The Kitchen Readings (7 page)

 

After graduating from Lompoc, Ed took up the straight life in Chicago. He proved to be as good at making an honest living as he was at the other kind. He and Hunter were in regular contact via phone, fax, and e-mail. Hunter had set up meetings with his Chicago friends for Ed, to help smooth his transition back into the world. Hunter's Chicago friends became Ed's friends, so they were all excited when they learned that Doc's next speaking tour would bring him to Chicago.

The guys made the appropriate plans and fêted Hunter to a fare-thee-well when he got to town. The day after the lecture, and the partying that followed, Hunter was enjoying some down time at Ed's apartment. He noticed and was appreciating Ed's new black leather jacket. It was a cross between what you'd see a “button man” wearing in a gangster movie and your standard storm trooper issue. What Hunter admired most were the large flap pockets. They had to be ten inches square, roomy. Roominess was a quality that Hunter greatly admired in pockets, as he traveled with equipment that wasn't always 100 percent legal and was sometimes bulky. Obviously, bulging pockets were a drawback: probable cause. He asked Ed where he might acquire such a jacket. North Beach Leather, a shop whose owner happened to be a friend of Ed's. North Beach Leather was located in the Watertower mall on Michigan Avenue. The Watertower is a vertical mall. Up and down, not spread out like suburban malls. One travels it by elevator or escalator, not by hiking around the acreage.

When Ed and Hunter arrived at the mall, all the elevators were packed—a bad start. The full elevators necessitated them taking the escalator. Hunter never liked rubbing up against a lot of people, especially people who had no idea who he was. North Beach was on the seventh floor, which meant an awful lot of
human contact for Doc. Up one escalator, off it, on to the next. Hunter's mood was changing.

When they arrived at the shop, Ed introduced Hunter to his friend, the owner, who, in turn, introduced Hunter to whatever employees were in the immediate area. The whole thing was becoming an event, with other sales people and curious shoppers gathering around. It was having a bad effect on Hunter. The little group made its way to the rack of SS “button man” jackets. Ed's friend sized Hunter up, selected one, and helped Hunter into it. Hunter's perceptions were often colored by his mood, and his mood had gone south, far south. It had all become too big a project. “This is the ugliest thing I've ever seen. I wouldn't pay ten dollars for this piece of shit.”

The crowd dispersed, and Hunter and Ed went back to Ed's for some more down time.

People close to Ed and Hunter are sure that this wisdom passed on to President Clinton proved to be invaluable.

The leader of the free world and a clearly simpatico human being.

Peafowl, Dogs, and Cats

There was something odd about the Dobermans' gait as they loped across the lawn toward my truck. As the two dogs came closer, I realized what had happened and I knew that these would be the last dogs to reside at Owl Farm. When they were gone, there would be no replacements.

Hunter was mistrustful of the “establishment.” His rules were his own and often didn't quite dovetail with those of the people who ran things. And next to law enforcement, banks and bankers are pretty much right at the heart of the mainstream establishment. Doc didn't care for bankers. He didn't like handing over his money to that kind of person. How could you trust them?

As with many people in the arts, Hunter's income was sporadic: feast or famine. As his fame grew, this situation became less pronounced, but even as recently as the seventies it was still the general fiscal pattern. Upon receiving the occasional large cash injection, he would, of course, give some thought to paying the bills. Then he'd stock up on the things that he'd been denying himself. And then his thoughts would turn to savings. Looking to the future, retirement. Krugerrands were Hunter's version of a 401k. He would bury them in ammo canisters in the yard. Stealing out in the wee hours, on moonless nights, shovel and canisters in hand, he'd dig, carefully removing the sod, and replacing it when the burial was complete. The dogs were the only witnesses. (You can see where this is heading.) Dogs love to dig. Dogs have good memories when it comes to this sort of thing, and always have great noses. Over a period of time it became clear that the Dobies had been digging around looking for the ammo canisters. Hunter felt he had to deal with the problem. So, today, their awkward gait was caused by the boxing gloves that he had duct-taped onto their front paws. This was a serious impediment to their digging, and didn't make loping any walk in the park either.

As expected, when these two went to their reward, and passed into legend, they weren't replaced. But the potential for a security breach was unacceptable. It was the beginning of the era of the peacocks.

Peacocks are excellent watchdogs. They squawk and screech at the least little thing—without the digging. Perfect for Owl Farm. Collectively speaking, they're called peafowl; the females are peahens, and the males are peacocks. We always referred to them as “the peacocks,” though. Gender be damned. No one at Owl Farm was particularly concerned about offending the 4H Club.

The inventory of birds at Owl Farm would always vary, depending on a number of factors. Attrition due to predator interest was one significant factor. The peacocks were a link in the food chain, waiting to be consumed. The predator population of Woody Creek is diverse. Of course there were countless coyotes; they were ubiquitous. Then there were the foxes; they were always the prime suspects when a peacock went missing. This because when a bird was done in, the culprit would usually return on subsequent nights looking for more of the same. Hunter would trap the peacock killer, and nine tenths of the time it was a fox. Hunter would use something called a “live trap.” This was exactly what the name implies. A live trap neither kills nor injures an animal. The trapper has the option of carting the critter away and setting it loose, or, if he's less a gambler and wants to rid himself of the creature forever, he has a target that's hard to miss. There were days when I arrived at Owl Farm to find a fox in one of the live traps, docile, awaiting its fate. Hunter's assistant, Deborah Fuller, who lived in the other cabin on the property, once told me that the foxes responded the same way to her, docile, resigned—but when Hunter would arrive to inspect the catch, they'd go nuts, snarling and frothing and pacing. How did they know? Hunter would give them a little lecture before he shot them; he thought he owed them that much, an explanation. It didn't seem to help. When I'd occasionally come upon one post mortem, its body would be frozen in such an attitude of crazed fury, with such an expression of viciousness and rage on its face, that there was no question about the creature having “gone gently into that good night.”

Another factor that contributed to the peacock inventory at Owl Farm was, quite naturally, the birth rate. This would depend upon the number of mature females in residence any
given spring, and on how many eggs each of the girls felt like laying. Of course there was more to the egg issue than just the laying. There were two perfectly good peacock pens, one attached to each of the cabins on the property. Sometimes the birds would see the logic in laying their eggs in the relative safety of the pens, sometimes not. When one of the ladies would choose to lay someplace totally unacceptable, like the backseat of the car someone was about to drive off in, the eggs had to be moved. This happened more often than you'd expect. When it did happen, it fell to Hunter to transport the eggs.

Peacocks are pretty friendly birds. They recognize you and actually seem capable of forming a bond with people they're used to. Hunter was truly fond of them, and it seemed that the affection was reciprocated to some degree. The peahens' warm feelings for Hunter, however, did not suffice for them to tolerate egg snatching.

One warm spring afternoon I pulled into Owl Farm to find Hunter lurking. To find a man who's master of his domain lurking in his own yard gave me a moment's pause. Hunter explained that one of the birds had laid two eggs on the tractor. Since the tractor was used on a regular basis, this was a fairly stupid place to set up a nursery. Hunter was waiting for the bird to decamp so he could grab the eggs and move them to the safety of one of the cages. Once the eggs were moved, the mother would usually accept the new spot and proceed with her nesting duties there. Hunter and I waited and watched. The bird came strutting out of the garage where the tractor was parked. When it was a safe distance from the garage, and occupied with its pecking and scratching, Hunter made his way inside. He came out with an egg in each hand and casually made for the cage on the deck of his cabin, feigning exaggerated nonchalance. The peacock
spotted him. Then she spotted the eggs. With an ear-splitting screech, she gave chase. Hunter jumped, then fled. The peacock stayed on the ground, flapping as she ran, closing the distance between them. At the last possible moment she took flight, landing directly on Hunter's head. They both screeched, equally terrified, equally surprised. A peacock's talons are about the size of your hand, with large, sharp claws, Hunter's hands were full of peacock eggs. He had no way to dislodge her. He was not happy.

I don't know how good peacocks are, in general, at takeoffs and landings; when I see them, they're usually just walking around pecking and squawking. This one seemed mighty surprised to be sitting on Hunter's head. I got the sense that she wanted off just as much as Hunter wanted her off. She flapped again and was back on the ground. Hunter lurched up the stairs and across the deck to the cage. He deposited the eggs, and the bird came flapping after. Hunter shut the door on bird and eggs. He stepped back, shaken and sweating.

Years later I moved into Hunter's neighborhood. My cabin was less than a mile from Owl Farm. One morning I looked out into the backyard and saw one of Hunter's birds strutting around. As a rule, the peacocks stuck close to Hunter's, the food source. Once in a while, though, one would wander off a bit, never too far, and get disoriented. I don't think their homing instincts are really great. To make it all the way to my place seemed unusual, but that was what happened. I called Owl Farm, and Deborah told me that Hunter was out of town. I explained the bird situation. Since neither of us considered ourselves peacock wranglers, we decided that Deborah would provide me with peacock chow and I'd feed the bird at my place until Hunter got back. Then he could figure it out.

When Hunter returned I described to him what pleasant company the bird had been. When I got up, it would be waiting outside the back door for a breakfast feeding. When I returned in the afternoon, at first it would be nowhere to be seen, but then it would appear when it realized I was home, and start looking for a little dinner. If I spent the remainder of the afternoon on the deck, it would hang out with me until I retired. I think that Hunter was charmed by the fact that one of his friends actually understood his feelings for these birds. So he offered to give the bird to me. Now, behavior that is regarded as eccentric in the talented and famous can actually be “probable cause” in a commitment hearing for the rest of us. I had to decline. I also didn't think that the uneasy truce between the peacock and my murderous cats would last forever. I appreciated that the huge bird was teaching the evil bird-killing cats a little humility, but I was afraid of what might happen if someone got brave.

Hunter suggested that I start feeding the bird a little closer to the back door every day. He figured I could eventually get it to eat in my back room, and then I could trap it in there, at which time Hunter would come over, bag the thing, and transport it back to Owl Farm. It took a little over a week, but in the end the bird was eating comfortably in the back room, and I could close the door behind it without upsetting it.

It took another week to get Hunter over to my house. I'd call Doc at seven or eight in the morning, when the bird was feeding. If Hunter picked up the telephone at seven in the morning, it's important to remember that it was the
end
of his day, not the beginning. Heck, no one's at his best at the end of a hard day. Same with Hunter. So it took a few tries for me to catch him in the mood to chase a peacock around my back room. Then one morning he said, “Anita and I will be right over.”

They arrived a little later. Hunter was fully equipped. He had a very large tumbler of scotch, a hash pipe, a cocaine grinder, and, oh yes, an old blanket with which to bag the bird. Hunter prepared himself to do battle. A little of this; some of that; a bit of this, that, and something else; and, yes, the blanket. We peeked into the back room to observe the bird. It was completely calm and at home. Anita and I backed off. Hunter slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. Soon the screaming started: the peacock's high-pitched shrieks and Hunter's lower pitched sputtering. Both in a rapid staccato. No actual words discernible from either one. Anita and I sat on my couch looking at each other, waiting. The melee went on and on. No one expected this to be pretty, but we were becoming concerned. Suddenly, silence.

Hunter emerged with the bird wrapped in the blanket. A peacock will become totally docile when enveloped in this kind of darkness. I walked Hunter and Anita and the bird to their car. Back in the cabin I inspected my back room. There was peacock shit everywhere. Not just the horizontal surfaces—the walls and even the ceiling were well smeared. While I was pondering how even such a large bird could emit so much dung, the phone rang. It was Hunter reporting that the peacock seemed fine, totally unscathed. He and Anita were going to turn in and he'd call in the evening. I promised to visit my friend, the peacock, very soon.

 

Liz Treadwell was one of the great beauties in a town full of beautiful women. She was beautiful in the old days, and she's still beautiful now. Lucky us. Back in the day, she was linked romantically with a number of people in the entertainment industry whose names you'd recognize. She is currently hitched to a very good man, a real cowboy.

Liz loved animals, all of them, so when she suggested to Hunter that she cook peacock for the gang for Thanksgiving dinner, Hunter was the only one who even pretended to take her seriously. She said it to bait him, to get his goat. Hunter's goat deserved to be got, as he was usually on the giving end of the goat-getting.

Liz was six months pregnant. She was always known as a terrific cook, so “the boys” decided that dinner with her was a truly inspired idea. Liz started cooking at first light. Being knocked up, she'd been leading the pure life and didn't have anything better to do. By late afternoon the guys started to straggle in. It was opening day of ski season, and that's what most of them had been doing. What Hunter had been doing until then is up for speculation. With the first arrival, the booze was broken out, along with everything else it takes to have a happy holiday, and no one seemed interested in holding back. Liz was preparing a full-blown, all-the-fixings dinner, and had been at it for about ten hours; her guests seemed bent on getting fucked up as quickly as possible.

By the time the feast was ready, the group was far, far gone. The huge dining room table was covered by a meal out of Norman Rockwell, and no one was hungry. Liz was a little bit cranky. No, it was worse than that: her back hurt, she'd been on her feet for hours. She was homicidal. Liz's classic beauty concealed an iron will and a nicely evolved temper; she was not one to fuck with. She watched the lads “not eating” for as long as she could stand it, cartoon steam coming out of her ears. She finally turned aside to feed her two Australian shepherds, Josh and Jilly, essentially to put off the wringing of necks that was next on her agenda. When she returned from the kitchen, the boys were still lounging around the living room, sprawled on sofas
and easy chairs, having a good old giggle, and still ignoring the food. There were no other women at the gathering. Liz decided to take the passive approach, expelled some steam, and started clearing the untouched food from the table. Halfway through the clearing process, the guys decided they were hungry. Liz was about to blow. Hunter was sitting on the sofa smoking, which added to the exhausted, sober, pregnant Liz's rage. Suddenly, the pooches came flying in from the kitchen; Liz turned around and saw Hunter with a can of lighter fluid in his hand.