Kurt Vonnegut and I
I had a professor who had a long lost brother. Yesterday I saw that nameless brother on the train. I knew it was him because he looked exactly like the professor. He was tall and slender, and wore a neon green shirt under a beige blazer with white tennis shoes—very much unlike his brother. But his face was exactly the same. And in my dream his face was on Kurt Vonnegut. I was standing outside of a diner. Jim Carroll’s* ghost was smoking a cigarette in the corner of the alcove awning. Revamping Nighthawks ,** the painting. I was pointing out Jim to my parents when a man tapped me on the shoulder. “Kurt Vonnegut!” I said. And because it did not look like Vonnegut himself I thought, maybe this is the shape he assumed when he slapped on his Jr. When we went back into the diner it had turned into a barren bar: a few scattered tables set up as a Texas-hoedown-theme—minus the mechanical bull. A stage was also set...