I Wanted All Things To Seem To Make Some Sense

It makes sense that my father should pass away the same year as Kurt Vonnegut. Maybe that's ridiculous to you, but it makes perfect sense to me. In the last couple of years, when our relationship waned, we found that we had Mr. Vonnegut in common. And of course we should. One absolute thing I inherited from my father was his sense of humor. I'm pretty certain that I was born with it. One time, I was seven or so, my father generously agreed to play hairdresser with me. As I wet the comb and ran it over his head, I noticed a bald spot. In my humorless innocence, I drew in a breath and let out a low, extended: Ohhh... He laughed and laughed. It's stuff like that I miss. I don't fabricate memories and feelings. I strongly oppose that notion. But man-- some memories are just so vibrant.

Back to Kurt Vonnegut. There's a lot about Vonnegut that reminds me of my father, besides the fact that he was a fan. Dry humor. Liberal, inventive thinking. Historical references up the wazoo. Thoughtful, weary eyes and a cigarette in hand.

There are obvious differences that I won't begin to name. I'm not saying they were long-lost brothers. It's just that the similarities are significant. At least to me.

My father met Kurt Vonnegut once. At a post office in Manhattan. He saw Kurt walk inside. Shocked and excited, he leaned to the security guard. "That's Kurt Vonnegut!" He got no more than a shrug from the guard. My father then approached the master of prose. "You're Kurt Vonnegut(?)" Kurt, I suppose retrieving mail or sending a letter, looked up. "Yes... I am." My father caught up with him at the door. What is it you say to a literary genius ready to flee down the street and out of your tangible existence forever? Certainly you want to say more than a five second: you're a swell writer. My father asked excitedly, "May I walk with you a while?" Kurt turned to face my father. "I'd prefer not."

Hah! Now-- to those of you who've never read a Vonnegut piece, you're probably thinking what an asshole he was. But if you're aware of his tone, the line is absolutely priceless.

My father and I laughed without breath when he told me of this brief rendezvous. I wonder if the tale is left only to me...

My father didn't have a will; didn't have many possessions to begin with. But I'll keep this one. And when a friend finishes his first Vonnegut and calls to tell me (this actually happens quite a lot,) or when I'm reading Welcome to the Monkey House to my children at bedtime (don't worry, I'll wait till they're four,) I'll pass this story along.

It's not much, but it's mine.

In times of silence on either end of the line, we could revert to Vonnegut. I know my father was impressed with the fact that this writer is one of my favorites. And I really like that.

I could go into how they left before their time and say all that pitiful crap that I'm suppose to say. But I'm not going to do that. I'm just thankful for the things my father involuntarily gave to me; elated at the prose Vonnegut voluntarily shoved at me.

I'm just happy that it happened at all.