A Very Fine American

WHEN I HEARD FROM ROLLING STONE, I felt the sometimes insane wrath of a dead lion waltzing, remembering how Hunter would react to a deadline. But nonetheless, let's take a shot at it, as he would say.

I first became aware of Dr. Thompson when he was running for sheriff of Pitkin County and as a neighbor and, eventually, a friend. Most of our relationship was private and nocturnal, wild and enlightening and surprisingly sensible talks. An actor likes to know his role. I always knew what my role would be with Hunter. It wouldn't be up to me to pour gasoline on the fire or place the proverbial hot poker in any specific orifice. I would be the voice of reason

- or at least moderation. Not my usual role, I might add, but what can you do when faced with a person who might proclaim himself the voice of the wrath of God, or maybe Nat Turner run amok in a hat made of dogs' fur? This is the way it was, and I must say to you it was not only lively but always entertaining and, yes, sometimes he could scare me out of my wits. Sure, maybe I'm still scared, I don't know.

Hunter's probably the person who it is/was most easy to tell an entertaining anecdote about, but aside from all that, when I think of him the word that often comes to me is genteel. Hunter was a Southern gentleman and a very fine American. I think of the way he related to my children and of the kinds of gifts he gave them; a false knife that screamed when you plunged it into your arm, a hammer that sounded like glass breaking when you tapped it on your head, a huge stuffed fox, tree branch and all — no room in my house for it, but there it still sits. But the gift I really like is the one that stunned my daughter Lorraine when she opened it: a box containing a fake dead rat, caught in a trap. Raine just saw the contents and probably couldn't absorb the note that came with it. But let me tell you what the note said because I have it: "Dear Lorraine, This will be a very valuable reminder to you that men aren't always what they seem to be. Knowing this will save you a lot of time in your life. You're welcome, Uncle Hunter." I don't know if we're all hypnotized by some kind of mad Pied Piper or not, but I know my children would have been glad to march to any supposed destination for adventure with Hunter. And for myself — and I am what I consider to be a sort of responsible parent — I would have been more than happy to send them off with Hunter if he thought it was the right thing to do. His behavior was provocative, but it was less dangerous than we all felt because, after all, Hunter was an expert at provocation. Pretty much, he knew what he was doing.

Having said all this, however, one of the more touching memories that I have of the Good Doctor was how long he mourned over failing to set off this huge piece of pyrotechnics for the children one summer. I have more than one letter in which he bemoaned his inability to transcend this, to him, shameful disgrace — failure to successfully shoot a huge bomb over our Aspen neighborhood. My further memory is seeing Hunter peering directly down the barrel of the device, as if life actually were a cartoon. How about that one, Bubba, as he might say to me.

It seems to me that all of this — and the ease with which we can conjure Hunter's legend — somehow obscures the fact that his insights were becoming more direct and his style simpler, that he was even more profound as a writer, more important of a voice, if that were possible, in American literature. Something comes to mind from another writer that he liked, Thomas McGuane, involving a character who was enraged at the editor of a newspaper. The character's response to this was to storm down to the man's office and cane him, driving him whimpering out into the streets of the small town. That's the kind of old-school approach Hunter stood for, and in this time of political correctness I'm not sure we have a voice who will keep this alive. And we need for this trait of the American character to live. We'll always need Hunter because he was an original — a one-off.

But you can't help yourself. Somehow today I don't necessarily like my own voice of reason. He was, after all, Dr. Thompson. He was, after all, simply wonderful. Still, I'm angry at Dr. Thompson, and I want to say it in the way he might say it. I would like to rip the back off the lousy bastard.

I'm not just angry, I feel bad. I feel bad because I didn't have one more night with the Doc to howl and prance, to sing and yell and laugh, to talk about the character of Zania, the Turkish eight-year-old he created who wrote me a fan letter, who wanted to marry me, that her grandmother and mother were also very beautiful. They danced naked in the moonlight, ran joyously into the sea. The sea didn't have a phallus, she would add. I'm sorry for that lost opportunity of appealing with human sensibilities to that voice of the wrath of God, for cautioning him from living out his legend as I often do with friends. He might have felt differently tomorrow. But then again, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have listened to me.

I'll remember his last gift to me this Christmas: a pair of women's underpants with the old gonzo symbol, ladies and gentlemen, right where it should be. When last I spoke with him, he repeated how much he had enjoyed our Christmas because of its simple, down-home quality. He makes us laugh — we can't help it. And yes, Hunter, I admit it. When we're around or about you, we all want to be brilliant.

One last note to Senor W: Should you feel moved to make any pantywaisted cuts or tasteful edits of this open channeling, from darkest oblivion we will summon and visit upon you horrors that even the "evil" in their frothing at the mouth and puscular eruptive nightmares could not possibly conceive. As we used to chortle: All were not wrong.

And one final co-public-service announcement — being last and easily deleted in case its true intentions be perceived: We hope to publish Dr. T's correspondence with Reasonable Jack. All proceeds going to build a wing or adjunct to the beloved Aspen School of Music to be used for eight-year-old Turkish brides wishing to learn the waltz and minuet. That thought ought to be worth $2 million in a brown paper bag. How do you think they'll like them apples, Bubba?

By Jack Nicholson