Dear Hunter

Thinking back to February 21st, 2005: I worked 2 til closing at the café and after clocking in, I threw on my apron and took to busing the tables. As I strolled over to the info desk to drop off books that had been left on the tables, I saw a small display of Hunter Thompson books. I looked up to Jesse and gravely asked, "Did Hunter die?" He nodded a somber yes and I drudged back to my post behind the counter with my shoulders slumped and feeling all sorts of crappy. I then called my parents house-line and got my dad. I asked if he had heard if a writer named Hunter Thompson had passed away and if so, how did he die. Dad had heard on the news that this Thompson fella died yesterday and apparently had shot himself. After I hung up I immediately texted Skippy, a regular and die hard Thompson fan, my brother Xavier, and Penny, a coworker and close friend who had admired Hunter's work for years. Skippy sent back: I heard. Shit. Xave: No way. Shit, that sucks. Penny: I know. I can't believe it. I really loved him. As for me, I wish Hunter had hung in there a bit longer, but man, he left behind one hell of a legacy and I do so love his words.