I Hated to Do It: Stories of a Life

by Donald C. Farber

  It started one night when a subject was decided on and someone innocently enough asked what a word describing the subject meant. One of the wise guys in the group then mentioned he had read a book called The Meaning of Meaning by Alfred Korzybski. Semantics was introduced into the discussion, and the possibility of ever discussing anything except the subject of semantics was from then on an impossibility. We no longer could talk about the subject selected until we knew what the words describing the subject meant. So we spent the evening talking about what it meant.

  From then on, no matter what the subject was we decided to discuss, immediately there would be detailed differing opinions on what the word meant, always lapsing into the discussion of semantics, and Korzybski was just one of the authors discussed. If you can’t agree on what you are talking about, that is, what the subject under discussion actually is, it’s pretty hard to have any meeting of the minds in a discussion. We were almost saved when Bill, one almost-there participant, offered the bright suggestion, “Can’t we forget about this semantics stuff and just talk?” Hallelujah!

  Much later in my life when I became friendly, very friendly with Kurt and we had almost daily telephone conversations, I told him this little tale. Words are, of course, essential to Kurt’s life, and he uses them very carefully. He was so amused by the story of Bill that he said to me, “Don, why don’t we just forget about this gravity stuff and take a walk off the top of the Empire State Building?” Of course, his observation was accompanied by his loud, raucous laugh, which was his trademark.

  2.

  Introduction to Kurt

  I was sitting in my crummy little office on 42nd Street between Fifth Avenue and Vanderbilt Avenue when the phone rang and the voice said, “We are having breakfast at the Brass Rail around the corner, come join us.” It was Max Wilkinson, Kurt’s agent, so I ambled over to Fifth, between 43rd and 44th Street, and joined Max and John D. MacDonald, the famous suspense writer, for breakfast. They were just starting on their third martini, their breakfast. When I say I joined them, I mean physically but not with the martini drinking.

  I had never met Max and hardly knew him, having only had some telephone conversations with him. I had previously found him because he was the agent for Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Actually, my wife, Annie, and I first became aware of the name Kurt Vonnegut Jr. when we were living in suburbia, Merrick, Long Island, and Dan Kramer, a neighbor I would see on the train ride to Manhattan, told me about this book Cat’s Cradle that his teenage son had introduced him to.

  Max Wilkinson

  As fate would have it, about this time that I first became aware of this Vonnegut book, another young man engaged me to acquire the film rights to this same novel, Cat’s Cradle. This was why I had previously located Kurt’s agent, Max Wilkinson. Through some telephone calls, Max and I came to an agreement and I made a deal for the film rights for my client. The client never made the film and there is a lot more to the story of the film rights to Cat’s Cradle, which will be told later.

  ***

  My telephone conversations with Max Wilkinson were always friendly, as he was a friendly guy. He was the epitome of the Southern gentleman. He always called me “Dear boy.” I always waited for him to pat me on the head, but, of course, that didn’t happen. He told us that he had worked for Samuel Goldwyn in Hollywood before he became an agent and claimed credit for writing some of the famous Goldwynisms. He always claimed that he was the one who wrote “If Freud were alive today he would be turning over in his grave.”

  Apparently my telephone discussions with Max impressed him enough that shortly afterward he called me one day to ask for help with a television matter of Kurt’s that he did not know how to handle. An agent in California represented a client who wanted to make a film based on one of Kurt’s short stories. Max had no idea how much money he should ask for the rights to make the film and did not know what to ask for if they wanted to turn it into a series based on the short story. After I advised Max how to handle this matter, it worked out very well for Kurt. Max and I became telephone friends. So the call from the Brass Rail bar that day was preceded by just my telephone conversations with Max.

  ***

  When I got the call I had also never met John D. and knew him only by some communications through the mail. That was when people wrote letters with a pen or pencil, put the paper in an envelope, affixed a stamp, sealed the envelope, and put the envelope in something we used to call a “mail box.” I had written to him, in a spirit of humor, accusing him of libeling my friend and client Jim McKimmey when he wrote a snarky review of a book written by Jim.

  ***

  So here I am with these two guys I had never actually met till that day. The three of us left the Brass Rail and went over to the Century Club, which was Max’s favorite haunt. It was so easily accessible to him, and to us at that time, being located just west of Fifth Avenue on 43rd Street, which was right around the corner from his office on Fifth Avenue. This was also my first visit to the Century Club. What a day: my introduction to Max, to John D., and now to the Century Club.

  ***

  The Century Club was the last social club in New York to permit women to become members, and for years women were never permitted above the first floor. The club is a haven for many in the publishing business, and there is a strict rule that no business can be conducted in the club above the first floor, which meant that briefcases and other working papers had to be checked on the main floor. This established it as a pretty somber place. The members were some of the famous editors and publishers of this era.

  It was quiet, dignified, stilted, and populated by the old-timers, many of whom were retired or semiretired. All of which prompted Max to one day remark that, “The reason they have not let women in the club is that they would go snooping around in the corners and discover that some of the old guys sitting there are dead.”

  When John D., Max, and I arrived at the club after that morning breakfast of martinis they had at the Brass Rail, we each ordered a Silversmith and talked. Legend has it that a member named Silversmith gave the club a present of a number of silver goblets. This huge silver goblet, named after its donor, is a Silversmith, and it holds a drink about three times the size of a regular size martini glass. Strangely enough, the Silversmith drink we would order tasted exactly like a martini. Drinking two Silversmiths was like drinking about a half a dozen martinis. I guess this guy Silversmith liked martinis.

  After this initial meeting with Max and John D., Max continued to call me for help with some of the matters he was handling for Kurt. Shortly after this, my wife and I met this tall, lanky guy, Kurt Vonnegut, at a party at Max’s apartment near Gramercy Park. Max was smart, as he wanted us to meet Kurt since he knew I would be able to make his job easier by helping him with some of Kurt’s proposals. It was a very casual meeting. There were interested people there, and Kurt seemed to be the center of attention. He was affable, friendly but shy.

  We didn’t get a chance to talk any business and we had nothing else personal to talk about at this time. It is not my nature to be aggressive in a situation like this, as I knew that I would have ample opportunity to get to know Kurt without the distraction of people trying to curry his favor. This kind of thing appeared to distract Kurt, not knowing who to relate to, but it was a short meeting and a good beginning, as he now had an idea of who was assisting Max with some of his matters.

  At this initial meeting, Kurt was still not aware of how successful Slaughterhouse would become, nor was he conscious of how famous he would become. He was also licking his wounds from the lousy time he had trying to sell Saabs and trying to subsist on rejection slips and payments of $500 or $750 for an occasional short story picked up by one of the popular (and some not so popular) magazines of that time. Kurt wanted to be trusting but knew to be cautious. One can only surmise he still had memories of that real slaughterhouse he was trapped in.

  It was nice being exposed to Kurt at this stage of my introduction to the business
of the entertainment industry. Kurt and I were both beginning to build our careers. I don’t think that either of us knew it then, nor would either of us have acknowledged it then, but in retrospect, our common insecurities in our just-beginning-to-flourish careers, our common military histories, and our common political beliefs and attitudes about society and care for the underprivileged bound us in ways that would develop into a lasting friendship. Annie shared these attitudes and made it easy for us to develop the relationship apart from what I did for Kurt and his business.

  Kurt the Humanist

  Kurt, as we would later learn, believed in humanism, which is a philosophical belief that emphasizes the value of human beings, individually and collectively, and generally prefers critical thinking and evidence (rationalism, empiricism) over an established doctrine or faith. This was fine with me. I had spent my high school days on the debate team espousing and believing these same principals. Kurt and I were both liberals and proud of it and hence supported the Democratic Party. Kurt insisted that he was not a Christian but thought Jesus to be a great person, and Kurt extolled the Sermon on the Mount. Kurt’s humanism was consistent with my Jewish upbringing, which accepted the charity and generosity espoused by Judaism and rejected the strict dogma that some Jewish people adhere to.

  Kurt was also proud of his remarks that he made at the funeral for Isaac Asimov, a fellow humanist. Asimov was a strong believer in humanism and wrote and spoke often on the subject. Kurt always said that he broke them all up at Asimov’s funeral when he stood up as the speaker and said, “Isaac is up in heaven looking down at us now.” Kurt thought that was the funniest thing he had ever said.

  Max and I continued talking on the phone about matters of Kurt’s that Max was working on, and gradually we would get Kurt involved in the discussions. Although Max and I were the deal makers, I had this idea, and still do, that the client should have some say-so in, or at least approve of, what we were doing for him. So gradually Kurt and I communicated more and more about his business happenings, and we became more and more friendly. Kurt needed someone to help him and someone he could trust, and I was a young, energetic attorney who loved his writing and found the deals I could make for him intriguing.

  I negotiated some great multimillion-dollar publishing deals for Kurt later on. I do not want to take any great credit. Kurt and I got along famously. From my point of view, I have always said that it is a cinch to make a deal when you have all the marbles. Kurt was getting “hot,” and I knew it, and his publisher knew it.

  ***

  We don’t have to worry that I took advantage of the Big Bad Publisher, as it didn’t happen that way. I have always believed in, and in fact wrote a whole book based on, the idea that there is no such thing as an agreement in the entertainment and publishing business that is good for one party; it’s either good for both or it’s good for neither.

  I don’t know how you can take advantage of a star in the agreement you make with her, as an unhappy star will either sing flat or not show up at all.

  ***

  After this initial meeting with Kurt and my few telephone conversations with him, Annie and I would make a point of showing up at places where Kurt was appearing. When Kurt spoke at the 92nd Street Y, we were there and arranged to take him to dinner after the speech at a local restaurant with a few other friends of Kurt’s. We started attending book signings by Kurt, and Annie and I were now being included when they were followed by a dinner sponsored by the publisher.

  I gradually did more work for Kurt, who was starting to become very popular, and Max and Kurt and I, sometimes with John D. MacDonald, were drinking more Silversmiths at the Century Club. It became habit-forming, and about once every ten days, Kurt, Max, and I would meet at the club, and each of us would consume close to three of those potent, if not lethal, drinks.

  During our trips to the club, about three in the afternoon each time, we would make a trip to the kitchen, which, of course would be closed. By banging on the door, we could get someone in the kitchen to come out with a few sandwiches to stop the racket. Convivial talk ensued, the sandwiches were consumed, and then it was time for bed at three thirty in the afternoon. Kurt walked home. He always walked home. Max disappeared. I went home or tried to work in the office. Another day’s work done.

  With Max having his office around the corner from the Century Club and with him spending a lot more time at the club drinking Silversmiths than he spent in his office, his author client Richard Gehman one day was prompted to remark, “Hey, Max, I need an agent in the afternoon, also.”

  It just happened that as I started advising Kurt, Annie and I became friends with him.

  ***

  I was now negotiating major business deals for Kurt at the suggestion of and in cooperation with Max. As I did more and more for Kurt, Max was pleased to be relieved of the major responsibility of negotiating some complicated deals, and Kurt was relieved that I was gradually doing more and more of his personal business, which included assuming the responsibility of collecting his money and paying his bills. Our friendship with Kurt and the Vonnegut family grew rapidly at the same time that I was assuming more and more of the responsibility for Kurt’s business.

  There was a period of time that I was handling all of Kurt’s money, and as fate would have it, I had invested some of his money in New York City bonds, a rather safe investment at the time. In 1975, for some unknown reason, I sold all of Kurt’s New York City bonds, and two weeks later it became known that New York City was near bankrupt. It was a stroke of luck on my part that for some reason unknown to me, I sold the bonds at precisely the right time.

  This gratuitous stroke of faith caused me to realize that it would be important for me to relieve myself of the duty of investing Kurt’s money for him. I kept enough in the bank account and paid the bills, but any extra money after that was handled by an experienced broker that I engaged for Kurt and watched over.

  As a fiduciary I was extremely careful to never take a dime belonging to Kurt. What is ironic is that at one point, poor me (poor as compared to my friend Kurt), loaned Kurt money from my account. It was not usual for me to be lending Kurt money, but for some reason I made a mistake and wrote a check on Kurt’s account that was for more than was on deposit in the account. Not wanting the check to bounce, I loaned Kurt’s account the money from my account. He paid me back.

  Kurt’s Nephew Steve and the Rest of the Gang

  Annie and I became very friendly with one of Kurt’s nephews, Steve Adams. Actually Kurt and his wife, Jane, raised Steve and two of his brothers, Jim and Kurt (Tiger), after a traumatic week in 1958 in which their father, James Carmalt Adams, was killed on September 15 in the Newark Bay rail crash when his commuter train went off the open Newark Bay Bridge in New Jersey, and their mother, Kurt’s sister, Alice, died of cancer the next day. Peter Nice, a fourth nephew, went to live with a first cousin of their father’s in Birmingham, since Jane, at the time, had her hands full with her three children, but she always regretted not also raising Peter.

  Our friendship with Steve blossomed when he was in his early twenties and he made a trip, with his guitar-playing friend Headly, to break into showbiz. Steve had been invited and intended to stay with Kurt at his four-story white-painted brownstone on 48th Street in Manhattan, but when he arrived, Kurt was embarrassed to tell Steve that he was not welcome, so Steve moved in with us and lived on a sofa in our living room. We even found room for his bike in our living room, as Kurt’s place could not accommodate the bike either.

  My wife, Annie, has made it a point to telephone Steve every year on his birthday and on his half birthday. Annie does not consult the computer, she just has this uncanny memory for birth dates and always said since he was an orphan it was the nice thing to do to call him. As Steve grew older, Annie called his house just to speak with Steve one day when it wasn’t a birthday or half birthday. When Jeannie, Steve’s wife, answered, she panicked and said, “Oh my God, did I forget Steve’s birthday?”


  We were also friendly with Kurt Adams, whom everyone knew as Tiger, and although we were friendly with Jim Adams, we almost never saw him. Tiger we would see on special occasions with his wife, Lindsay. Tiger was an airline pilot for Continental Airlines and only recently retired. It was always fun being with the Adams boys. Jim was an incredible furniture maker. He designed and built furniture that was startlingly complicated and beautiful. Peter, who also was called Peter Boo by the boys, was raised down South and recently moved up near Steve and Tiger. He actually looks like his brothers, who were raised in the North, and talks like his brothers raised in the North, but it’s a surprise to us, because he does it with a Southern accent.

  Kurt and Jane, in addition to raising the Adams’ children, had three of their own to care for, Mark, Edith, and Nanny.

  Mark was named after Mark Twain. He grew up to become a successful pediatrician practicing in the Boston area. He says he likes saving lives. Mark has also written some important books, Eden Express and Someone With Mental Illness, Only More So. Kurt’s daughter Edith (Edie), an artist, was named after Kurt Vonnegut’s mother, Edith Lieber. Kurt’s youngest daughter, Nanette (Nanny), is married to realist painter Scott Prior. Both Edie and Nanny are very accomplished fine artists. Kurt, after his divorce from Jane, later adopted Lily as an infant in 1982.

  My wife, Annie, has always had a very close relationship with Kurt’s daughter Nanny. Nanny calls Annie often, and Annie is always ready to counsel Nanny if she should have a question about raising kids, which is what most mothers deal with. If there was anything that was not personal relating to his relationship with his children, Kurt would not be bashful about asking my advice, which he may or may not have agreed with.

  Kurt and the Rest of the World

  Most of the time, Kurt liked talking to people. He was equally at home with a stranger he might sit down next to on a bench near the river as he was with a famous person. He listened but he also expressed his opinions. We invited Kurt to our house on many occasions, and he would talk with the others present; almost always it was on a one-to-one basis. Kurt never dominated the discussion in the room. Had he started talking loudly enough for all to hear, everyone would have shut up and listened, because even among the sophisticates at the parties we had, most people wanted to know what Kurt Vonnegut had to say on any subject.