Hunter Lepi

In a dark barroom somewhere sits Charles Bukowski across from Hunter S. Thompson, the two of them insulting each other to no redeemable end while they chain smoke and furiously try to outdrink each other. They discreetly agree on César Vallejo before Bukowski slaps the waitress’s ass and tells her to bring another bottle on Thompson’s dime. The waitress backhands him with all her bodyweight before doing so.

In the back of the room Bob Dylan is playing chess with Susana Clark while Townes Van Zandt stares at them from the bathroom window. Meanwhile Lightnin’ Hopkins and John Lee Hooker are trading stories whilst Tab Benoit listens as he steadily slips into a Courvoisier haze of attention. At a side booth sits Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Jim Croce, and Sturgill Simpson discussing the pleasures of home as a child while their wives sip wine and discuss cultural climates of the planet. Elliot Smith sits in the corner jotting lines on a napkin when Doug Stanhope fumbles over to him and asks for a lighter. Moments pass after Pamela Courson enters the bar with an Italian playwright before Jim Morrison kicks the door ajar, arm in arm with Janis Joplin, and they fall toward the bar and bartender and Morrison tells him he wants a bottle of Bushmills while his “lover” wants a tea. She scoffs, pulls a joint out of her hair and sparks it expertly.

Hunter Lepi then comes through the entrance. He has a backpack on carrying a guitar case and microphone stand in his right hand and a small amplifier in his left. The room watches him set his things down and in order. He is alone. He is nobody to them. They know nobody. Lepi strums his guitar once, says “check” into the microphone twice quickly, clears his throat and blasts off into a blues tune. The room does not respond. They shut up. Hunter plays all night for everyone never knowing where he’s going next.