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Kurt Vonnegut visited me in a dream last night. It was a vivid dream, one in color and set in the not too distant future when I'll be in Michigan (just a few weeks away) to visit my nearly 106 year-old grandma.
In the dream, I had invited Vonnegut to visit me at my grandma's home, and I'll be damned if he didn't show-up on the doorstep just after 11:00 PM on Friday night, what will soon be the 28th of this month. He was tired and moved slow. He was dressed in a dapper dark suit and carried a small, black leather duffle bag. He was quiet and kind and courteous. I showed him to the guest room, where he immediately laid down on the bed and fell asleep.
Knowing that Kurt Vonnegut was under the same roof as me, I barely slept during the night. Like an eager kid on Christmas morning, I was wide awake at 6:00 AM, and excited to see what the day held. I peeked inside the guest room and there was Kurt, sitting in bed and reading a book—I think by Truman Capote. I left him alone and retreated to the patio for my morning cigarette. As I lit my smoke, I grabbed the ashtray and noticed it was full of Pall Mall filterless cigarette butts—Mr. Vonnegut obviously had not slept much during the night.
Mom and Grandma started preparing breakfast, and Kurt finally emerged from the bedroom. I introduced him, and again, he was kind and courteous—although he declined the toast and banana Grandma offered him. We both returned to the patio for another cigarette but this time, I brought my camera with me.
"Do you mind if I take some photographs of you today?" I asked.
"I don't mind. Just be sure to use your camera's Blue Mode," Kurt said. "I photograph much better in the Blue Mode."
"Blue Mode?" I asked while looking at and twisting the dials on my camera, "I don't think my camera has a Blue Mode."
Kurt reached over and turned one of the dials. "There's the Blue Mode for you," he said.
"How did you know that?" I asked.
We left the house and walked to the school playground across the street.
"I'll tell you what," Kurt said to me, "I'll sit down on this little rocket-ship thingy and you climb-up on the ladder of the slide and shoot a photo angled downward at me. I'll look up at you, and I'll be like a child again."
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After taking this and more photographs, and while on the the way back to Grandma's house, I asked Mr. Vonnegut to prove to me that I wasn't dreaming, and that he was indeed real, and somehow visiting with me inside my head.
"I'll leave you with a joke... no, a wry story," he said. "How about that?"
"Okay," I said.
So here's the brief story that Kurt Vonnegut told me while I slumbered:
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There once was a medieval village in Scotland where high above on a hill was a great castle—it was the home of a wealthy Lord, his Lady, and their servants. One day a maiden from the castle came running frantically into the village.
"There's a murderer in the castle! Help me! There's a brutal murderer somewhere in the castle!" She screamed.
The elders in the village assembled a small group—armed with clubs and axes—and they set out to investigate the hullabaloo at the castle.
Entering the Great Hall, they found the Court Jester beaten to death on the floor. They went downstairs to the Bottlery Chamber, where they found the Sommelier cut to pieces with broken bottles.
"There's a madman on the loose!" Someone in the group yelled.
"A barbaric animal he is!" Someone else said.
"Who could do such a thing!" Someone chimed in.
The group went upstairs to the Minstrel's Gallery where they found all three musicians strangled with wires from their previously stringed instruments.
Upstairs on the third level, inside the Bower Room, the Fair Lady's body was found, raped and beaten.
"Where is this coward?" Someone blurted.
"He's a deadman when we find him!" Someone else yelled.
"I'll gut the pig myself!" One of the villagers said.
On the fourth level, in the Throne Room, the Lord laid decapitated in a pool of blood. His head was nowhere to be found.
"To the Mezzanine!" Someone shouted.
"Yes, the killer must be using the Mezzanine to get around the castle so quickly!" Replied a voice from the crowd.
And so the small mob of villagers ran out onto the Mezzanine—which overlooked the inner courtyard that was surrounded by the castle's outer walls—and in the courtyard below they saw 1,200 men from the King of England's army—many of whom were on horseback—and all armed to their teeth with bloody spears and swords.
The End.
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I woke up this morning convinced that I'd actually met Kurt Vonnegut in my sleep.
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FiN.
