I walked, wonderingly, into the Magic Theater. Brilliant neon lights rattled my eyes. Colors of all stripes and forms assailed me from every angle. Cindy Crawford’s warm and comforting hand pulled me in. Further and further, I ventured into the madness of this unnatural world. It was only Cindy’s soft and gentle profile, just ahead of me, always leading me, that led me, cowlike, into this cacophony of dazzling colors.
A tenebrous figure materialized before me and approached. In the stillness, like a dream, it advanced until it came into focus.
Great moogly googly! It wore a rumpled sweater and old blue jeans. It had a bittersweet smile, weary, laughing eyes, and a shag rug on its head. It was my boyhood hero and guru, Kurt Vonnegut, junior. He grabbed my right hand in both of his and with a whiskey voice, he exclaimed, “Welcome to the Turkey Farm!”
“Duh, er, uh, buh, um, Mr. Vonnegut,” I said.
“Spit it out, son,” he said.
“Where am I? Where, what is going on? Am I dead? Is this heaven?”
He looked over my shoulder and then he looked back over his own shoulder.
“Does it look like heaven?” he asked.
“I, I don’t know what to think. This is all so confusing,” I said.”
“Have a seat, George. Take a load off,” said Kurt.
“What is happening? Am I dreaming?” I asked.
“No,” he answered. “You’re not dreaming. You are finally awake. You are where I have always been, where everyone has always been. Dr. Asimov is here. Mark Twain is here. Dashiell Hammett is here. Albert Einstein is here. Jesus is here, for god’s sake.”
“Can I see him?” I asked.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
I sat down in a beautiful burgundy leather wingback chair. The leather was as soft as a baby’s cheeks.
I took another drink of beer. The long double-swallow emptied half of the beer. I looked at Kurt Vonnegut with watering eyes. I sat the base of the bottle down firmly on the seat beside me and tried to focus my eyes beyond those startling, garish neon lights.
“Do you suppose some of those lights could be dimmed?” I asked.