The writer Kurt Vonnegut was, from what I have heard, a wonderful person who recently passed away. Glynnis Eldridge, a friend and fellow classmate of mine, knew Kurt Vonnegut through her grandparents. She has told me a story about Mr. Vonnegut that I would like to share with you.

(This story was written by Glynnis Eldridge)

Jimmy Breslin (”JB”) and Kurt Vonnegut were good friends. JB, my friend Glynnis’ step-grandfather, and his wife, Ronnie [Eldridge], were having a dinner party one night that both Mr. Vonnegut and my friend attended. Glynnis was probably not much older than seven and didn’t recognize that the people mingling in her grandparent’s pent house apartment were celebrities. So Glynnis didn’t try to talk to any of them because she thought that they were just old farts. She thought that she had better things to do like play the piano and eat asparagus, rather than talk to someone who claimed to be famous. And so she settled herself in between the fat cushions on one half of a pair of matching armchairs.

On the table next to her she had a tall glass of ginger ale and on her lap she had a plate of asparagus. Someone sat down on the chair next to her. He looked old; he had gray curly hair not only on top of his head but also underneath his nose. Some people came over to talk to him for a little while and then Glynnis’ foot fell asleep. Her pink, white, and red plaid dress fell just above the knee of her ripped black tights. Her shoes were patent leather Mary Janes with silver lining on the clasps. She sat comfortably with her legs overlapping “Indian style,” and with the dirty bottoms of her shiny shoes pressed against her thighs.

When her feet’s sleeping sensation struck her, Glynnis winced and bit down on a piece of a crushed ice cube. She crinkled her nose and squeezed her eyes closed, and then the man with the gray curly hair looked over in her direction and smiled. He excused himself from the conversation he had been having with the other famous people in the room, and smiled down in the direction of the black Mary Janes dangling off of the end of the armchair.

“Are they sleeping?” the curly haired man asked in between glances at the shiny shoes, and sips of some beverage that Glynnis assumed was ginger ale. Glynnis didn’t say anything, but instead gave him an exaggerated nod of the head. Yes. Her feet were very much asleep. She picked up her glass of ginger ale.

“My feet fall asleep sometimes too,” he continued, “not long ago I ran into a little boy about your age who also liked ginger ale. Do you know what he said?”
Glynnis grinned and shook her head, “No”.

“Well, he told me that his feet feel like ginger ale when they fall asleep,” he gulped down the last of the liquid in his glass, “How about that?”

Ronnie called everyone into the mirror walled dining room for desert. Pies and cakes and pastries and cookies and ice cream and plates of fruit and bottles of wine covered the entire table. Maybe it is necessary to say that celebrities do eat (by the way), but what was much more scrumptious than any desert treat on that pent house apartment’s dining room table, were the experiences that took place, and the stories they made. The curly haired man with the hair under his nose was named Kurt Vonnegut. He was brilliant.

(The story is Copyrighted 2007 by Glynnis Eldridge. All Rights Reserved)