I Hated to Do It: Stories of a Life

by Donald C. Farber

  On one occasion when Kurt was at a party at our place with a group of smart contemporaries of ours and of Kurt’s, Kurt settled in on the sofa talking with our son Seth, who was then a way-out-left progressive teenager. They were very busy talking and exchanging ideas, ignoring all the grown-ups. He respected Seth’s ideas and was challenged by Seth. He later gave Seth a self-portrait on which he had written, “For Seth, no matter what he is for or against.”

  One night we were meeting Kurt for dinner at a restaurant, and Annie and I were sitting inside and we noticed Kurt walking up and down outside the restaurant. I sneaked out and he was busy smoking and talking to someone who wasn’t even a smoker. I guess someone recognized him, and Kurt was happy to be exchanging ideas with someone he had never met.

  And then there was this other night when we saw Kurt outside the restaurant as we waited, and when I went outside, he was gone. I phoned his home and he answered the phone. I inquired what the heck happened and said that Annie and I were ready to eat and drink with him. He explained that he couldn’t find the restaurant. I urged him to get into a cab and come to the same place and I would meet him outside the restaurant. I did just that and we had a good time. Most of the time he was ready to learn by communicating with strangers, the famous, the infamous, and even someone like our young teenage son, Seth.

  Another time we had attended a book signing at the Barnes and Noble near Union Square. It was a joint signing of a book written by Kurt, Timequake, and a book written by Lee Stringer, Grand Central Winter: Stories from the Street. Dan Simon of Seven Stories Press, which published the Lee Stringer book, knew that if he had the two together, he would get some good publicity for the Stringer book. We arrived, and the place was packed because Kurt always brought out a mob. Although the place was full, Kurt was not in sight. I went outside and found him up the street smoking his cigarette, which was not unusual, but he was also involved in an interested discussion with another person hidden in the doorway, smoking also. I told him he was needed inside and he followed me in.

  Lee Stringer

  What a fascinating person and what an incredible story. Lee Stringer was a crack addict who lived under Grand Central Station. Dan Simon, who published some of Kurt’s work, had discovered Lee Stringer, who by a strange coincidence had exchanged his addiction to crack for an addiction to writing when he found a pencil he used with his crack pipe and one day discovered that the pencil could write and he could make it happen.

  Here is how the relationship of Kurt and Lee Stringer happened. Sometime in 1997, Dan Simon, who publishes books that should be published, had lunch with Kurt at Cafe de Paris, where Kurt liked to eat, and told Kurt that he wanted him to read a bound galley of a book, Grand Central Winter: Stories from the Street. Dan was smart enough to tell Kurt that he was giving him the galley not for a blurb, but he wanted Kurt to read the galley from cover to cover, knowing unless he read it all Kurt would just give him a good blurb as a favor. A few days later Kurt communicated with Dan that he had discovered the next Jack London. Dan introduced Kurt to Lee, and Kurt wrote a foreword to the book.

  The joint signing at Barnes and Noble that I referred to was arranged after the book was published in 1998. Kurt was there for the signing of Timequake and also because he had written the foreword to Lee’s book. The evening was a smashing success with the banter back and forth between Kurt and Lee about writing and about the condition of the world. Dan Simon was smart enough to record the discussion that took place that night at Barnes and Noble, and it became a book written jointly by Kurt and Lee entitled Like Shaking Hands With God, which was published in 2002. Of course, it was and still is a great book.

  Lee Stringer now works with Project Renewal helping counselors who help addicts. After the first book Lee wrote was such a huge success, lots of rave reviews came out, and Dan had lunch with Kurt and Lee again at Cafe de Paris. As Dan tells it, he wanted Kurt to give Lee some encouragement with his writing, since Lee, like many authors, had run into trouble with the writing. Good old Kurt, instead of giving Dan the support he wanted, told Lee that he didn’t have to do it, that he had done enough.

  Before he died, Kurt had become very friendly with Lee Stringer, a truly most fascinating, talented, unusual human being.

  Annie’s Seventieth and Endorsement Ads

  It was in a small Burmese restaurant on West 56th Street where Annie, I, and David Markson were waiting for Kurt, who was running quite late. When Kurt finally arrived, he apologized for being late and he said to Annie, “I’m sorry, I won’t be able to come to your seventieth birthday party.”

  We had been planning this important date as a surprise party, and Annie may or may not have known at that time that it was happening. David let Kurt know by telling him, “Nice going, Kurt, you blew it, the party was supposed to be a surprise for Annie.”

  Kurt responded, “Oh shit, Annie, I brought you a present.” The present was the original vodka ad, not a print, but the original 1/1, which Kurt had signed with “Happy Birthday to Darling Annie Farber on April 24th, 1995. Kurt Vonnegut.” This particular ad was very special, and it was one that was well-known at the time in advertising circles and among Kurt’s fans. It was Kurt’s self-portrait of his face, and his hands were putting together a cat’s cradle with string. In the middle of the ad was a vodka bottle that was labeled “Absolut Vodka.” Annie was more than pleased to have the present, and I am sure she already knew the party was coming.

  Kurt had very strong feelings about what he would permit his name to be used for in advertising. As everyone knew, Kurt was a cigarette smoker who often jokingly remarked that he was going to sue the tobacco company because they said the cigarettes would kill him and that didn’t happen. While he did permit the vodka ad with his likeness, he was adamant about and would never permit an ad for any kind of tobacco product. He knew he was hooked but did not want to contribute in any way to encouraging others to become addicted to tobacco.

  Slaughterhouse-Five

  Kurt really lived in that Slaughterhouse Five when he was captured by the Nazis. And it is a true story that Kurt and those in the slaughterhouse survived the bombing of Dresden only because they were in that slaughterhouse. Kurt and I often bantered about our army careers but only in a very peripheral way. We had both suffered and seen too much killing to want to actually relive the pain of seeing comrades dying.

  Kurt, always in good humor, ridiculed my military service because I was not captured by the Germans. He would insist that I could not surrender to the Nazis, even if I had to, because I didn’t know the language. At the time Kurt was captured he was a scout, and it was the scout who was out ahead of the platoon. I told him I wasn’t dumb enough to get out there in front of the platoon and get caught.

  I did tell Kurt that I was as lucky as he was, since I was getting shot at as an infantryman when I was ordered to work in Division Headquarters seven miles behind the lines. They needed help with the casualty reports and I could read, write, and type and had helped the company clerk when we were in the States. Two weeks after I moved to headquarters, I picked up the casualty reports to learn that my entire company was wiped out crossing a little stream, the Roer in Germany. I think there was one other survivor who happened to be sick in the hospital and missed the crossing. Our military service was just one other thing that Kurt and I shared in common, both being close to unbelievable.

  We know that military life and serving in the infantry during a war like that can affect one’s life in many ways. There is no doubt that this experience influenced Kurt’s writing as it influenced other facets of his life. He could not have written Slaughterhouse-Five if he had not been captured and in that slaughterhouse at that time. But the particular response by the person who was Kurt Vonnegut to the bombing of Dresden could only have come from my friend, the Kurt Vonnegut that I knew. All of which makes one wonder, what other writer of note would have survived that bombing and written a best-selling book questioning the moral wisdom and even the strategi
c military value of bombing a city of our enemies, the Germans, who were out to destroy the civilized world as we knew it and our way of life.

  We know that the slaughterhouse was a dreadful experience. We know when the bombing was over, Kurt was forced to clean up the bodies, and we know he saw some fellow soldiers abused and murdered. Kurt and I each knew what the other experienced during World War II, and we only discussed it to the extent that we did not have to conjure up the too-painful memories that we both wanted to suppress.

  Cat’s Cradle—Save Me from Hilly

  I became familiar with Kurt Vonnegut Jr., as I told you, when a young new client wanted to make a film based on the novel Cat’s Cradle. He didn’t get the movie made, but once I was already doing work for Kurt, he did one day say, “Don, save me from Hilly.” Hilly Elkins was in the entertainment business in many ways, agent, manager, producer, promoter, and he had talked Kurt into giving him an option to produce a film based on Cat’s Cradle. I do not remember what, if anything, Kurt was paid for the option, but it had to be a mere token, because the total price for the motion picture rights was $50,000.

  The option was entered into in 1968, just before I represented Kurt, so when he asked me to save him from Hilly, it was because each time the option was about to run out, Hilly would charm Kurt into extending the option without paying any additional money. I saved Kurt from Hilly by saying no more free option extensions. I was pretty insistent, despite Hilly’s urgings. The option was running out at midnight and there was a delivery to my apartment of a check for $50,000 at ten thirty, beating the deadline by an hour and a half.

  Hilly, born in Brooklyn, had started his show business career as an office boy in the mail room of William Morris Agency. He shortly thereafter had his own agency with some important clients. One of his early production hits was Golden Boy, a musical that starred Sammy Davis Jr. His biggest hit was Oh! Calcutta! in 1960, which featured nudity and a lot of four-letter words. It was panned by critics but survived for twenty years. The critic Clive Barnes wrote in the New York Times: “Voyeurs of the city, unite, you have nothing to lose but your brains.” Hilly did not mind the criticism, as it sold tickets. Hilly had six wives, one of whom was the star Claire Bloom.

  Through the years there were many communications with Hilly, as he was holding the film rights in a very valuable property. He didn’t get a film made, although there were several attempts. We dined with Kurt and Hilly one evening, and it was an experience. Kurt respected the ability that Hilly had to influence people in a very friendly manner, but at the same time Kurt was skeptical of whether Hilly would ever get the film made. In fact it was Kurt’s frequent comment that the film would never be made because no one wanted to work with Hilly. Hilly died of a heart attack December 1, 2010. He left a lot of memories with those of us who knew him. He was smart and charming.

  Kurt Vonnegut and the Heaven Stuff

  Things were tough in West Barnstable when Kurt was trying to write, trying to sell Saabs, and trying to earn enough to feed his family. He was a lousy car dealer, ran out of money, and desperately needed cash. He asked all of his good friends in town, the library board members, the merchants he knew in town, and no one would guarantee his loan.

  Kurt stopped in to Dexter Lean’s shoe store. Dexter was on a ladder putting shoes on to the top shelf. He took one look at sad Kurt and asked what the trouble was. When Kurt told him, Dexter without hesitation said, “Send the papers up the ladder.” Atop the ladder, he signed them and sent them back down. Kurt’s family had food to eat for a while.

  Eventually Kurt repaid this remarkable gesture of Dexter’s in a most unusual way. Dexter had always wanted an obituary in the New York Times when he died. A short time later, Dexter died and Kurt not only got him an obit, but he managed to arrange for a one-eighth of a page obit with a nice big picture of Dexter. Dexter up in heaven looking down must have been so proud. The only problem was that Kurt, being the humanist that he was, never believed in that heaven stuff.

  David Markson

  David Markson, who was waiting with us for Kurt at the restaurant I mentioned above, was an American novelist and a good friend of ours and of Kurt’s. Kurt admired his writing abilities. While a graduate student at Columbia in 1951, he wrote a master’s thesis on Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano, which had been published in 1937. He became obsessed with Lowry and later flew to Mexico to live the life of almost constant drunkenness with Lowry. He attended Union College and Columbia University and started his writing career as a journalist and book editor, periodically working as a college professor at Columbia University, Long Island University, and The New School.

  In my discussions with Kurt, I learned that he admired David’s work because it was eclectic, original, and David was not against taking wild chances with his writing. David’s obsession with Lowry was centered in his admiration for Under the Volcano, which later became a motion picture starring Albert Finney.

  During the last years of his life, before he died on June 4, 2010, we would have dinner meetings every three or four months with David and Kurt. It was always personal but also an education in what was the current literary scene of the moment. We would have met more often, but during David’s earlier days, when he was emulating Lowry, he had messed up his body with so much drinking that he could not easily get around.

  We had become friendly with David when Annie was teaching math at LIU in Brooklyn. There was a faculty meeting to discuss a book and they had tables set up for the drinks. Annie went to the martini table and started talking to David. David had given a lecture about the work of Malcolm Lowry. Annie shared with David that our friend Harvey Breit was very close to Lowry. David said that he had called Harvey, whom he had never met, to tell him of Lowry’s death. We soon got David and Harvey together at our house.

  Harvey was so obsessed with Lowry and later wrote a book of the letters of Malcolm with Malcolm’s widow. Harvey at the time was the book editor of the New York Times and was on a personal basis with most of the popular current novelists, including Hemingway, John Steinbeck, Nelson Algren, Norman Mailer, and you name it.

  When I say Harvey was steeped in the Malcolm Lowry story, it could be said that David Markson was submerged in the Malcolm Lowry culture. As I said earlier, he went to Mexico to absorb the lifestyle of Lowry. He came back drinking almost all of the time, living the life of Lowry. It was a way of life for Lowry and it became a way of life for David Markson.

  David Markson, during his early writing career, wrote some memorable books, and Kurt loved his work. Actually, I think that David wrote the funniest book ever written, The Ballad of Dingus McGee, which was a not so subtle, very clever spoof of Hollywood Westerns. I always told Kurt that I thought The Ballad of Dingus McGee was the funniest book that I had ever read, with the exception, of course, of his books. Kurt liked hearing me say his stuff was the funniest, but he agreed with me on this one. The Ballad of Dingus McGee was made into a film starring Frank Sinatra. As good as the book was and as funny as it was is how bad the film was and how not funny it was.

  David was paid the huge sum of $50,000 for the film rights in McGee, and that was more money than a professor could earn working for a lot of years in the English department at LIU. So when he got the $50,000, before he left for a trip to Europe, he managed to go into the head of the English department and in very graphic English tell the head of the department what he could do to himself, David not being one to mince words.

  He came back from Europe broke, of course. There were some rumors, which he always denied, that he was caught in a flood in Spain and saved some persons from drowning in the river. David’s denial that he acted as a hero was typical of his way of living. Yes, he could have saved all those lives and just might have done it. We could never know for sure because of his modesty, and because whether consciously or not, David lived with and encouraged a certain mystique about his life and his lifestyle. He associated with the major writers of the era; he was friendly with Mailer, Jame
s Jones, Tom Wolfe, Cheever, and you name it.

  Rochelle Owens

  We were invited to David’s apartment on the edge of the West Village (the real Greenwich Village in those days), and that was when we met David’s wife, Elaine Markson, who became a well-known literary agent. They were later divorced but were together at this time, and it was there that we met George Economou and Rochelle Owens, both poets and authors. George taught English at LIU and Rochelle was an avant-garde playwright and very avant.

  Rochelle wrote a play entitled Futz, which was produced at La MaMa E.T.C., an Off-Broadway theatre in the Village run by Ellen Stewart, who became very famous for her contribution to the theatre. Futz opened at La MaMa in March of 1967 and became the thing to see, even if it meant making a trip to East 4th Street in the Village to get to La MaMa. The play was produced and directed by Tom O’Horgan, who later became even more famous when he directed Hair.

  At this time, theatre was pushing the limits of propriety with nude appearances on stage and very graphic language. Along comes the play Futz, and it caused a furor as to what was permissible, but Rochelle had a message and she was going to get this message out in the most exciting, dramatic way possible.

  Futz is the story of a young farmer whose luck with women was not very good. Futz loves and sleeps with his pet pig, Amanda. The pig likes it and Futz likes it but the community can’t handle it, so they have to hang Futz. Rochelle was definitely making a statement about the condition of our culture.