Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition
Page 1
AMERICA’S GREATEST SATIRIST
KURT VONNEGUT IS …
“UNIQUE … one of the writers who map our landscapes for us, who give names to the places we know best.”
—Doris Lessing
The New York Times Book Review
“OUR FINEST BLACK-HUMORIST.… We laugh in self-defense.”
—The Atlantic Monthly
“AN UNIMITATIVE AND INIMITABLE SOCIAL SATIRIST.”
—Harper’s Magazine
“A MEDICINE MAN, CONJURING UP FANTASIES TO WARN THE WORLD.”
—The Charlotte Observer
“A CAUSE FOR CELEBRATION.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“A LAUGHING PROPHET OF DOOM.”
—The New York Times
Welcome to the Monkey House is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
2014 Dial Press Trade Paperbacks eBook Edition
Copyright © 1950, 1951, 1953, 1954, 1955, 1956, 1958, 1960, 1961, 1962, 1964, 1966, 1968 by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. All rights reserved.
Unpublished drafts by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., copyright © 2014 by Trust U/W Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Donald C. Farber Trustee.
Additional text copyright © 2014 by Random House LLC.
Published in the United States by Dial Press Trade Paperbacks, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
DIAL PRESS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
Originally published in hardcover in different form in the United States by Delacorte Press/Seymour Lawrence, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, in 1968.
Acknowledgment is made to the following magazines and publishers in whose pages these stories first appeared:
The Atlantic Monthly: “Der Arme Dolmetscher” (originally published under the title “Das Ganz Arm Dolmetscher”)
Collier’s: “The Foster Portfolio,” “All the King’s Horses,” “Tom Edison’s Shaggy Dog,” “More Stately Mansions,” “Report on the Barnhouse Effect,” “Epicac,” and “The Euphio Question.”
Cosmopolitan: “Next Door,” “The Manned Missiles,” and “Adam.”
Esquire: “Deer in the Works.”
Fantasy and Science Fiction: “Harrison Bergeron.”
Galaxy Publishing Corporation: “Unready to Wear” and “Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow” (originally published under the title “The Big Trip Up Yonder”).
Ladies’ Home Journal: “Long Walk to Forever,” “D.P.,” and “Go Back to Your Precious Wife and Son.”
The New York Times: “New Dictionary” (originally published under the title “The Random House Dictionary”).
Playboy: “Welcome to the Monkey House.”
The Saturday Evening Post: “Who Am I This Time?,” “Miss Temptation,” “The Lie,” and “The Kid Nobody Could Handle.”
Venture: “Where I Live” (originally published under the title “So You’ve Never Been to Barnstable”).
ISBN 978-0-8129-9360-8
eBook ISBN 978-0-8129-9361-5
www.dialpress.com
The Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Trust came into existence after the death of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., and is committed to the continued protection of his works.
Cover design: Lynn Buckley
Cover illustration: Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library and Andy Fry/Big Car
Hand-lettering: © 2007 Kurt Vonnegut/Origami Express, LLC/www.vonnegut.com
v3.1
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
PREFACE
WHERE I LIVE
HARRISON BERGERON
WHO AM I THIS TIME?
WELCOME TO THE MONKEY HOUSE
LONG WALK TO FOREVER
THE FOSTER PORTFOLIO
MISS TEMPTATION
ALL THE KING’S HORSES
TOM EDISON’S SHAGGY DOG
NEW DICTIONARY
NEXT DOOR
MORE STATELY MANSIONS
THE HYANNIS PORT STORY
D.P.
REPORT ON THE BARNHOUSE EFFECT
THE EUPHIO QUESTION
GO BACK TO YOUR PRECIOUS WIFE AND SON
DEER IN THE WORKS
THE LIE
UNREADY TO WEAR
THE KID NOBODY COULD HANDLE
THE MANNED MISSILES
EPICAC
ADAM
TOMORROW AND TOMORROW AND TOMORROW
BUILDING THE MONKEY HOUSE by Gregory D. Sumner
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
“Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.”
—THOREAU
PREFACE
HERE IT IS, a retrospective exhibition of the shorter works of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.—and Vonnegut is still very much with us, and I am still very much Vonnegut. Somewhere in Germany is a stream called the Vonne. That is the source of my curious name.
I have been a writer since 1949. I am self-taught. I have no theories about writing that might help others. When I write I simply become what I seemingly must become. I am six feet two and weigh nearly two hundred pounds and am badly coordinated, except when I swim. All that borrowed meat does the writing.
In the water I am beautiful.
· · ·
My father and paternal grandfather were architects in Indianapolis, Indiana, where I was born. My maternal grandfather owned a brewery there. He won a Gold Medal at the Paris Exposition with his beer, which was Lieber Lager. The secret ingredient was coffee.
My only brother, eight years older than I, is a successful scientist. His special field is physics as it relates to clouds. His name is Bernard, and he is funnier than I am. I remember a letter he wrote after his first child, Peter, was born and brought home. “Here I am,” that letter began, “cleaning shit off of practically everything.”
My only sister, five years older than I, died when she was forty. She was over six feet tall, too, by an angstrom unit or so. She was heavenly to look at, and graceful, both in and out of water. She was a sculptress. She was christened “Alice,” but she used to deny that she was really an Alice. I agreed. Everybody agreed. Sometime in a dream maybe I will find out what her real name was.
Her dying words were, “No pain.” Those are good dying words. It was cancer that killed her.
And I realize now that the two main themes of my novels were stated by my siblings: “Here I am cleaning shit off of practically everything” and “No pain.” The contents of this book are samples of work I sold in order to finance the writing of the novels. Here one finds the fruits of Free Enterprise.
· · ·
I used to be a public relations man for General Electric, and then I became a free-lance writer of so-called “slick fiction,” a lot of it science fiction. Whether I improved myself morally by making that change I am not prepared to say. That is one of the questions I mean to ask God on Judgment Day—along with the one about what my sister’s name really was.
That could easily be next Wednesday.
I have already put the question to a college professor, who, climbing down into his Mercedes-Benz 300SL gran turismo, assured me that public relations men and slick writers were equally vile, in that they both buggered truth for money.
I asked him what the very lowest grade of fiction was, and he told me, “Science fiction.” I asked where he was bound in such a ru
sh, and learned that he had to catch a Fan-Jet. He was to speak at a meeting of the Modern Language Association in Honolulu the next morning. Honolulu was three thousand miles away.
· · ·
My sister smoked too much. My father smoked too much. My mother smoked too much. I smoke too much. My brother used to smoke too much, and then he gave it up, which was a miracle on the order of the loaves and fishes.
And one time a pretty girl came up to me at a cocktail party, and she asked me, “What are you doing these days?”
“I am committing suicide by cigarette,” I replied.
She thought that was reasonably funny. I didn’t. I thought it was hideous that I should scorn life that much, sucking away on cancer sticks. My brand is Pall Mall. The authentic suicides ask for Pall Malls. The dilettantes ask for Pell Mells.
I have a relative who is secretly writing a history of parts of my family. He has showed me some of it, and he told me this about my grandfather, the architect: “He died in his forties—and I think he was just as glad to be out of it.” By “it,” of course, he meant life in Indianapolis—and there is that yellow streak about life in me, too.
The public health authorities never mention the main reason many Americans have for smoking heavily, which is that smoking is a fairly sure, fairly honorable form of suicide.
· · ·
It is disgraceful that I should ever have wanted out of “it,” and I don’t want out any more. I have six children, three of my own and three of my sister’s. They’ve turned out gloriously. My first marriage worked, and continues to work. My wife is still beautiful.
I never knew a writer’s wife who wasn’t beautiful.
In honor of the marriage that worked, I include in this collection a sickeningly slick love story from The Ladies’ Home Journal, God help us, entitled by them “The Long Walk to Forever.” The title I gave it, I think, was “Hell to Get Along With.”
It describes an afternoon I spent with my wife-to-be. Shame, shame, to have lived scenes from a woman’s magazine.
· · ·
The New Yorker once said that a book of mine, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, was “… a series of narcissistic giggles.” This may be another. Perhaps it would be helpful to the reader to imagine me as the White Rock girl, kneeling on a boulder in a nightgown, either looking for minnows or adoring her own reflection.
WHERE I LIVE
NOT VERY LONG AGO, an encyclopedia salesman stopped by America’s oldest library building, which is the lovely Sturgis Library in Barnstable Village, on Cape Cod’s north shore. And he pointed out to the easily alarmed librarian that the library’s most recent general reference work was a 1938 Britannica, back-stopped by a 1910 Americana. He said many important things had happened since 1938, naming, among others, penicillin and Hitler’s invasion of Poland.
He was advised to take his astonishment to some of the library’s directors. He was given their names and addresses. There was a Cabot on the list—and a Lowell and a Kittredge, and some others. The librarian told him that he had a chance of catching several directors all at once, if he would go to the Barnstable Yacht Club. So he went down the narrow yacht club road, nearly broke his neck as he hit a series of terrific bumps put in the road to discourage speeders, to kill them, if possible.
He wanted a martini, wondered if a nonmember could get service at the bar. He was appalled to discover that the club was nothing but a shack fourteen feet wide and thirty feet long, a touch of the Ozarks in Massachusetts. It contained an hilariously warped ping-pong table, a wire lost-and-found basket with sandy, fragrant contents, and an upright piano that had been under a leak in the roof for years.
There wasn’t any bar, any telephone, any electricity. There weren’t any members there, either. To cap it all, there wasn’t a drop of water in the harbor. The tide, which can be as great as fourteen feet, was utterly out. And the so-called yachts, antique wooden Rhodes 18’s, Beetlecats, and a couple of Boston Whalers, were resting on the bluish-brown glurp of the emptied harbor’s floor. Clouds of gulls and terns were yelling about all that glurp, and about all the good things in it they were finding to eat.
A few men were out there, too, digging clams as fat as partridges from the rim of Sandy Neck, the ten-mile-long sand finger that separates the harbor from the ice-cold bay. And ducks and geese and herons and other waterfowl were out there, too, teemingly, in the great salt marsh that bounds the harbor on the west. And, near the harbor’s narrow mouth, a yawl from Marblehead with a six-foot keel lay on her side, waiting for the water to come back in again. She should never have come to Barnstable Village, not with a keel like that.
The salesman, very depressed, insensitive to the barbarous beauty all around him, went to lunch. Since he was in the seat of the most booming county in New England, Barnstable County, and since the boom was a tourist boom, he had reason to expect something mildly voluptuous in the way of a place to eat. What he had to settle for, though, was a chromium stool at a formica counter in an aggressively un-cute, un-colonial institution called the Barnstable News Store, another Ozarks touch, an Ozarks department store. The motto of the place: “If it’s any good, we’ve got it. If it’s no good, we’ve sold it.”
After lunch, he went trustee-hunting again, was told to try the village museum, which is in the old brick Customs House. The building itself is a memorial to long-gone days when the harbor was used by fair-sized ships, before it filled up with all that bluish-brown glurp. There was no trustee there, and the exhibits were excruciatingly boring. The salesman found himself strangling on apathy, an affliction epidemic among casual visitors to Barnstable Village.
He took the customary cure, which was to jump into his car and roar off toward the cocktail lounges, motor courts, bowling alleys, gift shoppes, and pizzerias of Hyannis, the commercial heart of Cape Cod. He there worked off his frustrations on a miniature golf course called Playland. At that time, that particular course had a pathetic, maddening feature typical of the random butchery of the Cape’s south shore. The course was built on the lawn of what had once been an American Legion Post—and, right in the middle of the cunning little bridges and granulated cork fairways was a Sherman tank, set there in simpler and less enterprising days as a memorial to the veterans of World War Two.
The memorial has since been moved, but it is still on the south side, where it is bound to be engulfed by indignities again.
The dignity of the tank would be a lot safer in Barnstable Village, but the village would never accept it. It has a policy of never accepting anything. As a happy consequence, it changes about as fast as the rules of chess.
The biggest change in recent years has taken place at the polls. Until six years ago, the Democratic poll watchers and the Republican poll watchers were all Republicans. Now the Democratic poll watchers are Democrats. The consequences of this revolution have not been nearly as awful as expected—so far.
Another break with the past has to do with the treasury of the local amateur theatrical society, the Barnstable Comedy Club. The club had a treasurer who, once a month for thirty years, angrily refused to say what the balance was, for fear that the club would spend it foolishly. He resigned last year. The new treasurer announced a balance of four hundred dollars and some odd cents, and the membership blew it all on a new curtain the color of spoiled salmon. This ptomaine curtain, incidentally, made its debut during a production of The Caine Mutiny Court Martial in which Captain Queeg did not nervously rattle steel balls in his hand. The balls were eliminated on the theory that they were suggestive.
Another big change took place about sixty years ago, when it was discovered that tuna were good to eat. Barnstable fishermen used to call them “horse mackerel,” and curse whenever they caught one. Still cursing, they would chop it up and throw it back into the bay as a warning to other horse mackerel. Out of courage or plain stupidity, the tuna did not go away, and now make possible a post-Labor Day festival called the Barnstable Tuna Derby. Sportsmen with reels as big as courth
ouse clocks come from all over the Eastern seaboard for the event, the villagers are always mystified as to what brought them. And nobody ever catches anything.
Another discovery that still lies in the future for the villagers to make and to learn to live with is that mussels can be eaten without causing instant death. Barnstable Harbor is in places clogged with them. They are never disturbed. One reason for their being ignored, perhaps, is that the harbor abounds in two other delicacies far simpler to prepare—striped bass and clams. To get clams, one can scratch almost anywhere when the tide is out. To get bass, one follows the birds, looks for cone-shaped formations of them, casts his lure to the place where the cone points. Bass will be feeding there.
As for what else the future holds: Few Cape villages have much chance of coming though the present greedy, tasteless boom with their souls intact. H. L. Mencken once said something to the effect that “Nobody ever went broke overestimating the vulgarity of the American people,” and fortunes now being made out of the vulgarization of the Cape surely bear this out. The soul of Barnstable Village just might survive.
For one thing, it is not a hollow village, with everything for rent, with half of the houses empty in the winter. Most of the people live there all year round, and most of them aren’t old, and most of them work—as carpenters, salesmen, masons, architects, teachers, writers, and what have you. It is a classless society, a sometimes affectionate and sentimental one.
And these full houses, often riddled by termites and dry rot, but good, probably, for a few hundred years more, have been built chockablock along Main Street since the end of the Civil War. Developers find very little room in which to work their pious depredations. There is a seeming vast green meadow to the west, but this is salt marsh, the bluish-brown glurp capped by a mat of salt hay. It was this natural hay, by the way, that tempted settlers down from Plymouth in 1639. The marsh, laced by deep creeks that can be explored by small boats, can never be built upon by anyone sane. It goes underwater at every moon tide, and is capable of supporting a man and his dog, and not much more.