Godfrey's Guide

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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