Not A Day To Fear and Loathe

On the birthday (it was yesterday) of the late, great Hunter S. Thompson – I humbly present this tale about when I was accused of being that late, great writer. (Subscribe to the blog)

For those of you who don’t know about the man, he was a hugely popular newspaper columnist and wrote infamous books like “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” while ripped on acid, alcohol, pills, etc. I don’t imbibe, but I admire genius, and he was one.

It happened years ago when, as editor of a newspaper, I was being sued by a former exployee for improperly firing him. His attorney, a large and bluff and strident man, was questioning me.

At first, the attorney bemoaned the theft of his expensive bicycles the previous night.

“Such bicycles. So finely tuned. Racing bikes made just for me. And now they are gone.”

Odd way to begin a deposition.

My lawyer looked up at him puzzled. I on the other hand nodded my head in sympathy.

Then he idly turned to me and asked a series of benign questions about journalism and newspapers and being an editor.

“You were the chief editor?”

“Yes.”

“In charge of hiring and firing?”

“Yes.”

He paused to again pine over the loss of his bicycles. He sighed. Shook his head. Turned back to me again.

“Mr. Winckler, did you call my client a pussy?”

A lightning bolt could not have struck the room’s mood – nor my brain – more violently. My attorney’s eyes, I suspect, still bulge as they did in that moment.

Think, brain. Think, think, think…

Relief! I had the answer and smiled as I gave it.

“Heaven’s, no, I didn’t call him a pussy.”

My lawyer relaxed.

“What I said was, ‘Quit acting like a pussy.’ “

The attorney, suddenly swollen with astonishment, rose upon his toes to his full height and leaned across the table at me with his arm stretched straight at my chest and his plump index finger stabbing.

“I know who you are!” he cried. “I know who you are!”

There was a pause as the entire room quietly gasped.

My eyes fixated upon the quivering finger.

“YOU’RE HUNTER THOMPSON!!!”

Who, me?

“Yes, that’s who you are. Hunter Thompson. I’ve always wanted to meet you!”

He opened his palm for a handshake.

Wow, what a compliment. To be compared to one of the greatest writers of our time and generation. 

Suffused with pride, I puffed out my chest and smiled broadly at the attorney. And shook his hand.

Then I turned to look at my lawyer.

His head was in his hands. I think he was crying.

We lost.

But all these years later, I still smile.

Here’s to the late, great, REAL Hunter S. Thompson.