Mourning the Loss of Kurt Vonnegut

Guest Post by Steven Adams.

On the day Kurt Vonnegut died I had to get my oil changed. It's a necessary evil I acknowledge by wearing a T-shirt that looks like it's splattered in oil but has ancient Arabs on horses with raised swords or shotguns galloping away from tall oil rigs. I am so fucking funny, but I am on the borderline of tears because my hero is dead and I'll never read another thing by him. I am glad he finally gets to rest.

I am almost in a head-on collision on my way to the Toyota dealership where I must do the deed. One of the many college kids in this town, with a girl in tow, is in a giant hurry to get to the gas station across from the dealership where I take my car, and he blasts right though the yield sign. His face says, "Oh shit, I fucked up" first and then, "No, I didn't, so I'll carry on." I shake my head while my heart slows, and I pat myself on the back for avoiding death by the "me generation." I always watch out for everyone else on the road.

The dealership has my name stored in the computer I booked the appointment online. My service director for the afternoon compliments the fact that I brought a book, "The Confession of Nat Turner," and he asks what it's about. "The only slave to lead a revolt before the Civil War," I tell him. He reminds me that there is now wireless in the recently renovated lobby.

I've been coming here for two years, but the lobby has been made brand new over the last few months, and it looks like a palace. The tile is so shiny that the florescent light draws counter squares to its formal grid. There are many products here to massage and pamper an automobile. The chairs look very comfy and all the faces on the magazines are attractive. I feel like I am at a doctor's office, and I feel sick.