The Vonnegut Affair

More of a scene than a story

There is a small island in the gulf of Mexico, not quite in the Virgin Islands chain, instead a younger cousin, born in some unpronounceable era that geologists and time travelers find fascinating, but is otherwise indistinguishable from “a long, long time ago”. The island is now called St. Michael’s and before that, San Miguel and before that, some variety of names that either meant land or island or place we live, depending on who the ‘we’ was at the time. St. Michael’s is a long stretch of territory, very little agriculture, but a booming tourism industry. Like its cousins, it hosts a never ending line of cruise ships and airplanes, arriving and departing over and over again and the locals live with a misanthropic sense of hospitality, knowing that their economy runs on the interlopers, but letting them know that they indeed do not belong on their piece of paradise.

I am one such local, a newspaperman, though that’s not entirely accurate. I thrive on a near limitless trust fund and settled here a few decades back, deciding that I was too young for retirement and too old to be spending my time drinking and chasing girls and jet-setting. It’s not all that fun to jet-set. It’s still flying on a plane, though private is nice. Remind me to tell you about all the costs that go into maintaining a private plane. It’s almost worth getting hassled at the airport. Almost. No, it’s way easier to drink and chase girls in one place, letting the women come to us at the world famous “Hemingway Club”, a drinking establishment for ex-patriots. Not only did Ernest Hemingway never enter the club, but as far as I know, he’d never visited Saint Michael’s at all. Fun fact, though it is a club for American ex-patriots who live on the island, every inch of the Island is owned by Americans.

The island is technically British and we make sure to fly Union Jacks slightly, imperceptibly higher than the stars and stripes, just in case your odd British destroyer happens to pass through. We don’t want to get all Falklands around here. Another fun fact for you, though we sport the highest tax rate in the world on paper, I haven’t filed with the governor in some time. Toby, who works in that department, is a dear friend and understands the plight of ex-patriotism. Imagine if you were sent to a foreign shore to collect taxes from your friends? You too would report that the whole island is operating at a loss. But yes, I am the newspaperman on St. Michael’s. Well, I don’t print it. It’s more of a blog. And I don’t report much news outside your typical local stories, your ‘new coffee shops’ and ‘pod of humpbacks spotted off the coast’ and a bit of gossip here and there to keep the women involved, though I’m pretty sure by the time I’ve heard it, it’s already old news. The email list covers most of the island and whenever I walk into ‘the Hem’, that’s a bit of local vernacular for ‘The Hemingway Club’, Cliff, who slings the beers and the well drinks always announces that St. Michael’s premier writer has entered and the locals raise a glass and the tourists ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’. Well, he did it once at least. Possibly twice, though I could be thinking of the same night twice. I don’t do it for the notoriety.

The island is crescent shaped with a beautiful beach in the middle that takes forever to get to. The Hem lives on one end of the island, near the port where the tourists come and spend money on our famous fish & turkey sandwich (Fun fact, when the island was first discovered by British sailors, the local inhabitants worshipped the native turkey population because they “brought the fish”. The intrepid explorers found that fish could be procured without the turkeys’ power and slaughtered them to create the fish & turkey sandwich. People go gaga for it. The secret is the bread, which contains raisins), take pictures near the bust of Papa (That’s some local vernacular again. Ernest Hemingway liked to be called Papa when he was still alive), and have a beer or twelve, before heading back to their floating hotel.

I live on the other end of the island and due to an understanding with Andy, the Island’s constable (Cop), I take the ferry to and fro. Believe it or not, the 30 minute ferry is not the sort of thing a lady happens find attractive when scouting an evening companion, especially when she is wearing a revealing outfit and the seaward wind whips along the docks. This often leads to a short trip, alone. We must soldier on. This particular evening was odd, as I know I was the only man that Gus picked up. Gus runs the ship and while Andy has jurisdiction on land, the high seas belong to Gus, myself and our mutual friend, usually Jack. After a lively rendezvous with Jack and Gus, I noticed another man, sitting on one of the benches, reading a book. I swore there was no way this man got on when I got on and his bone dry suit suggested he did not swim here and climb onto the ferry. Inhibitions do not exist on St. Michael’s, so I walked over and introduced myself.

“Hello, how’s it going?”

“So it goes”, he answered and smiled. He was old and had a large nose and kind of afro looking haircut, more mopish than stylized and he smelled of roses and mustard gas.

“Sorry, force of habit. It’s going. How are you?”

“Oh, swell. A bit nippy tonight, but swell. The name is Travis, I run the local paper. Are you new to the Island?”

“Oh, no. I’ve been here many times. I’ll be here again as well.”

“Ah, visiting friends. Well enough. The local flavor doesn’t take too kindly to new arrivals, but if you were to move here, I could show you the ropes.”

He looked familiar, like I’d seen him before. Not in real life, but either a poster or a film. He wasn’t a handsome man, his face was worn down from experience and even if it weren’t, he probably wouldn’t have been a looker then, either. Maybe he was a character actor? They typically have a familiar look about them, usually ugly. If he wasn’t a great character actor, he could have been. He had personality. Gravitas. I’d talk to Stephen (Spielberg) next time he came to vacay (vacation).

“Have you been in movies?” I probably could have phrased it better, but where inhibitions leave, so else does one’s elocution.

“One. A comedy film. I played myself. I had two lines.”

Himself?

“What were they? The lines?”

“Hi, I'm Kurt Vonnegut. I'm looking for Thornton Melon.”

What was once murky had at once become clear. I shook off some of my fun to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. To make sure that he was not some pink elephant and that I was indeed still on this side of paradise.

“You’re dead.”

“I was. Briefly. Now I’m not. I tried to tell people. Many times in fact. But once you do it a handful of times, people get sick of you and lock you away and never visit. My wife was like that the first time around. It’s a lot easier to get famous and live a fine life and survive a not so fine after-life. If you talk to yourself, you’re schizophrenic. If you write it down, you could become famous.”

Whatever liquor settled in me had lost it’s influence at that line. I should write this down, this will do numbers for the blog. I take out my phone and start to write down everything he says as carefully as I can.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Vonnegut?”

“Watching.”

“Watching?”

“Yes. It’s a kind of penance. I never believed in God. He believed in me, though and now I get to watch. It’s not so terrible as Dresden, though I’m sure you’ll disagree.”

I shake my head. I can’t be sober. There just isn’t any way.

“I loved your book”, I blurt out. I don’t know what else to say.

“You didn’t read it.”

“No, I didn’t. How did you know?”

“We’ve talked before.”

It is at that moment I decide to never drink again. I may not have been a good reader or great writer, but to think that I’d met Kurt Vonnegut before and didn’t remember it, I could jump off the ferry and drown in my disappointment (and the water). “I saw the movie. I liked it.”

“I did, too. Did you know the woman who played Valencia ran a cult?”

(That part is true. Sharon Gans was in the Slaughterhouse V film and she ran a sex cult.)

“No kidding, I was in one of those once.”

“No you weren’t.”

“No, I wasn’t. How’d you know that?”

“We’ve talked before.”

“I don’t remember, I’m sorry. I tend to drink a bit too much. Did we meet at the Hem?”

“No, we did not.”

“Then when did we talk before?”

“We’re talking now. We’ll talk again. We’ve done this before. It’s all circular. I thought it was aliens.”

“You make little sense.”

“Spelling it out only hurts you, I’m afraid.”

I try to remember the movie that was based on the book I’d lied about reading. It was about time travel or the war. I try to type all this down. This will certainly increase readership, I think.

“Imagine this, Travis. You wake up on the Titanic and before you go to bed, you’re in the middle of the Great Chicago Fire. Then, as you lull yourself into the security of non-existence, you’re on a ferry manned by a drunken captain and his drunken passenger and they hit a rock and sink to the bottom of the ocean before the Coast Guard or British navy knows theres been any trouble at all.”

I hope that I’m still drunk.

“Why would I imagine that?”

“Empathy, maybe? I figure it’s easier than coming out and saying it all. I still haven’t figured out the best way to break the news. A few times I just hid in the bathroom and wait for it to all be over, but you always look so scared and alone those time and that doesn’t seem right to me. Plus, Gus has vomited in the bathroom and I’ve always found being near it unpleasant.”

“None of that sounds any good. Perhaps another drink-”

“There’s none left.”

“This just keeps getting worse. What about the life preservers? Jackets? A small inflatable boat?”

“I don’t mean to be so glum, but they haven’t yet worked and I don’t see it working out for you in the future. There is a small Chinese girl who I have to watch get swallowed up in a mud slide and that’s worse.”

“Poor girl.”

“That’s the spirit.”

The ferry hits the rock, I can imagine the ripping and tearing. The fiberglass and metal replaced by rock, then air, then water and flowing through each compartment. I am hammered still and I think about that cook on the Titanic who got so hammered that he survived in the frozen Atlantic until help arrived.

“I think I might be able to swim to shore.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“You’re not being very helpful. It’s beginning to get to me.”

“Sorry. This is all new to you. Swimming to shore might work. We’re not that far from your side of the island.”

“Now you’re just patronizing me.”

“Which is better?”

I don’t answer. Time to hit send. Readership is going to skyrocket, by God.