Hunter S. Thompson gained international notoriety when he published his first book, in 1967, about biker gang the Hells Angels. Over multiple chapters, Hunter chronicles wild, drug-fueled parties and ugly gang rapes. What Thompson leaves out of his graphic and sometimes pornographic account is the toddler waddling around somewhere in the background of those parties, his 2-year-old son, Juan.
Juan Thompson grew up in the world of his larger-than-life father, although he admits only peripherally. “Hunter was a background presence,” he writes in his new book, “Stories I Tell Myself,” “paralleled with my mother and me without being a part of the family.”
Juan had to share his father with the countless celebrities, musicians, politicians and news makers who called him friend. Juan writes, “When Hunter arrived at a gathering, he never joined a group, he became the focus of the group.”
Hunter’s mother, Virginia, told Juan that as a child, other children would wait for Hunter as he finished up breakfast simply to walk them to school.
However, somewhere within this hyperbolized life, Juan saw his flawed father; an alcoholic with a bad temper. Hunter was a man who shunned authority and therefore shunned parenting his only child. By the age of 12, Juan made himself the referee of his parent’s late night screaming matches at their home, Owl Ranch, in Woody Creek, Colo., outside Aspen.
“My mother needed an advocate,” Juan writes, “someone who could calmly defend her and get my father to listen.”
After his mother divorced Hunter, Juan admits that his relationship with his father became distant. But Hunter continued to check up on his son, writing letters and welcoming him warmly whenever Juan decided to visit.
When he left for his freshman year of college in Boston, Hunter sent Juan off with a letter, encouraging him to make the most of his time at school. He also offered his son all the East Coast contacts and friends he could, including the editor of the Boston Globe.
“I’m not worried about you,” Hunter wrote, “but I am interested, and I’ll want to know what’s happening.”
For much of his childhood, Juan bonded with his father through guns. Juan took great pride in helping to clean Hunter’s extensive gun collection when he’d visit Owl Ranch. Eventually the chore became an unspoken expectation and a comfort they both appreciated.
Juan was not oblivious to his father’s alcoholism, drug abuse and penchant for women younger than his son. But he grew to accept it.
“Hunter and I grew older,” Juan writes with a nod to Richard Linklater, “yet his women stayed about the same age.”
When he gave the closing speech at an event honoring Hunter in his hometown of Louisville, Ky., Juan had made peace with his father’s many contradictions.
“Years ago he chastised me for not minding my manners,” Juan joked to the auditorium as his father looked on from the wings, “yet he will set off a roll of 5,000 firecrackers in his best friend’s bedroom at 3 a.m.”
By 67, Hunter’s lifetime of excess finally caught up with him. During his surgery for a hip replacement, Juan spied a note on Hunter’s chart that read, “500 cc of whiskey every two hours or as needed.”
“That I emerged from that maelstrom of his own life appearing relatively normal filled him with wonder and pride.”
- Juan Thompson
As Hunter’s body withdrew from alcohol during the surgery, his organs nearly shut down. He had to be put into a drug-induced coma.
“His rage and willpower could not help him now,” Juan observed. “He was old, pale and drawn, and a victim of is own disease.”
The day Hunter ended his own life, Juan and his family were visiting Owl Ranch.
Juan’s wife and son had gone sledding while he and his father stayed home together. After his 6 year old and his wife came back, Juan left his father in his office reading the paper.
When he returned, Juan found Hunter slumped over in his chair with a tiny trickle of blood coming from his mouth.
There was a longtime sign on Hunter’s refrigerator that said, “Don’t call 911. That means you!”
Instead Juan called Hunter’s lawyer. Then Juan went out to the porch and, with a different gun, he shot off a round to honor his father.
Looking back, Juan believes his father was proud of him. Hunter appreciated that Juan had married well, was a capable father to his own son, and most of all, that he rarely drank and avoided drugs.
“That I emerged from that maelstrom of his own life appearing relatively normal,” Juan writes with satisfaction, “filled him with wonder and pride.”