A VERY RICH & FAMOUS MAN WHO ALMOST BECAME MY FRIEND

IN THE PANTHEON OF LITERARY MINDS, his broad humor and bitter irony showed how far the human imagination can go in search of essential rights and freedoms for all men.  In language that was direct and deceptively simple, he gave us a smile while writing of the chaos of our times, a man both wistful and charming, he had a son named Mark, who once wrote him a letter, saying: "We are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is."  He did exactly that for anyone who ever read a word he wrote.

   The first time I ever saw the man it was about a quarter of a century ago, after having arrived in the City of New York with almost zero pocket money. I had scooted out of Houston, Texas as fast as my feet would carry me before the collectors caught up with me, landed on my daughter's doorstep in New York City, asked if I could stay awhile, she said yes, and there I was. 

   While I was going through the hellish time of hunting for a job, I decided to take a walk up 3rd Avenue toward 42nd Street on a warm afternoon in late Spring.  So, thanks to a walk, I stumbled upon a guy carrying a suitcase, and that guy just happened to turn out to be:

KURT VONNEGUT

HE WAS STROLLING along East 42nd Street toward 3rd Avenue, bag in hand, when I spotted him.  He looked tired when he spotted me.  Here was the man who had written "Cat's Cradle" and "Slaughterhouse Five" and so many other books I had loved, looking at me, he said: "Would you like to have yourself a little fun by giving me a helping hand?  I've had a little mix up on getting myself home," he asked.  "Honestly, I need a little help."  He was pleasant, but he sounded tired.

   I wanted to tell him how much his books had meant to me; that I had learned so much from his writing, loved "Slaughter house -Five," couldn't put down "Cat's Cradle," and adored "Bluebeard."  However, the only words I could muster were, "I'd be happy to help you, Mister Vonnegut."

  "So you recognize me?" he said.  He smiled.  "Listen, I'd love to stop and talk, but the bag won't move itself."  He handed me his bag.  "Would you mind carrying this for me? I'm going over to 40th between Lexington and 3rd to catch the Hampton Jitney.  I'd like to smoke a cigarette before I board.  The damned fools don't allow smoking."

   We walked along.  I was thanking God for this priceless gift, but far too shy to ask him any questions.  All I knew about him was that he was born in 1922 in Indianapolis, Indiana, went off to World War Two and joined the 423rd Infantry Regiment, was taken prisoner by the Nazis, watched the bombing of Dresden in a slaughterhouse the Germans called, "Schkachtof Funf," which, when translated into English, turned out to be "Slaughterhouse Five," his first famous book.

   He asked me if I wanted a tip, I said no, he tossed his cigarette away, then muttered, "Honestly, these no smoking rules are killing me!"  He looked at me, then, "You're sure you don't want me to tip you?"

   "Kind of."

   "Meaning?" he asked.

   "Um.  I don't want a tip, sir."

   He smiled.  "Take five-dollars, anyway," he said, put his cigarette out, and was about to board the Jitney, when he gave me a wink, then added, "Go buy yourself a pack of cigarettes.  It's on me." 

   Several years after that, I was living out in East Hampton for the summer and had taken a drive over to Sag Harbor.  And there he was again, sitting on a bench and holding a hamburger with one hand and dangling a cigarette between his fingers with the other.  For some reason, he recognized me, invited me to sit down, asked if I wanted a bite of his burger, I said no, and we began to talk about how irritated  he was about George W. Bush invading Iraq.  He finished his rampage giving a quote of something he had just written, which was:  "The only difference between Hitler and Bush is that Hitler was elected."

    I laughed.

   He didn't.

  He now had become aware that I was an aspiring writer, because I had just finished telling him how hard I thought writing was.  He asked me tartly what was so hard about it, and I said that I just wasn't getting to where I wanted to be.  He replied that writer's weren't put on Earth to please themselves like most politicians were, but to listen to their hearts telling them what needed to be written.  "Judging from what you've told me," he said.  "You are your own worst enemy.  You are poisoning your heart with your mind."

   "Why do you think I'm dong that?" I said.

   "Remember one thing, you don't have to be handsome or colorful or whatever to be a good writer.  Put your mind in between the sky and the ground.  Learn to stay there awhile.    It is a nice place to be.  The thoughts will come.  Just  keep on writing."  He then took a bite of his hamburger, and gave me a grin.  "Don't let my family know I'm eating this," he said.

   The last I ever saw him was when he was playing softball at the East Hampton "Writer's and Artist's Charity Event."  He  spotted me in the stands, he  smiled, and gave me a wave of his hand.  He died in April of 2007 at the age of 84, from a brain injury.  

    And I will forever remember him as the "humanist" he was, and for the inspiration he gave to me to just keep on writing and keep my mind between the sky and the ground.  He was right: It is a very nice place to be...

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HE CALLED HIMSELF "BOBO"

BEING A FORMER PRO BASEBALL PLAYER MYSELF, I have always loved this guy.  His real name was Louis Norman Newson.  He liked to call himself Bobo, and liked calling everyone else Bobo, too.  According to those who  knew him best, Louis Norman seemed to have trouble recalling names. Other than that, he was a man of rare wit and wisdom.  A few Americans, but very few, still have the humor that Bobo had.  Most men like him have been dead-and-buried for a very long time.  

   So has Bobo. 

   He once said that he only played the game of baseball to put a little money in his pocket, just in case he wound up dead in an alley, and that the folks who found him that way wouldn't think he was just a plain ol' bum.

   Bobo is mentioned in a poem by Ogden Nash called "Line-up for Yesterday," under the letter "N," which goes like this: "N is for Newsom...Bobo's favorite kin...if you ask how he got himself here...he talked his way in."  His was the only name mentioned that never got into the Baseball Hall of Fame.  And that probably wouldn't bother Bobo all that much.    He  had played for 8 major league teams from September of 1929 to September of 1953, and most likely figured that they didn't know where he was, in order to notify him as to whether he was in or out.

  Once, he was out on the mound when young boy went face-to-face with him on a fiercely hot day way day way back in August of 1944.  The boy was delivering a message from his Dad, Connie Mack, the owner and manager of the  Philadelphia Atheletics, who simply wanted to notify Bobo that he was relieving him of his duties. Bobo listened quietly to the request, then replied: "Go tell your daddy to screw hisself!  Tell him I'm stayin' right where I is!"

   And on another occasion, after Joe DiMaggio had whacked three doubles off of him, a reporter asked him how he felt about that.  "Whaddya mean?" said Bobo "He didn't get no homers off of me, did he? A guy's gotta feel pretty damned good about that!"

   Bobo was one of two pitchers who won 200 major league games and managed to lose more games than he won.  His record was 211 wins and 222 losses.  A good ol' boy from South Ca'lina, he once bragged that he had won 33 games in the Pacific Coast League back in 1932.  The record book only showed 30.  When asked about this, he said, "Who ya gonna believe, the record book, or the guy what did it?"

   In contrast to most baseball players of his day, Bobo let everyone know what his opinions were, too.  As a rookie with the Saint Louis Browns, he pitched a no-hitter, which he lost with two-outs in the tenth inning.  When asked by a reporter how many no-hitters he'd pitched in his career, Bobo replied, "Just one, son.  They don't grow in bunches like bananas, ya know."

   I met the man back when I really wasn't a kid anymore.  I was 23 and happened to be sitting in a Florida restaurant , when he came lumbering in.  I introduced myself, informed him that I'd played a little pro ball myself, and the two of us began to talk. 


   He spoke about the bad games and the good games.   About the heat in Saint Louis and the bad food in Washington and the booing fans of New York.  And about the time when he was on the mound in Detroit.  He pitched nine strikes in a row at breakneck speed.  When asked why he was pitching so fast, he said, "I had to pee!"

   He felt that the proudest moment of his career came in the season opener of 1936, because he had the honor of pitching in front of President Roosevelt.  It seems he forgot to duck when his third-baseman zoomed a ball to first-base, and broke his jaw in three places.   The manager came out to the mound to see if he was OK and if he wanted to be pulled.  Bobo replied, "Ol' FDR came to see Bobo, and he's gonna see him all the way."  He won the game 1-0.

   He was downed by cirrhosis of the liver at the age of 55 back in 1962.  I hope he is up in Heaven now, cracking jokes with ol' FDR.

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