride it again. I didn't want to think about it.

At one point, feeling the need of something big and bright red, Hunter bought himself a vintage Pontiac convertible. Not long after, the Mitchell Brothers, of O'Farrell Theater fame, came to Aspen in support of Hunter's defense against charges of assault by a retired porn star. With them the brothers had a 1970 Impala convertible, fully restored and fully red. It was to replace the Shark, which had played a prominent role in
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
. Hunter told me that he had hidden the Pontiac in the barn, and not to tell the Mitchell brothers about it; he was afraid that they might take the Chevy back. Soon after they left town, Hunter bought another convertible, a Cadillac, from his buddy Earl Biss, a crazy Crow Indian artist with a crack problem. Hunter couldn't get a good title to the car but he had it detailed anyway. He parked it on the lawn, side by side with the
two other large trophy vehicles. Biss was proud that his ride was part of that collection.

One night I was in the kitchen with Hunter and Woody Creek lawyer John Van Ness. In the middle of our conversation, Earl walked in with a camel hair sport coat over his arm. With a grin, he said, “You white men are easy. I took a cab to your meadow, walked across to your house, let myself in, and I've been lying on your porch with my coat as a pillow listening to you talk for an hour.” Earl had been practicing his Native American sneaking-up skills. “What do you want, Earl?” Hunter asked.

“Give me a forty-five. I want to kill myself” was Earl's reply.

“I have to go” Van Ness said as he put on his coat.

“You coward,” Hunter said to Van Ness.

“Give me the gun,” Biss demanded.

“You're crazy, Earl,” Hunter said.

“Give him the gun, Hunter. Call his bluff,” I said.

“You're crazy, too” Hunter said to me.

After a long silence that no one enjoyed, Earl started laughing like a hyena and said, “I don't know what I would have done if you had given me the gun.”

Just another night in the kitchen.

On another day, Hunter pulled the freshly waxed and shampooed Cadillac, Geronimo's Cadillac, out of the row of cars and said, “Hop in. It's got front-wheel drive,” as if that explained everything—or anything.

We headed toward the Woody Creek Racetrack, off-road all the way. Trying to climb a six-foot berm onto the racetrack, Hunter bogged the Eldorado down in rain-soaked dirt. The front wheels spun, and mud flew all over the car. Hunter, not to be defeated, asked me to place the spotless floor mats under the
drive wheels. I did. Hunter gassed it, and the rugs flew into the sage. “Move over,” I said to Hunter.

Turning the steering wheel lock to lock and shifting the transmission repeatedly from Drive to Reverse, I loosened the beast and drove it back to the farm. The car and I were covered in mud. Hunter hated to fail at anything and pouted all the way home.

“At least I stayed clean,” he said to me as I pulled the filthy Cadillac into its space in the line.

 

Now it was 2:00
A.M
. No snow yet, and we were halfway to Denver. We pulled into an all-night Denny's to take on some caffeine. It had been a long time since DeDe and I threaded a car through the night and I looked over the crowd here just off the Interstate and saw a bunch of people each with his or her own story.

I thought of Ed Bradley, Hunter, Earl, gone too, and us driving in the dark to catch the last plane out of the Rockies to the East Coast.