Kurt's last story

Kurt Vonnegut, Novelist Who Caught the Imagination of His Age, Is Dead at 84 - New York Times

Yesterday a man came into work. He was a country-looking guy: work jeans, t-shirt, ballcap, cheap glasses. He had a dumpy looking woman with him and a truly enormous infant slung on his hip, smiling and pawing at his glasses. I greeted him and he said "Is Kellie here?"

Kellie is my manager. Her aunt died recently and requested that Kellie sing at the funeral. So Kellie had gone to do just that.

"Nope," I replied. "She had to go to Waycross for a funeral. She'll be back in tomorrow."

"Oh, well," he said, and then went on to explain that he'd known Kellie when she managed the store in Waynesboro, that he'd heard she was at this particular store in Martinez now, and that he wanted to introduce her to his wife and son.

"Okay," I said. "I'll let her know that you dropped in. What was your name?"

"Billy Pilgrim," he answered.

So, no matter what you've heard, folks, Billy Pilgrim is alive and well. He's married and living in Waynesboro, Georgia. He has a huge baby boy with a huge head who constantly smiles and waves at people around him, including complete strangers like myself. All in all, Billy Pilgrim seems happy.

At least that's the impression I got yesterday. And that's the message I'm passing on from him today.

Good night, babies.