Of course. The billionaire’s guards could not club down the kiddies, not even if they really ran amok and rushed his penthouse retreat.
“[Q]uietly explore alternate possibilities such as: Moving it to the Sunrise Hospital and making it a charity event. We could start the ball rolling by donating 25 or even $50,000. I just want to see it moved to a place where, if something goes wrong, it will be a black mark against Las Vegas—not a black mark against us.”
His was no ordinary paranoia. It had sweep and grandeur, but he could also focus its full intensity on the smallest incident and bring all his terror to bear. And while his paranoia encompassed virtually everything, it really zeroed in on all forms of “contamination.” Unwashed and living in filth, he was forever cleaning the space around him.
Nothing obsessed him more than the purity of fluids, and he had discovered something shocking about the Las Vegas water system, which he set out in another anguished memo:
“This water system will comprise the only water system in the world where the outlet of the sewage disposal plant plus tons of raw, untreated sewage flows right into a small, stagnant pool of water, and then flows right back out again, through a screen to remove the turds, and then into our homes to be consumed by us as drinking water, washing water, and water to cook with.”
Well, not exactly by “us.” Hughes himself drank only bottled water and insisted that it be used in cooking his meals. He had done so for twenty years. Indeed, he drank only one brand, Poland Spring water, only from quart bottles, and only if bottled in its original plant in Maine. As for washing, that was no big problem, since he rarely washed at all. Still, the local water pollution upset him deeply.
“It is not so much the technical purity or impurity, it is the revolting, vomitous unattractiveness of the whole thing. It is sort of like serving an expensive New York Cut steak in one of our showrooms and having the waiter bring the steak in to a customer in a beautiful plate, but, instead of the usual parsley and half a slice of lemon and the usual trimmings to make the steak attractive—instead of this, there is a small pile of soft shit right next to the steak. Now, maybe technically the shit does not touch the steak, but how much do you think the patron is going to enjoy eating that steak?
“I think he would lose his appetite very fast.”
Hughes himself never had much of an appetite. He generally ate only once a day, at some odd predawn hour, and took forever to get down his meal, often requiring that a bowl of soup be reheated several times. Sometimes he did not eat at all for days, other times he subsisted for weeks on desserts alone. But he was very picky about the preparation of his food, especially about any possible “contamination.”
Earlier he had dictated a three-page single-spaced memorandum titled “Special Preparation of Canned Fruit”:
“The equipment used in connection with this operation will consist of the following items: 1 unopened newspaper; 1 sterile can opener; 1 large sterile plate; 1 sterile fork; 1 sterile spoon; 2 sterile brushes; 2 bars of soap; sterile paper towels.”
Hughes carefully outlined nine precise steps to be followed religiously: “Preparation of Table,” “Procuring of Fruit,” “Washing of Can,” “Drying of Can,” “Processing the Hands,” “Opening the Can,” “Removing Fruit,” “Fallout Rules While Around Can,” and “Conclusion of Operation.”
Each step was intricately detailed. For “STEP #3 Washing of Can” he instructed: “The man in charge turns the valve in the bathtub on, using his bare hands to do so. He also adjusts the water temperature so that it is not too hot or too cold. He then takes one of the brushes, and, using one of the bars of soap, creates a good lather, and then scrubs the can from a point 2 inches below the top of the can. He should first soak and remove the label, and then brush the cylindrical part of the can over and over until all particles of dust, pieces of the label, and, in general, all source of contamination have been removed. Holding the can in the center at all times, he then processes the bottom of the can in the same manner, being very sure that the bristles of the brush have thoroughly cleaned all the small indentations on the perimeter. He then rinses the soap. Taking the second brush, and still holding the can in the center, he again creates a good lather and scrubs the top of the can, the perimeter along the top, and the cylindrical sides to a point 2 inches below the top. He should continue this scrubbing until he literally removes the tin protection from the can itself.”
Before opening the now immaculate fruit can, the billionaire’s servitor, following Step #5, had to “process”: “This action will consist of washing and rinsing the hands four distinct and separate times, being extremely careful to observe the four phases in each washing. That is to say, the man first must brush every minute particle and surface of his hands and fingers. He then puts each finger tip into the palm of the opposite hand and cleans each finger by rotating and pressing the fingers against the palm. He then interlocks the fingers and slides them together. The last phase is grasping the palms together and wringing them.”
The can and the man both now thoroughly scrubbed, it was time to remove the fruit, which required that “Fallout Rules” be observed: “While transferring the fruit from the can to the sterile plate, be very sure that no part of the body, including the hands, be directly over the can or the plate at any time. If possible, keep the head, upper part of the body, arms, etc. at least one foot away.”
There was a postscript: “This operation must be carried out in every infinitessimal detail, and HRH would deeply appreciate it if the man follow each phase very slowly and thoughtfully, giving his full attention to the importance of the work at hand.”
The fruit was now ready to be dished up to Hughes, who did not bathe or shower for months at a stretch, and dined on a bed whose sheets were changed just a few times a year, in a room that was never cleaned.
Yet this memo was merely one in a long series, all part of an elaborate set of rituals the billionaire had dictated over the years, and which by now filled a thick and constantly updated looseleaf binder kept in the penthouse. Its purpose—to prevent the “backflow of germs.”
The invisible threat required special vigilance. It had been a central preoccupation for more than a decade, and even before Hughes drifted into seclusion he would neither shake hands nor touch doorknobs. Now he demanded that everything his Mormons delivered to him be handled with Kleenex or Scott paper towels, “insulation” to protect him from “contamination.”
The five Mormon nursemaids were his only human contact. Yet even they were not allowed to enter his room unbidden or to speak to him until he spoke first. There was no socializing, no idle chitchat. Hughes kept his door closed most of the time and rarely talked to them at all, instead communicating by memo even with these men in the next room. In part, it was because he was nearly deaf and refused to wear a hearing aid. To be heard, the Mormons would have to stand close and shout. Hughes didn’t want them that close, and both his body odor and breath were so rank that they didn’t want to get near him.
Still, he needed to control their every movement. None had been allowed a day off since joining his retinue, and while they finally bargained for a twelve-day-on, four-day-off schedule in Las Vegas, Hughes often ignored the man on duty, preferring to call back an escaped Mormon to perform some absurd task, such as measuring the slippage of his pillow. At times they were all on “stand-by.”
“The moment each man arrives at home from his duties at the hotel, call and give him the following message,” Hughes had dictated when he first established the standby rules. “‘HRH said he would be extremely and deeply grateful if you would be kind enough to remain at home without leaving for even one fraction of a second for any reason whatsoever, no matter how great the emergency might be.’”