THE HOTEL CASSA GRANDE
Published in Gonzobeats Magazine May '05
By Dean Baker
I very rarely talk about my days in Cuba before the revolution. Those days are long behind me now and so much has changed since then. But when my grandchildren ask if I was ever in fear of my life when the Communists seized power, I say ‘No way’. I was only ever in mortal danger once during my time in Cuba, and that was long before the revolution, when I stayed at the Cassa Grande Hotel.
The Cassa Grande hotel was a swinging place of lodging right on the beachfront in Havana. It was always buzzing with vibrant, fun-seeking young people and humming with soft salsa music. I had stayed there on my two previous business trips, expenses be damned, courtesy of the import company who employed me.
One particular day, after a business lunch with my two Cuban assistants, Ramon and Raul, we retired to my room for some rum. The booze soon relaxed my Cuban friends and we quickly began a discussion on local politics.
“Ramon, you and me need to make as much money as we can, we need to be ready to flee if the Communists take over.” Raul said, knocking back his third shot of rum and grimacing.
“Those filthy pigs will come for us all.” Ramon added. “You gringo’s are in no danger, but we Cubans, for us there is no protection.” He said pointing at me.
“Quit whining you two,” I said. “You’re giving me a head-ache. The company pays you well enough, and besides, the Communists wouldn’t dare try anything. Do you really think we’d abandon you?”
Ramon and Raul looked at each other and shook their heads.
“No Senor Floyd, we know you will take care of us.”
“Now lets finish our drinks and get ready for some night-life. If you think your days are numbered you might as well grab some fun while you can!” I said, giving Raul a friendly slap on the back. “I’m just going to get some air out on the balcony.” I added, as I pulled a large cigar from my top pocket and fumbled for my matches.
The view from the balcony was spectacular. A perfect view outwards of the emerald waters of the gulf of Mexico. To the left the busy streets could be seen, car horns noisily beeping in the traffic. Directly below was the luxurious pool patio, expensively installed, with a well stocked bar and sun Lounging area. I fixed myself another drink of Rum and ice, as Ramon and Raul watched TV, and returned to the balcony.
I was sipping the ice cool liquid, relaxing, admiring the view, or at least trying to catch a glimpse of the female sunbathers stretched out fourteen floors below. The balcony wall was fairly low so I placed a foot on the balustrade and lent an elbow on my knee as I peered over the edge, silently musing. To be honest I never even thought about the housekeepers, as I relaxed with my cigar and Rum. My mind was elsewhere. I certainly didn’t remember hearing her come in, but I’ll remember her face for the rest of my days. It hadn’t registered in my brain, when a few moments earlier I’d seen one of the housekeepers, on the balcony opposite, shaking the dust out of a rug. Meanwhile though, I remained oblivious to the agent of death who worked cleaning the room behind me. In her defence, and mine for that matter, she couldn’t have known that there were three of us. She would never have guessed in a million years that some juicehead gringo would be out on the balcony in the mid-day sun.
The majority of her work completed she picked up the rug and, probably in a hurry to finish and get on with the next room, barged straight through the French doors holding the rug up in front of her singing.
"Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera, guantanamera, guajira guantanamera."
She caught me forcefully in the small of the back, a shock that firstly sent me flying over the balcony, and secondly caused me to frantically grab at the first thing that came to hand. I was in basic survival instinct mode.
The first thing she saw was me disappearing over the side.
"Ay, Dios mÃo, ayúdalo! Virgen SantÃsima, auxilio socorro!" (Oh, my God, help him. Sainted virgin, help, help). She screamed and lent over the balcony to see.
Fortunately I managed to grab onto the balcony struts, my hands gripping like iron vices. All she could see at first was eight snow-white knuckles as I swayed to and fro, dangling from the balcony. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. All I could do was grip tightly. Maybe that was best. The brain taking control of the body, and deciding how to best utilize resources. By now she had screamed another three times, and Ramon and Raul had come running. Surely thinking that she’d found a rat, not an American dangling from the balcony.
She turned to meet them as they swept onto the balcony leaning over and seeing my face, now ashened with fear.
“Oh my! he’s killing himself!” Ramon said.
“Your crazy talk of Communists has caused senor Floyd to jump fool!” Raul shouted at his buddy, fierce with anger, his livelihood hanging from the balcony.
I could hear the woman frantically trying to explain what happened in Spanish, her shadow reflected on the white walls as she waved her arms around to illustrate her story.
"Señor, por favor quédese ahÃ, por favor señor; ¡ay mamacita, que no se caiga!" (Sir, please stay there, please sir, Oh mamacita, let him not fall!) She bellowed down to me.
Ramon reached down to try and grab me. It was no use. I was hanging at full stretch. They couldn’t reach down and grab my arms, and if I had offered up a hand I would have fallen for sure.
"Auxilio, socorro! Por favor, alguien, ayuden que este hombre se cae!" (Help, help! Please, someone, help, this man is falling) The housekeeper continued to shout.
I looked down at the crowd below. They looked like lazy ants, completely oblivious of the commotion occurring fourteen floors above. By now several other housekeepers had heard the shouting and screaming and come to see what the fuss was about. There must have been about seven people on the balcony by now, all of them ranting in Spanish.
"El señor se resbaló y se cayó por el balcón, pueden ayudarlo, por favor?" (The señor slipped and fell through the balcony, can you help him, please?) Raul explained to them.
“We will not let you die Senor Floyd.“ Ramon said, returning to me and looking into my bulging eyes. I frantically battled to operate some kind of basic makeshift respiratory system.
“You are right under the pool, if you fall, you will land in the water.“
The stupidity of the statement caused me such indignation that I was forced to respond.
“You’re crazy! It’s goddamned concrete down there. Get the fire department for Christ sake! I’m gonna die!!“
I honestly felt like I was about to be killed.
“They won’t get here in time senor. You won’t be able to hold on. Just let go. Trust me.“ He said.
I could feel my arms suddenly weaken and turn to jelly. The Auto-pilot had been over-ridden and now my mortal frailties took over. I looked down again. It looked like I must have been at least a mile up.
“The concrete’s directly below me!” I shouted.
“No senor believe me, It just looks that way. You will land in the pool. Trust me. Just let go.“
I decided to test the theory. I kicked off one of my shoes and watched as it descended. It seemed to take an eternity to fall, before it clattered into the concrete below with a loud crack that echoed up off the building, creating an awful din. Screams rang out from below and people started to look upwards now at the figure that was dangling from a fourteenth floor balcony, crammed full of housekeepers. They immediately assumed it was a suicide and called the manager.
“The shoe hit the concrete Ramon!“ I shouted at him, my voice a mixture of fear and hate.
“Only slightly.“ He said.
“What the hell do you mean only slightly!!“
“Well it was only a foot or so from the pool senor Floyd. If you swing yourself backwards and forwards and then let go you should make it. Trust me.“
“I’m not a goddamned gymnast!“ I shouted.
“Well if you don’t try senor you will be dead for sure.“ Ramon shouted back.
My hands were burning now. I knew I couldn’t last much longer. There wasn’t any alternative. So with all the grace of a paraplegic gymnastic team, I started to sway backwards and forwards.
The housekeepers attempted to add their own brand of encouragement and rhythmically chanted "Salta, salta, salta, salta" (Jump, jump, jump, jump)
As I looked down below me I could see movement by the pool as sunbathers evacuated the area below the balcony.
“Don’t jump senor!” Came a loud voice, which bellowed from a bull-horn below. “Suicide is never the answer!“
It could only be the manager. Obviously he didn’t want a suicide on his hands and furthermore a mess on his concrete pool area. The worst kind of publicity. Tough luck, I thought. Too late. On the furthest outwards arc of my awkward swing I bit the bullet and let go. It sounded like ten thousand screams followed me down and rose up to meet me at once. It happened in slow motion, which I thought, especially at the time, was quite strange. I could feel the gathering momentum charge up my body as I gained an incredible speed hitting the water like a bullet, tearing into the pool in a huge explosion of spray. I careened through the water, decelerating rapidly like a knife in butter. Thank god I’d hit the deep end.
All the people around the pool gathered at the edge to see if whatever it was that had hit their pool at roughly eighty-five miles an hour would surface. I felt as though my lungs were about to burst. My legs instinctively kicked for the surface like a mad man. After what seemed like a fortnight I finally broke the surface and gasped for my first breath in almost an entire minute. I struggled for the side of the pool and dragged myself out. Nobody said or did anything. They just looked at me, their jaws agape. The tension was unbearable. I could feel literally a hundred eyes burning me.
“It’s ok.” I said raising a hand to the crowd and coughing, the awful taste of chlorine in my throat.
“I slipped.” feeling like some kind of explanation was necessary for falling into their pool.
By now Ramon and Raul had raced down the stairs to see if they would be seeking ‘alternative employment’.
“Fourteen stories! I don’t believe it!” Ramon said in delight as he grabbed my right hand with his left and raised it like a boxing referee awarding me a title bout.
Raul hugged me like I was his lost child, and beamed a broad smile.
“Thank god!” He said, clasping his hands.
With that we all bolted for the lobby and ran all the way upstairs to our room. Hoping against hope that we wouldn’t be thrown out, or even thrown in jail. From now on we’d have to keep a low profile.
“Now fellas,” I asked. “What do you say to one more Drink?”
Copyright Dean Baker
HST Memorial
Published in Gonzobeats Magazine March '05
by Dean Baker
So the Doc finally did it.
Under normal circumstances I might have choked on my cornflakes when reading the headline: Renowned writer commits suicide, on Yahoo this morning.But knowing of Hunter S Thompson, It was no great shock. I always got the feeling he was just the kind of sick bastard to something like that. Ironically I just finished reading the Rum diary again last Friday…..
I think if he were alive and reading the papers today he might even be vaguely embarrassed by the manner of his death. Like most artists he would probably have secretly craved to be shot down by a sniper at the peak of his career, Like Lennon or Kennedy, and become a super legend, rather than suffer the embarrassment of slow decline and age.
He was a champ and an inspiration to me, and many others. But at 67, he was treading water and he knew
it. Two years since Kingdom of fear, and with only occasional bursts of activity, mostly for ESPN, I think he realised he’d come to the end of the road.
Initial reports are scant but confirm that a gun was used. Short of hearing that it was a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the back, I doubt anyone will suspect foul play. The only advice I could have for the Pitkin county sheriffs office searching Thompson’s home, is to watch out for booby traps.
Maybe this direct action will help preserve the memory of Thompson at his best. Doing it his way. I’m sure a thousand hacks will probably write the headline ‘Gonzo but not forgotten’, and for that reason alone I’m sad that he’s dead. But another part of me hopes that wherever he’s landed, he’s somewhere near his heroes and also in spitting distance of his foes. I’m sure if he were presented with that he’d hunch down to ‘stomp
on the terra’ and ‘gnaw on their skulls.’ Nixon, beware. Wherever you are, he’s going to find you and he’s going to gnaw on your skull…..
Hunter was an original. Many try and live the lifestyle he created, that was christened Gonzo, but they are living that life by choice. Thompson had no choice. It was just the way he was made. And thank goodness he was. It was a fantastic ride at times but now it’s over. Now we just have the action replays. In the final analysis he will be remembered as odd, intelligent, canny, vocal and brave. A literary Kamikaze. Or in his own words: ‘A high-powered mutant of some kind, never considered for mass production. Too weird to live to rare to die.’
If there’s any justice, and the life of Hunter S Thompson proved beyond doubt that their isn’t much of that in this world, but if there are just a few small grains of golden justice left, today all the radio stations will play ‘Mr Tambourine man’ all day long.
As some kind of eulogy, I guess the most fitting would be the tribute he paid one of his own Heroes, Jack Kerouac: ‘Four dogs went to the wilderness. Only three came back. Two dogs died from Guinea worm and the other died from you. Hunter S Thompson.’
Copyright Dean Baker
The Drifter
Published in Gonzobeats Magazine May '05
A lynch mob gathers in cliche town:
The drifter was dragged out of the courthouse into the blazing sun.
“You’re an outlaw Josey Wales.” The Sheriff said, throwing him down in the dirt.
“Don't call me that. I'm the man with no name.” The drifter replied.
“You’re a nut.” Someone shouted.
“You’re crazy in the coconut.” Said someone else.
“What are you? Some kind of frontier psychiatrist?” The drifter asked.
There was no answer.
“There's gold in them there hills, but only for those with true grit, and I'm choc full o that!” The drifter shouted with a hoarse cry.
“I'll pay you to hang him. He’s not just a drifter, he's a shootist too. He’s the man who shot liberty valance.” A man said, giving the sheriff a fist full of dollars.
The sheriff asked for a few dollars more.
“Heck,” the man said. “For that much I'd expect you paint my wagon!”
“Then scoot on off back to Oklahoma boy.” The sheriff said.
Just then a posse of riders tore into town with blazing saddles. They were the searchers and looked like a wild bunch. The deputy stopped them as they approached the drifter.
“Where are your badges?” He asked.
“Badges? We don't need no stinking badges!” They screamed. “We're just here for the hanging.”
The undertaker giggled like a schoolgirl and pulled out his tape measure and started taking the drifters vital statistics. He whistled while he worked. 'The camp town ladies sing this song do-dah, do-dah.' The sheriff went to his office and fetched a noose.
At that moment a lone ranger on horseback slowly trotted into town, his face white as a sheet. Tonto the Indian said his name was Pale rider. A notorious outlaw, he'd done a lot of bad things and was damned to be un-forgiven. The mood of the crowd was tense. They wanted blood and all hell might break loose if they didn't get it.
“Get back you damn savages!” The deputy called out.
Just then a pistol shot rang out. A blonde woman stood holding a smoking gun and a mule by its rope.
“Who you think ya are lady? Annie Oakley? Put the gun down dummy!” The Sheriff shouted.
"You insulted my mule.” The lady said, spitting tobacco juice into the dusty ground. “He doesn't like that. You better apologise.”
Everybody got their guns ready.
“There's two kinds of people in this town. The quick and the dead. The quick ain't dead and the dead ain’t quick.” She said almost in a whisper, a thin cigar gripped between her teeth.
The crowd hushed, expecting a gunfight. All were silent, the good, the bad and the ugly. It was a standoff. The pose with blazing saddles were restless and began to fidget with their pistols. The crowd were nervous of them. They were guns for hire, young guns. The standoff continued. Nothing could be heard but the wind and the drifters breathing.
Suddenly an eagle squawked loud in the sky and the disturbance triggered a shoot out. Thirty guns were drawn and fired in two seconds and the dusty floor began to soak up the blood. The assembled crowd was dumbstruck with shock and started crossing themselves.
"This is a sign from god!" Someone shouted, and while everybody knelt to pray the drifter did escape.
