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The Higher Education of Hunter S. Thompson
Everybody has a good "The day I got turned on to Hunter S. Thompson" story. They are like fish tales. Battle scenes. Exclusive dramas. Similar to any of those life-changing events, for that matter, that transform the vinyl dashboard into a complex control panel. Fear and Loathing wasn’t just a book, it was a navigator’s manual, and those of us who read it learned the rules of engagement. The day I got turned on to Thompson I was a 20 year-old bum playing Thoreau in the back stretches of rural America. By day I worked in a sawmill, whacking boards out of freshly dropped slabs of red oak. Nights, I would read anything I could get my paws on. But I’d never heard of Hunter S. Thompson. Until that magic day…
"You mean to tell me you’ve never experienced Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas!?" my co-worker Randy screamed across the din of the saw one day. "Man, Thompson’s my hero! Keep a copy of Fear and Loathing around and you’ll never have any problems getting some box. The women go crazy for that stuff. Take it from a pro. It’s more effective than Carlos Castaneda."
"Really?" I asked, confused. "What’s the guy’s name?"
Randy ceremoniously shut off the saw. "Hunter S. Thompson," he whispered, as if handing me a vial of the ancient musk of Aphrodite. "Trust me on this. You wanna score, pick up a copy of Fear and Loathing."
I immediately punched out, ran up to the local Walden Books, and began scouring the racks, the word "score" throbbing in my mind. After a desperate search, I gave up. But then, lo and behold, it suddenly appeared, jammed between two dictionaries. Some fool who couldn’t afford it hid it there for safe keeping! And Randy was dead-on right! The first sign was at the checkout. When I laid the volume on the counter, I noticed several ponds of saliva beading in the lipsticked cracks of the cashier’s small mouth. Thinking this was coincidental, no sooner had I paid for the book and began walking out of the mall that three women, upon seeing the volume in my hand, began clawing at me and tearing off their clothes.
"Hot damn!" I said to Randy the next morning. "What’s the secret with this Thompson guy? I haven’t even opened the book yet and they’re all over me."
"Don’t say I didn’t warn you," Randy beamed with a diabolic grin, his eyes twisting into corrosive prisms. "You don’t even need to read the book. I’ve never read it either. Who cares about reading it. And if you think that paperback does wonders, you should try carrying around the first edition hardback. I’ve personally moved up to that level, but I’m not sure if you’re prepared for the warrior’s path."
Today, if scoring at the coffeehouse were judo, I’d be something like a triple black belt. Last week after reading a hatchet-job review of Thompson’s new title, I ran down to the bookstore to give it a test run. The competition in the café was fierce. A little Kerouac here. Some Electric Kool-Aid there. A lesbian with some Plath. Upon quick inspection I noticed four stiff new copies of Kingdom of Fear on various tables, the babes filling in around them, touching the photo of Hunter’s ass on the back of the dust jacket, their eyes pools of lust.
"Novices," I thought, skillfully strolling over to the Thompson section and snatching up a copy of Songs of the Doomed. Coupled with Kingdom of Fear, I knew it would create the deadly chemical imbalance (something like roofies cut with booze) necessary to win all the spoils. I sat down, laid both copies on the table, and the women immediately scrambled toward me, leaving the amateurs in disbelief and shock.
"Ohhhhh," they chimed in chorus as they swarmed around. "The new one. Plus that older one."
"Breakfast of champions," I laughed. "Let’s head over to the penthouse."
And it all started that day at the sawmill, when I began the Thompson rite of passage. But that was long ago. Today I’m a successful yuppie lawyer with a clientele of cul-de-sac nomads and three-time losers with phony neck problems. When average Americans look around their environments, they see mountains, buildings, people. But not me. I see damages. Life is one big personal injury. I’m a wealthy man. And so is Hunter S. Thompson. We work, after all, for the same cause.
-Ben Corbett
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