Kurt Vonnegut sat on his porch in Northampton committing suicide by cigarette; Pall Malls. It was an authentic sort of suicide. He was an authentic sort of man.

It was the Fourth of July. He’d only just come back from speaking about one thing or another. As he’d walked out of the hall, a young woman had approached him.

“Mr. Vonnegut?” she’d asked.

He’d turned.

“What’s your next book going to be?”

He thought of the date, he thought of a man.

“Happy Fourth, Mr. President,” he decided, as it seemed the kind of title publishers would likely order, and audiences would likely eat up.

The girl had smiled. Really, his next book had nothing at all to do with presidents, fourths, or Julys, but it was just the kind of loud day where nothing more needed to be said by anyone, especially him. So later, he only sat and…