I once was given a file by a senior partner and told, “make this go away.” It was an old succession file that at least three other attorneys had worked on. It was a large file but this bit of work would generate very little in fees. In other words, it was a dog. I reviewed it and thought about it and thought about it and thought about it. And the senior partner said, “Get it done and I’ll buy you a drink.” Weeks went by and it sat on my desk. I kept trying to come up with an easy, cost-efficient solution. Then, slowly, an idea occurred to me. And I let it rattle around in my mind for a few days. Then I discussed it with the senior partner. He liked the idea. I drafted the appropriate pleadings and lo! got a judge to agree with me. The file was officially closed.

And then the senior partner came to me and said, “Well, I owe you a drink.” And I realized that I’d be, you know, having a drink with a senior partner. Oy! What would we talk about? Would I say something stupid? I was very nervous. Thankfully we went for that drink that very evening and I had little time to think about it all.

At the bar, somehow the conversation got around to him asking the name of the journalist that worked for Rolling Stone. I could think of only one such journalist and meekly asked, “Hunter Thompson?” kicking myself because surely he could not mean HST and if he knew I really liked HST, well, I thought, that couldn’t be good.

“Yes, Hunter Thompson. He’s something,” he responded. I chuckled and waited for the slam. The senior partner was the epitome of what HST was not: conservative, traditional, reserved, in with the establishment. But. Instead he told me how he KNEW Hunter Thompson. Hunter S. Thompson. HUNTER. S. THOMPSON. I knew someone who knew HST. The man I was reluctant to have a drink with knew HST. The HST. Words failed me.

He told me this story: HST came to town and for one reason or another the senior partner ended up hosting a party for HST. (Can you believe even this much?) It was a catered affair. There came a knock at the door and the senior partner opened it. There stood Hunter Thompson wearing binoculars around his neck for, the senior partner told me, “no apparent reason.” I was now on the edge of my barstool, perched for every detail.

The party was in full swing and Thompson was eating hors d’oeuvres standing next to the dining table. Thompson leaned in to grab something to eat from the middle of the table. When he straightened up, his binoculars caught on the leaf of the table. Thompson looked down taken aback and uttered, “Whoa. The table. It’s levitating.”

This was the second best HST story that senior partner told me that night (I’ll save the other one for a later post). Why this post today? Today was my [wait for it] TEN YEAR anniversary at my job. Not one attorney has retired in those ten years. Two have died. This senior partner was one. I miss him.