PART 3 IS THAT ALL THERE IS?

Is t h a t all t he re is? T he Deat h of Billy P i lg r i m Vo n n e g u t.
PART III: THE CO-WORKERS COME BACK TO HIDE THEIR CRIME: LOVE AND LUST IS GOING TO DESTROY SOMEBODY.... I feel some heat, sweat and my tingling muscles. Drool seems running down my mouth.. These must be signals that I am not dead yet. Ironically, I survived Vietnam without a major wound. To end up here is one of life's cruel jokes. Now, I look around to see the beige walls the ding of machines, and my arm still hooked up to an IV. In the halls, their nurses walking about, when I see them: YES, THOSE BASTARDS WHO HAVE DONE THIS TO ME!” The leader Ivar Tokota, the Philippine HERO of Bluit and prototype for my employer's wet dream of foreign labor is walking with his co-worker and lover Admad Jasmine a student transplant from Pakistan and new hire in his department at Bluit. All this madness began when Ivar started cheating on his chubby Filipino wife, with this Pakistan beauty who wrapped his little penis around her little finger that was also wrapped in many golden rings, that the India culture loves. Ivar, immediately changed into Mr. Evil and Mr. Lust. Even though Ivar is married, he was primed for the brown-eyed skank, but this brown -eyed beauty in her twenties seduced him easily into cheating on his fat Philippine wife. Now they worked with another member of the team who now moved to Florida, when I had discovered their plans for stripping off social security numbers. They were not the smartest crooks, as they started purchasing big-ticket items. Normally, a big clue. The New homes, cars and host of other trinkets and trips should have been looked at.

It was obvious to me, that these three were up to no good, but since they were young and golden in the company eyes my protests fell on deaf ears. Thievery or corporate espionage was nothing new in my field. My previous boss from the Operations Unit got addicted to Internet gambling, which would have been bad enough, but he also decided not to use his own money. He dipped into the company's petty cash and then kept on losing. Snake eyes for my boss the blonde one. The company finally figured it out, and they have the best in the brightest of our accountants said yeah, where is all this cash, about twenty thousand dollars missing from an account that was supposed to be used for post-it notes? Bluit the company that gave us a free lunch, did get rid him once they caught on that he was thousand of dollars missing out of his petty cash account. There was a pattern to these crimes, after I lied around thinking about it. All these thieves had one thing in common; they all were young and good looking. Bill Sanger, Operations manager was tall, blonde, blue eyed a propaganda Nazi's poster for good looks. He was promoted for his looks by the company, until the day of his petty cash debacle, which proved his brain was limited in its Aryan power to hide his crime. They finally and physically pulled him out of his office by his cute ear. So it went, in the Corporation that worshiped youth and beauty, they were bound to hire a lot of twits, slackers and total idiots. Jesus, these two must be trying to see if I am dead. I see both whispering outside my doorway. Shit, what will they try to do? I can make out some of the movements from the lips, as I took lip reading class with a deaf girl, I was dating in college. “We can try to smother him?” Ivar said this to his paramour. “Yeah, just get one of a pillow when the nurses go on break.” Now they turn away, and I can't make out what they are saying. I can't believe this killing me in this hospital. I can't move. I feel the sweat of a fear beads up on my upper lip. I see Ivar and Admad moving together like conspirators for lust and money. They are both in touch with their evil side and the easiest method of killing a paralyzed man. I gasp for air to try to make a noise to scare them away. Just as Ivar enters holding a pillow by his medium frame, his girlfriend smirks and almost giggles. My eyes gaze at them, and their eyes tell me that this is something that gives them pleasure. Those sadistic bastards. I may have to run or least put up a defense. I try moving the legs, but they feel like jello.

Bingo, my fingers are working. I press the Nurse, emergency button. This hopefully gets there attention, but in this hospital, they normally are overworked and understaffed, so I am hedging my bets that my life is all in my hands. The Hospital CNA's are not the most diligent people, especially when it comes to changing out bedpans. I shut my eyes for brief moment to make them think I am sleeping, but I can hear the shoes squeak. They are whispering. It must be the last methods of killing me,that are softly their plans. I slightly open my eyes-lids to see the Bitch take out a syringe. Ivar would have no problem getting the drugs and uniform of a nurse, since being a Flippina it is almost a mandatory female choice to get out the tropical hell-hole by becoming a nurse, then hitch a ride to America. Yes, I remember his cousins from Manila came here to be nurses. Ivar watches and goes to the closet for the pillow, while his lover comes closer to me handling the syringe like a novice. I only have on shot at this but once their close enough, I have a plan, if my muscles and strength hold. I have already picked out my weapon, which should be enough to get those bastards to scatter, at least I hope. As Ivar's girlfriend made it up to my bedside, I lunged and grasped the bedpan. This shocked her completely and she stumbled back, while I struggled landed a hard blow to the top of her head exploded the metal, and the piss/crap landed all over her head. Ivar now came to her aid, as she had dropped to the floor. “I am going to KILL YOU NOW!” My only weapon left was the cord from my that held my remote to control the bed and TV. Ivar moved quickly to smother me with the pillow. I grip the cord and throw it around his neck and tighten as hard as I can. Ivar is gasping for air, and my strength is going. Wait, I will use the up button to raise the bed up to choke the bastard. Pushing the button is working, but the bed won't go up high-enough to kill him. Ivar's girlfriend comes too and now starts to try to get him untangled. She throws some punches in my face, but I not hurt by her blows. I grab her neck and shove her back. Ivar is struggling and fighting to get released. Ivar fights off the cord, and is running out of air. His girlfriend comes back and tries to push me off the bed. My body get moved, and she goes for the cord untangling the wire. Just as he gets free, there is a knock on my door, and here the nurse says. “Mr. Vonnegut, I am coming in.” I try to speak, but nothing comes out in a human manner. Just a mere grunts and saliva drips from my mouth. My two murders are now back on the feet and gathering up their wits and making a quick jog to the door. As the nurse opens the door, they rush out saying, “It was nice seeing you, Billy.” The nurse enters and notices the room is a mess. “My god what happened here.” I am winded and can't catch my breath. It was weird, but maybe now somebody will believe and catch those two. I am straddling the bed and move my arms. “Oh my gosh, you are moving.” I grunt, put it comes out like a wounded chimp. “I am going to track down your doctor with the good news.” The nurse now puts me back in bed. Then she checks my pulse and blood pressure, which are both very high, since I have been fighting for my

life. “I will be back and get the doctor.” “Did they try to hurt? Those people that were here?” I can nod my head finally. “OH!” “We need to call the police?” I nod once again and then pass out. Click, click, zzzz... The noise from a squawking police radio, wakes me up. It seems to be that this may be the downfall of my enemies. I have never been blessed with good luck, so I am not counting on them being caught and spending their lives sharing a cell with a person who grunts and gives you a prison that, whether you want it or not. The detectives are looking at me, and noting that I am black and blue. “We are going to take photos of you, so that we have evidence.” I nod my head yes. “Can you talk?” I try, but nothing seems to be working. My brain wants to make the sound, but the mouth is still not emitting anything but sort of a moan, and a grunt. “Will try just asking you questions, and you nod.”

“We are going to show you some photos of the people think that are trying to kill you.” Nodding yes, I wonder what photos they have. First, one, the detective holds up picture of my ex-wife. “THIS ONE?” I am not deaf, but smile and nod as they have the photo of my wife. “Okay, she is your ex-wife? She lied and said to the Hospital staff, that she still is your wife?” I nod yes again. “Hmm, bitter divorce?” Yes, I nod. “Do you know where she lives?” No, I nod. She had a secret love shack, but she moved in with her boyfriend, but I have no clue where that SOB lives. “We have tried to track down your kids, but they moved out of your house for now.” I know my mind tells me that my two kids would mooch off the ex-wife until the bitch's boyfriend blows up. I think I know how to help, but I can't speak. I know I will grunt and try to get them to get me paper and a pen. The detectives look at me then I point to the guy's laptop and grunt “LET ME TPE!” “Oh, will give that a try.” The detective walks over and hands me the laptop. My mind recognizes the keyboard.

Can I type, my brain says yes, but my fingers my say no? Try to focus, I normally type with all my fingers but my brain seems to be holding me back. I use on finger and hunt and peck out the letters. “Wife's boyfriend lives with UPSSS driver.” The detective looks on and smiles. “Don't worry we will trace her movements and phone-calls.” “Thanks sir, will put a guard by your door and will track these people down.” The two detectives leave and then ten minutes later the Doctor, who actually turned out to new enough to medicine to be interested actually saved my life. He smiled and looked at my body. “Glad to hear you moved.” “Let me check your reflexes.” He takes out that rubber hammer and hits me in my knee, and my leg jumps. Next, he asks me to move my hands and arms, which I do with some struggle. “Can you try to speak for me.” My mouth tries to form words, and I grunt out something. “TANKS... Doc...doc..." “You will need rehab for both the body and the speech.” “I will try to set that up for you.” Just as he says this a woman dressed in one those power woman's suits enter carrying some paper work. “Hello, Doctor. Hello Mr. Vonnegut, I am Wendy Stark with Hospital administration, and we have some issues that need to be discussed.” My doctor now looks glum as he knows what coming. Even, I know what is coming. It's the Cobra, which I know hasn't been paid. I was handling all the bills, and since I was on my back my kids of course ignored all the bills. “Mr. Vonnegut, your Cobra benefits have expired for non-payment, and we have to free up this room.” The doctor grimaces about the reality of the wonders of insurance and tries to make my case. “We should. Mrs . Stark gives him some rehab before he is released.” “I am sorry. Doctor but Mr. Vonnegut's case is too extreme, and we don't have been enough physical Therapists to handle his case.” The doctor is now flummoxed that his power is that of a flea against elephant when it comes to Insurance company with the powers of red-tape and bloody rules.

Mrs. Stark who has the compassion of an Accountant for the Mafia while she looks at my file brightness up while saying: “Well, I see Mr. Vonnegut your file states that you are a Veteran, so you can go to your local VA Hospital and sign up for rehab, which should be covered.” “Greattt, I groan” I moaned my animal sigh. “I will be getting all the forms and have you discharged after you meet with your social worker, and I am sorry that we can't keep you here longer.” The doctor pats me on the shoulder and realizes that medical care is only limited to the money you have and that Hippocratic Oath, he took means nothing against the powers of lobbyists and bribed officials. The Hr lady, moves closer and states that I will be discharged tomorrow morning. She leaves with that fake smile and boredom hanging off her make up powder-faced, that means she really started hating this job the moment she got out of college, facing the truth of profit versus cranky sick people. “Well, Mr. Vonnegut we hope you have liked your stay with us, and we have some phone numbers to help with your transitions back to your normal life.” “Here is Catholic Charities line if you have trouble caring for yourself.” “If you need anybody to discuss your problems we have some help-lines listed here.” “Do you have anybody to pick you up? Your kids?” “Umm... My neighbor may be able to pick me up. Or cab would be fine.” “We can call for you.” I give her my neighbor's number as I write down on a scrap paper. My neighbor was not home of course, so I ask them to call for a cab. All my stuff, which means a box of tissues and hospital Pjs are in a bag I found lying around my room. I get dressed and stagger around trying to get my muscles to work. I can't wait to get out of here and change the locks on my house, since I know that my ex-wife's boyfriend will send them back like herpes into my tiny disturbed realm. I hobble down to the main entrance, and it takes one hour to get a cab. The cab driver is from Bulgaria and new to the country. He is also new to driving rules and directions. With my slurred speech and his English, it becomes a hellish nightmare just trying to get home, which just blocks away. “Left at the light.” “No leftttt..” “No your other left.” “Just stay straight.” Finally, I make to my block, and the cabbies driving skills of turning on a whim has made me think that maybe he was hired by my ex-wife to kill me.

“Just stop here. I am still four blocks from my house, but this guy is such a horrid driver it is better just to walk.” I see that meter says five bucks, so I hand the guy six bucks and say good bye. Walking down my street is almost calming, but nobody here is honoring my return, they didn't even know I was gone. My muscles are tight and tingling from all that bed-rest and the toxins. I barely make it up my stairs to my home, the cape-cod that most likely smells like a cod fish. The kids think that it is only my job to keep the house clean and take out the trash. Jesus, I hope my pets are still alive. I fumble for my keys as my hand jiggles the front door knob and damn the door opens. Nobody bothered to lock the FRIGGIN door. and the smell of the dog's piss is pungent. “DADDY'S HOME.” I am hoping that the dog and cats are upstairs and not lying dead in the basement. I hear the thunder of their feet as they hear my voice. Barley my old dog is running at full steam, while the cats race right behind him. They all jump on top of me. I pet, and pet them and hug them. “Oh YES, MY TRUE FAMILY AND FRIENDS, DID I MISS YOU ALL.” Holy crap, you are all so skinny. I immediately go to the kitchen and fill the dogs dish with food. The cats are also starving beasts, but they are smart enough to open the container with their food and give themselves a smorgasbord. Lucky for them, I bought a giant container of dry cat food before I left, and they all must have lived off of that. The cats drank out of the dripping sink faucet, and the dog survived on toilet water. As I survey the house, I am disgusted with my Kids, they left their garbage all over, left the poor animals to suffer, even though they begged for a dog, once it was their task, they made the animals invisible. I look at my animals and state the truth: “GUYS, THEY ARE NOT GETTING BACK IN.” “IF I DIE YOU GUYS GET THE HOUSE AND ALL THE MONEY, FUCK THOSE LITTLE TWERPS!” While the animals are gorging, I open the windows to let out the stink. I collapse in my recliner and plan the clean up, the lock change and surviving another day. It took me a week to clean up the place and change the locks. I ended up trying to get a job and filing for unemployment, which was denied. It was just another kick in the crotch that left me numb and alone. My speech was still slightly slurred.

Walking was a struggle, but I seemed to get muscle tone back. I decided to see if the VA had a physical therapist to help me with my leg muscles and speech issues, so I drove up to my closest VA, the one in North Chicago. Then it hit me, one of the last times I was there it was when my father had lost his job, no health insurance and counted on them for his health care. I shuddered. It was a buried memory of the downhill slide of my Father's life. It was just a simple colonscopy that I drove him too. It didn't make sense that the government tested the old man's strength and resolve at almost the same level as the Japs during WWII. I remember it was the horrid days of Disco, crappy poly suits, the years of trickle -down economics and stale boxes of cheese for the poor, the brilliant compassion of emptying out the mental hospitals, unless you were a rich crazy person. Speaking of rich crazy people this was era of the Have's running amuck. This was the end of the Reagan's second term, although Reagan spent millions on the military, this stream of spending did not trickle down to the Veterans Hospital. I still see the flashes of sitting in the waiting room, that had couches and chairs that seemed to be pulled out of the Salvation Army bin, the TV from the 1970s and barely working. Home of the Brave was not considered. This showed the new Republican's care and concern for those that didn't make movies during the war. While the Reagan's ate on new China, the VA walls were dirty and not painted in years. As for medical care, it got even worse, as the old man's colon was broken during the procedure, and he almost ended up dying. It was a miracle of his survival, as the bureaucrats had blown money on more missiles; while the old man lied in a bed made during the days of Dwight's presidential campaign. As a Veteran, I avoided the place, but had been back only once when I took another Old Veteran for his appointment. The Obama's administration at least spruced up the place; the buildings were new. The walls painted, and the place looked clean. It still had the feelings that it was for the unloved and unwanted ghosts of our screw-up in military wars that we can't call wars. These men and women are the real invisible minority that walked or were pushed through the halls and forgotten. I arrived at the system of the wonderland of the VA. Fill this form out and get in line. Lots of Veterans, even a few from WWII, god blesses um. I well up thinking of my old man and how it got emotional about his team dying off. I see the young ones, the current vets and I get even sadder. Since most of these people are not the social network generation, there are actual conversations going on. “Where did you serve?” “How are you doing?” “Isn't this crazy, how long we have to wait?”

There is a bond, a bond of the forgotten, the old and the young who served. However, this bond is powerless one, that has no real clout, no lobbyist political base, just the men and women who got their hands dirty in the act of Wars, police actions or Operations called Somebodies Freedom. Wait, Wait and Wait some more. Jesus, there is an old lady in her seventies dragging her husband in. From her mood and scowl, she seems trying to ditch him, like a puppy after Christmas that is no longer cute. She is in her seventies, but dolled up like she is her twenties and going out on a first date. She barges up to the administration help desk and demands that she has a meeting with services to take him in their nursing home. “I need to have my husband admitted into your nursing home.” “I can't afford to take care of him, and he needs 24-hour care." Her demanding voice seems to shock the crowd, as her husband seems more of pet to be disposed of then a life partner. There is compassion for her blight from the crowd at first, but it is her tone voice and the way she tugs and pushes at her husband who is so telling and disconcerting. “Mam! We don't do that here, we care for the Veteran, but the home is only used for recovery.” “We help the Veteran recover and then go home or transition into a nursing home that is your options.” The response seemed to unhinge the woman even more as she turned red in the face. “What the hell, this is not right. I can't take care of him. He has Parkinson.” “I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOUR SUPERVISOR.” “Mrs.? We can help find help and caregivers, but we can't admit your husband permanently.” The woman behind the front desk, was polished and in her forties, she most likely experienced this battle repeatedly “I will get my supervisor here to explain the procedures and here is a listing of services.” “Just sit back in the waiting room, and we will call you. I need your name?” This question made the devoted wife even more pissed off. “IT'S WEISSMAN, RUTH WEISSMAN AND MY HUSBAND PAUL!” Unluckily for me, they sit right down next to me. “I smile at the old guy, not knowing his condition, but feeling he pain, as Bill Clinton would say. We have a bond, as we have wives mine an ex-wife whom both wanted us dead. His infamous wife from hell is now trying to get an older couple on her side by portraying herself as Mother friggin Teresa. While she is busy yapping to her new victims, I look at her poor husband. “I am Billy Vonnegut, nice to meet you.” I said this holding out my hand.

“I am Paul Weissman, and it is a pleasure meeting someone who isn't my wife.” Paul, grasps my hand with a little strength and a chuckle. “Just be careful, around her as she is royal bitch.” Winking, I say, “don't worry will talk in whispers and then go to Morse code.” “The wife is trying to get rid of me. Thankfully, I was a Navy man, so she thinks it is the Navy's problem to take me in.” “I was a Marine, and I have an ex-wife, who may top yours, but I won't depress you with my martial woes.” “Do you think; the Navy can give me a hand now?” This questioned had me flummoxed, as I wasn't sure if they could get him a better life and replace his nasty negative wife, with a compassionate decent caregiver. “I have got some money, although my kids got most of it.” He shook his head and then proceeded to tell me about his two sons. “ My one Son, Paul Junior is an options trader, but he has his own problems.” “He had a breakdown after he found his wife in bed with his best friend, and lost his damn focus on his job. He lost millions, but still has a job, but we gave him thousands of dollars to tide him over.” “My other son, Mark lives in Texas and never comes to visit. He is head of marketing for their used car division, but does well.” With a sudden ashen sadness, he turns whiter in color and now mentions his last kid, Mary my daughter is an ex-hippie that never returned after I kicked her out in the 1970s. “I shouldn't have married her.” “She was on her second marriage and wanted to be an actress. The old guy struggles and pulls out a picture of photo. He hands me the photo, and she was a 1950s sex kitten and seemed to know it in the photo. I looked at then turned and looked at her in her seat; she still has the bone structure, but her body has turned to fat and their hair has grayed. She is a victim of her past. “She was happy when I was head of marketing and was rolling in the dough Now, she just moans and bitches at me.” The old man now whispers in my ear, “ When she gets mad at me; she even hits me and scratches me.” “My Parkinson makes it hard for me to walk, and she hates helping me.” He rolls up his pants and shows me cat like long scratches on his calf. I am shocked. I am stunned. How can I help this guy? My mind is searching. “Maybe, we can get you a caregiver in the house to help you.”

“Well, I don't know. Ruth is the boss, now.” He paused and was looking for a way out. “You know let me call your son, the Options trader; I am looking to trading options, and I tell him you need help.” The old guy seemed to realize he needed somebody in his corner. I brought out my little notebook and pen, so his wife would suspect that I was putting a phone number in my phone. He looked on and then blurted out the number. I wrote it down and noted that he was truly scared of his wife. His wife came over and dragged him into a meeting with administrator. “Come on, we have to get you booked in here.” Paul glanced at me with a look of pain and helplessness. He was now reduced to an infliction not a husband. Those wedding vows now seemed to exclude the words through sickness and health. The vows should be changed through wellness, and big bucks is what I really meant. I started sighing about my own crappy marriage while walking back to my car. IS THAT ALL THERE IS? Shuffling off unappreciated along with the crap shoot of marriage giving you only a statistically has fifty-fifty chance of burning and crashing into a wall of debt or limping off lovely into the twilight together into a Senior sunrise. My car is parked in the furthermost lot. Huffing and puffing thinking it would be ironic to die in the parking lot of the VA. I walk and make back to the Chevy Impala an old from American's days of glory. Driving home is not bad, as it blows the cobwebs of mind out with music or like what's a philosophy major just mulls through life and its puzzles. I fire up the Impala, a car that is an ode to the Plain Jane, simple design of America's practical side, which has been eclipsed by the German and Japanese models with their high-price penis enlarger sedans and sport coupes. Wait, I just came up with a new philosophy that could save Americans from wasting money and spur the sales of Impalas. I am regular Marcel Proust for the blue-collar set. It was only a forty-minute drive, past the rich houses in Lake Forest and their hidden gated lives, back to my pigeon small style life of my Coop of a house. As I pull into my driveway, I see a car, a Mt. Prospect police unmarked cop car pull behind me. I stand still waiting for another shitload of bad news. “Hello Billy, remember me. Dennis the detective on your case.” I nod in shock. I thought it was all forgotten. “Hello Dennis. How are you?” “Good, and I have news on part of your case.” “Come on in.” I say this and hope the cop likes cats as normally just lounging around the living room.

We step into my disheveled living room, and we sit facing each other. “Well Mr. Vonnegut, Billy. We found your Ex-wife, as she ditched the UPS driver after stealing his credit card, and most of his bank accounts, and she headed down to Tennessee.” The detective pauses. “Ummm, before we could arrest on your attempted murder, she had found another boyfriend and ended up.” He stopped again. “Well, she ummm...” “Do you want the details? All the details? ” I nod like a dumb monkey back to Dennis. “Our friends from Tennessee Police department were tracking her, as she left the bar, with this other guy. As they were driving back to their motel, they were engaged in a sex act.” “She was giving the guy a blow job, as his noted by the officers following the car. The car sped up and then slowed down then sped up.” “Before they could pull them over.” “ Well," “They hit a tree.” “Your ex-wife died and the poor guy she was working on, well he lost his member, as she well bit down, when they crashed.” I couldn't help it, but I laughed. “THAT POOR LAST BASTARD SHE HOOKED UP WITH GOT THE WORST OF THE RELATIONSHIP.” I collapse laughing. “I and that UPS guy got off easy...” The detective couldn't help but laugh too. “Did the guy survive?” “The guy with missing member.” “Yep! However, he is really not a happy puppy. “Her body is being held at this funeral home; in Bartville, Tennessee, here are the address and phone number.” “Thanks, I am sorry for laughing, but she was a total bitch and thief, so I can't say that I feel a lot of love for that woman, especially since she tried to kill me.” The detective chuckles and says his ex-wife, he wished dead many times. “Before, I leave, those other two who tried to kill you are being tracked by the FBI and maybe the CIA. All the info, I was allowed to have was that you were correct about the identity theft, and they have left the country. The FBI maybe contacting you shortly to question you further for more leads. “Well, Billy all I can advise is you may still have to be on your toes I will make stops around your house and keep my eyes open for anything suspicious.” The detective was then getting up. I shook his hand and remembered that his efforts did keep from the biting the big one.

“Thanks for all your help.” As he leaves it hits, the ex-wife is dead and gone, but our kids still exist and should know that their Mother is no longer alive. They had been mooching off her with the money she stole from me. She had been handing out my cash like a Pez dispenser for the kiddies. I grab my cell-phone and try my oldest daughter who is hiding in out in Iowa, since she owes me money, lots and lots of money. Her voice mail picks up. “Laurie, please call me, as I have some news about your Mother, this is your Dad.” I mull over that I should just leave the message, that their Mom is dead, but decided that would be in poor taste. Next, my youngest daughter, Mary is on my list. Since she has the mood of the Tasmanian devil she is perpetually pissed at me. She will not answer the phone. My last hope, is my son, Vince, who may answer, as he had been my most respectful progeny, not perfect, but at least he had cut me some slack in life. I picked up the last number and called. Vince picked up. “Hello, Dad.” “How are you?” His voice was filled with guilt. “Son, I have some bad news. Your Mom was involved in an accident in Tennessee, a car accident, and she didn't survive.” “I will call your Mother's half-sister, since she is rich and my spring for the funeral, you haves her number, and I will Text you the funeral homes number and address.” Vince started crying. “I am sorry Dad.” I started crying. “Son, if you need to come home you can. You can even tell that to Mary, although she doesn't speak to me.” “Thanks Dad, I will call them and let them know.” I sat down in my recliner and mulled over whether I should go to Tennessee for funeral of ex-wife who had just tried to kill me. I was unemployed and uncertain about my future. If I was going down south unless on a job search seemed pointless. Was it worth it? I did have some good memories of the ex-wife, but then it seems that funerals don't fix the problems of people crapping on the living or fixing the betrayals. No way would I attend her funeral, nor will I piss on her grave, although the thought did cross my mind. Life and love can be strange. What is next and how to get a job? My mind is now making me reach for a bottle of vodka for a shot of liquid courage. Months went by. Resumes sent out and no reply, except the occasion thank you, but no thanks.

No tech jobs were coming my way, so I resorted to other weird job options. I worked in pet store in cleaning and being a grunt for a crazy lady owner whose husband hid in his office, in fear of her. This was the most physical job I had in a long time, as catching, cleaning and monitoring puppies, kittens, rabbits, excluding the snakes who I ignored, was a muscle-building night-mare. Once I found out the woman who owned the place was not going to pay me, or pay me for my actual hours worked, I bid a farewell to my fine furry animal friends. My next rotten job included a stint as a caregiver for seniors, which was picking up, washing and feeding old people who had a tendency to fall over or suffer from the pains of old age and crankiness. It stunned me into thinking that if you believe in God or science, the process of aging was the cruelest joke of life when it made the aging cycle a total bitch. It doesn't seem fair that after you learned your lessons then aging and death makes room for the young, vigorous and stupid generation, which will make your same mistakes. When I saw how these old guys suffered with dementia and other illness, I broke down and cried for them. It is a job that tests your compassion and the meaning of life. This job also was low pay and no insurance and at times incredibly depressing. Watching the elderly fade away is not fun, but does explain that it sometimes takes a stranger to care for someone else's parents. Fading out the sun goes down in the park across the street from my tiny abode. Boredom and loneliness make me head for the Seven & Eleven for a coffee and chat. Why the Seven Eleven versus the hipper Starbucs? Well, the starbucs generation doesn't speak, but the East-Indians at the Seven Eleven are social and interesting characters who chat like cocaine fueled parrots, while the Uber hip at the Starbucs just stared at they phones and iPads with rapt attention to a digital deluge of glibness, gossip and a BOGOTIFY of their consumer conscience. The Seven Eleven is hopping with the crowd of gas buyers, coffee slurpers, doughnut junkies, and gambling addicts who need their scratch and moan tickets. On Friday night, the place becomes a teen hangout for the generation of malcontents addicted to sugary liquids knows as Slurpee, and big gulps. Gutpa, the night-shift man and worker for his cousin is surveying his crowd. His brain is looking for thieves, and possible profits when the American idiots come to the counter. He is pure a salesman who when he is not in the weeds will try to up-sell his clientele. “How about a box of doughnuts, or the special on candy bars for the kiddies?

When the crowd thins out, I pick up my carton of Milk and eggs along with a cup a Joe. “HI, MR. BILLY..." Gutpa knows his clients and like a great salesman makes them a friend for repeat business. Gutpa now goes in for his up-sell, how about nice pecan roll? I pat my stomach and shake my belly. “Okay, how about a Lotto ticket?” My mind says, What a waste, but then again, there is always that hope. That dream of dumb luck and bathing in millions of dollars is what make us watch the lives of the vacuous and rich on reality shows. “Okay, give me a quick pick for the big game.” “Thanks Gutpa, I see later in India when I build my Taj Mahl for my new Indian bride.” He chuckles, “You better win, as India's weddings are so expensive when you have to hire the elephant and buy all that gold jewelery.” “I just spent a load of cash on my daughter's wedding, and now I have to get another job.” “OH, I am so sorry, maybe if you can get a raise from your boss here and not have to work that other jobs." Gutpa, chortles back the obvious, “Indians are cheap. That is why it was Indians who invented the number zero. My people always want it cheaper.” I laugh and know what he says is true about the number zero, as one my old math teacher was a math history geek who chided one of the students for not now the origins of arithmetic. “Nothing from Nothing is nothing." I sing the Billy Preston song as I get back in my car for the drive back home. As I arrive home, my street is deserted like normal. Like a bad B Sci-fi movie of my childhood, the people are missing or snatched from view. People in my block rarely spend time outside; they are strangely cemented inside their homes and then their cars. Unless, they own a dog, therefore, forced to walk the animal to poop on someone elses lawn, the sidewalk is mainly vacant. Strangely, my suburban town is not run down but there are some blighted homes, the empty shuttered ones abandoned to banks are still flung among the green lawns and a lovely park. The neighbors are cloistered inside, with the exclusion of the poorer kids, who actually use the park playing Basketball. It was a town that boomed in the 1960s with its whiteness and shopping centers, but those days are just faded Polarids.

The rich have made in roads on the surrounding blocks in my neighborhood, as they binged for a while on the real Estate craze of knocking down the garage size starter homes and planting awkwardly in its place the Mic-Mansions That binge has been thrown up into a reality of banks holding onto their cash and builders moving to other states. I sigh, but feel better that the town is more integrated, less white. Somehow the people have become more secluded in its techno lives. More Ipods,cell-phones and fewer baseball pickup games, and no kids playing in their front lawns with the games of capture the flag or just milling about. Making into my home, I slumped dejectedly into my chair and hear my phone ring. Normal my only calls are charities and insurance sales men or the scam to slam you into another Gas Company. I listen as it goes to my voice mail. “This agent Chad Summers with the FBI and we would like to meet with you about your co-workers from Bluit. Please call us back so that we can set up a meeting.” I grab the phone while he is still leaving the message. “Hello Mr. Summers, I would be glad to be meeting with you.” “Well, we can meet with you this Friday, as we are going to be in your area.” “Okay, no problem Mr. Summers. Glad to help.” “Thank you, and we will be at your house at 10:00 am.” As I hang up I thought maybe they would catch those two bastards who poisoned me. Maybe my luck is turning around; I just need a decent job to turn it all around and clueless supermodel to fall in love with me. I sat down and thought of the FBI and images of Hoover in a dress and the old FBI spying on hippies fill my head. Nixon and his enemy's list seemed like such a petty system for a President, but did fit his character. My mind is floating downstream. Was I supposed to be doing something? Hmm... I think I was supposed to call somebody? Sitting down into the recliner, I mull over the day's events. I turn on the TV and get one those ads. “Now you can ride around on your Hoverround chair and go anywhere.”

I watch and see seniors scooting around even to the edge of the grand canyon. It seems to be a little dangerous letting Gramps or granny who may be losing their marbles take a motorized cart to the precipice. This actually could solve America's Medicare and Social Security shortfalls. Step one, get Grand-pappy to sign over the house and all his retirement money to you. Step two, cut the brake line on the Hoverround, so when Gramps zooms to the edge of the tourist overlook he goes into Rocky the flying squirrel mode. “Ops!” Now hear Grand-pappy shouting “YOU SON OF BITCH!” Now see yourself sitting in the paid off house and liquidating Gramp's retirement funds into a large boat or trips to Las Vegas. You just fixed the economy by spending Gramp's money. I laughed to myself about the condition of old age, scooters, diapers and denial that your kids want to ignore you until you are ready to turn into worm food and income for their spendthrift ways. THEN IT HIT ME. I supposed to call Mr. Weissman's kid, that old guy needs some help. I check the time and it seven thirty pm on a Thursday; the guy should be home. I dial the number and wait. Pick up the phone kid, your dad needs you. Before I give up, he picks up. “ Hello.” “Hello, is this Paul Weissman Junior?” “Yes.” My mind pauses as I know I have to be diplomatic about his Mother. Mother who seems to have many issues, mainly being a bitch and possibly inflicting harm on her husband.” “Well, Paul. I met your Father at the VA, and I noticed that your Mother was under a lot of stress. I think that I could help your father, as your Mother needs some help taking care of him.” “I worked as a caregiver and there are agencies that could provide some help with his needs, including nurses.” There is dead air. I am thinking that I might have crossed the line, but I wait for either the swearing or the phone slam. “Oh Christ, my Mother is a real bitch. She can't manage anything without getting her way.” “What did my Dad say?” “Well, she has been losing her temper and can't take care of him without going postal.” “She was trying to put him in the VA home, but they don't offer that sort of service.” “The Bitch is trying to put him in home already?” “Damn her, she has maids, can't she even make sure Dad's happy.”

“Well, you could hire a caregiver, to come and do the grunt work and be a friend to your father and watch over your father. Medically, you can also get him a nurse to check on him.” I wait to see whether this will help, or does my advice go unheeded just be a bad commercial. Paul was responding with sighs and the occasional “Yes." “Well Bill how do I know it is a good caregiver service?” “Well, check the Internet and make sure they are bonded and insured, then make sure you interview the caregivers in person, and they have had a background check.” “Find the right fit for your father, someone who can relate to his interests.” “Thanks Billy, I do it right away, since my Mom is sort of unhinged, really sort of insane.” “Can I call you if I have any problems or need advice." “Sure, no problem.” I paused feeling good that I did a good deed, knowing that getting old is a hell of a trip. Like a bad acid trip. “Keep in touch, and thanks for talking to me.” I hang up and sigh. What about me? Nobody calls except insurance salesman, charities and the new-wave slammers that guarantee they can lower your credit, cure your baldness and make your pecker bigger, just enroll now. Now, I feel my own wave of depression come over me. I sit back in my recliner and wait for my only friends, the two cats now curl up in my lap, indicating that my real friends are furry. The dog is now sitting at my feet. Jesus, none of the kids have called. They will call when they run out of money, but for now, I am living on a forced retirement, that included a diet of beans and rice. Wrong time to be old, right time to change the wills. Petting my cats I fall into a deep depressive sleep. AND SO it goes... Life goes on, more resumes sent out; jobs applied for in person to a non-receptive audience. I had to go to plan B, investing in the stock market. Excitement showed up that Friday when the FBI showed up right on time. They were looking for my ex-coworkers as customers from Bluit had started noticing that their credit had been wrecked. “Hello Mr. Vonnegut, I am Agent Summer and this is Agent Butler.”

The FBI guys are dressed in identical blue suits. Weirdly, if the FBI always dressed like this, they would be easily spotted by most criminals with exclusion of the really dumb ones that end up on True TV. “Well Mr. Vonnegut we need your help tracking those two down. We need some information on their possible habits or connections with foreign countries.” “No problem, I will tell all I know, but at the end I was not very close to them as they stopped talking to me unless forced into by work.” Images of those criminals flashed in my head. The golden ones who filled the myth that the Asians are geniuses and are trustworthy. They were smart, but being honest was a bigger test when you throw in sex, money and some sort of male ego trip and avoiding being middle age. Agent Summers now pulls out two pictures of my ex-coworkers. Ivar's photo shows his smiling face from his fakebook posting and Ms. Jasmine his mistress photo also is posed in an alluring suggestive outfit that shows that winning seductive methods that locked in Ivar into being a new cyber crook. “We in the agency have found that many social security numbers have been sold to the Russian Mafia, Middle-eastern terrorists and to a Chinese internet firm, for top dollars.” “When we realized, that it seemed to be accessed through a websphere module we sent out our cyber security force to investigate.” “As we closed in we found the script origins to be coming from Bluit in Lincolnshire. We noticed the report about your attempted murder and saw the Video from the police about how those two had attempted to kill you, and you all worked at Bluit.” “Yes, they knew that I had discovered their script and reported it to my Supervisor, Gary Drossi. He ignored me as he was friends with Ivar, and I was just a trainee to the position. The lowest member of the group. ” When I said this the FBI guy's types this into their laptops. “Do you think Drossi's involved?” “No, he is just like most managers there too busy to be bothered with his real problems.”

“Who do think is the leader of this group, Ivar or Ms. Jasmine and do they have some sort of political or terrorist's motives?” It hit me that nobody actually discussed politics at work even after nineeleven except of a couple of Bush devotees, mainly we were all stunned. Ironically, after the terrorist attack the firm moved from being a Benefits company to being an outsourcing company. “Well, Ivar seemed to be interested only in superficial things, but Jasmine did give off some vibes that would indicate that she was more sneaky vibe and did make some anti-America things in a snide manner. She had some indications that she had more ties to Pakistan with photos, and she visited a website that seemed to be involved with a foreign chat room. Most of the time she spent in Ivar office, with the door closed.” Hmmm,,, the agents perk up. “Do they have any knowledge of their past travels?” “Well, Ivar went back to the Philippines a couple of times, and his Father owned a business there which was sort of a sweat shop.” Jasmine never really talked to me, so I am clueless on her travels. She did like to party, drink and listen to hip-hop. The only thing she let slip was that her family was from Pakistan.” The FBI agents are now typing up some of my comments and looking at my house. If they think, I am involved, they should realize that if I had any real money from this crime, I would have least spruced my house up. Knowing my luck, they will think I worked with those two bastards, so I will end up in some sort of prison most likely Gitmo being water boarded for grins. “Well, thank you for being helpful and keep your eyes open. Right now, we are thinking that they are trying to leave the country.” They both got up and handed me their cards. They shook my hand and bade me a good-day.

Months went by, and I survived and adapted to being a hermit. Once you are unemployed you are caste into the cockroach class and nobody who was once your friend remembers you. No calls, no invites, nothing, nada, zilch. Therefore, I adapted into being a hermit. I tried going out just to relieve the zen moment of boredom. Or should it be boredoom. However, being on a tight budget made my excursions to be very limited. Going out, excluded many things, this means going to Movies, attempts at dating the female species, which costs bigger money than is expected in the days of women empowerment. Trying dating for me normally ends in rejection and pain. Somehow the woman's sixth sense is she surmises that you have the stench of unemployment about you, and you go into automatic speed dating record mode. My second attempt with this act of dating ended so quickly, it was just a Nanosecond of date. I gave up so not to afflict anymore emotional damage to my pushcart of a heart. For social contact, I went to the VA for rehab and talked to my comrades. It was nice but sad. I did meet Mr. Weissman again, thankfully with a caregiver and not his crazy wife. We talked, and he was happy; he let it be known that his wife was now never around. Peacefully, for him and it was just him and the caregiver a Philippine transplant that seemed to spend most of his time staring at his cell-phone and chatting to the entire Filipino nation. I worried for the old guy, but anyone would be better than his wife with exclusion of Charlie Mason as his caregiver. It was now making contact with my son, as my daughter only came home to flop at my house when on College break, she still was amazing cranky and had the energy of a tree sloth. Mary would not do a damn thing around the house but sleep until it was time to go out in the party. I told her that her gravy train was going away. She gave the death stare of her Mother. I replied like my Father, “Don't let the door hit you in the ass when you leave.” I was going to find a better method of wasting my money, then her trying to access my credit card. I actually thought about adopting a stripper to replace her, as a stripper should be able to afford rent and maybe have a nicer personality, as their tips are depending on them being shiny and bubbly. Only, having a teenage son living with me stopped my great plan.

The kids left for college stating that they were indigent since my ex-wife claimed them as dependents, therefore, the government gave them Pell's grants. Those dummies. Actually, my son might be my only hope, and my youngest somehow hasn't flunked out, but she is blonde and maybe be getting graded for her curves. I know that is sexist, but when your daughter was in a league with her Mother to kill me, I lost faith in her and have decided only to have faith in women who are not out to get a reality show, or follow the path of the anger of Ann Coulter. Ironically, my youngest daughter never read the book after the age of six. However, Fox news is an option since facts seem meaningless to them, and they normally have a mean blonde on one of their shows. I relaxed that I was stuck with only one college bill; my oldest had followed her friends to Iowa, and like her Mother majored in drinking and men. My lovely ex-wife forged my signature on her college loan for the first year. The bill without interest was thirty thousand dollars to live in a town that majored in corn, boredom and college sports. My lovely oldest daughter was supposed to studying to become a nurse. The only thing she nursed was bottles of booze and boys. BINGO! THIRTY THOUSAND DOLLARS DOWN THE CRAPPER. Now I am getting those threatening letters stating that I owe this money, while the interest is compounding nicely. Following my ex-wife's family tradition of financial screwing me over then disappearing; my oldest, Laurie has entered the barmaid, stripper witness protection program and doesn't answer my phone-calls, emails. I thought about tracking her down and trying to garnish her wages from the nude dancing, but as a Father it would creep me out entering into that unknown hell of seeing one's daughter onstage tossing her tassels around for a bunch of horny farmers and college boys. Depressed from life's kick in the crotch, I went through a series of weird jobs all ending in disaster. The last one was a sales job for a home-improvement company that was using the Mafia method of the forced, high-pressure sales. I swallowed my last shred of ethics, but still hated trying to force people into something that couldn't afford. The other issue was the sales manager was a total butt head, who wanted us to us his magic script, all fourteen pages of it to force the sale. People's attention spans were now just a nanosecond long, so trying to get through a fourteen page script was impossible. Most people would just walk away before you got the first paragraph out. However, the Manager Bob Tillweed insisted that his script was golden like the ten commandants and guaranteed total success. His insanity was when he came in from headquarters and found out you didn't use his script. He would then go into an apoplectic fit. His punishment was to relearn the script, word for word. If you changed one damn word he would make you start all over again. I quit.

Four days later I was rehired, when my office realized that without his dumb script, I was getting better sales then the robot actors who did use the damn script. Things were going badly, as the home-improvement market was disappearing faster than the dodo bird. The magic man Tillweed came back in from headquarter after my boss quit, my Boss was Jim Ward a calm and logical person a rarity in manages. Ward could see that it was all turning to shit so smiled sweetly and gave notice. When Tillweed took over the office, he totally screwed up. Everybody in the office hated the bastard and decided to get even. Since Tillweed was cheap and dumb he replaced the backdoor garage lock with a cheapo lock and sold the good one on Ebay. Bingo! Bango! The neighborhood thugs saw the cheap lock and decided to go in and clean the place out. They stole all the home-improvement supplies, the custom whirlpools, the windows, the van and all the TV's in the place. Now, I thought this would be the end of Bob Tillweed, but instead of firing, the dumb bastard; he got a promotion to head up the entire marketing enterprise for this shitbird outfit. The crap did hit the fan, once this schmuck had more power as he closed both the Illinois and Wisconsin sales unit and kept Ohio open. Unemployed once again. Yippee! I was just sitting in my recliner feeling sorry for myself, and then it hit me. That damn lotto ticket, I never checked. I normally just check it and throw it away. I never win diddly squat. Hmmm, I go online to check the lotto numbers for that date. Son of Bitch, wait. It can't be? Double checking those numbers 22,32,34,36,56, and the powerball number 33. I won! I WON! SON OF A BITCH! I WON! How do I claim my money? I search the ticket and here it is for over a million dollars. Call the Illinois Lottery Claims Department. I dial the number, Yes, this is it. The clerk answers and says to bring the winning ticket and my id, with the social security number and verification of id and address. “Holy Crap.” “Thank you.” It was weird, but once I completed all the damn paper work in Chicago and paid the taxes it was both a relief and strain combined. Well, not to brag but I was set now. No more worrying about work, or eating beans and rice forever and ever. I was still always looking behind my shoulder, as the previous attempts on my life made me very gun shy around the average human.

I took the lump sum, since my time was limited. For safety sake, I never mentioned that I won the Lotto, or moved into a giant mansion or spent lavishly. My next step was to see my Lawyer and accountant and protect myself, so I set my new-found wealth in a conservative account, and like the richest do to protect what I could from taxes. I also changed my will to exclude both my daughters from getting a penny. My Son was set up with a trust and the house if kept, employed and took care of the cats and the house. He was not allowed to have access to all the money at once. He would not be told of the money until my death. All my cousins were cut out the ones in Sweden, and the ones that lived in unknown places. Ironically, my Cousin, Ricky who had written me in Vietnam and stayed in a devoted Mormon and married a Mormon girl, was dead. Things how gotten weird, as the Mormon girl he married kept on adopting kids and having kids, sort of like Marie Osmond combined with Angela Jolie. The one big problem is that Rick didn't have the needed income to support all these little tikes. Rick at the time turned to his church, but they didn't help, so he thought my Father could help get him set up in gas station. Sadly, my Dad's career in the oil business was fizzling away. I still remember my old man saying to him that he no longer had the clout. A month later after a couple of failed attempts he managed to hang himself. Those cousins later came into money after my Grandfather died, but they blew through the money rather quickly. They were serious moochers who drank and fritter money away as if they were Paris Hilton, so made sure to lose contact with them forever. Money and people are dangerous combination, so I was on my toes. Did I know anyone who I consider to be good to me? There was no one whom I considered a friend in my time of need, but like Francis of Ass is, I developed a fondness for animals. I took a portion of my monies and donated that toward a local animal shelter. As a Veteran I started giving to Veteran groups who helped the warriors get back on their feet.

I started by bringing gifts to the veterans at the VA hospital, but never let on that I had come into money. Now, with the money I felt free, but still in the back of my mind I was always on guard for not becoming a victim. I started sprucing up the house and trying to pick a place to go on vacation.

POSTSCRIPT: Vincent Vonnegut I, Vincent Vonnegut had been studying architecture in college when I received a call from the Lake County police that my Father had been murdered. It was strange as the fact that I had seen my Mother's last attempt to kill him, but was now dead. I didn't realize the events of his work life and how he had been evolved with the FBI tracking down the thieves stealing social secret numbers. He had sent me a letter with the story of his discovery of the script, his coworkers that were involved in the theft and his attempted murder. I assumed he had gone mad about dealing with Mom, or that he had succumbed to his imagination for writing stories that wouldn't be believable to sell. He sent me this story, as he noted being unemployed left him the free time to write this all down. This is a strange event, but my Father left me this story in case of his death. I know that this is a true story, as far as I witnessed my Mother's goal of killing him. I did see my Father suffer through her con-games and saw his disillusionment in my sisters. The Will stated that I got this trust, but he in his wisdom or maybe to screw me; it doesn't allow me access to the cash all at once. His rules show how pissed he was at my sisters, as they are not allowed in the house or ever to get any of the money from the will. Pops requested that I e-publish this story, but not to waste any money tracking down an agent, since he thought the story did contain the magic vampires, or kinky sex necessary to make it popular. For me to get my Monthly stipend, I have to complete the tasks assigned in the Will which is in the hands of the executor. The rules state that I am supposed to get a job or start a career or start business for money to keep coming, so I can't relax. Weirdly, Dad last codicil in the Will is that if I fail or die, all the money goes to an animal shelter, as he states animals are normally always nice, people not so much. Before I could go back to college, the FBI showed up with the security footage from Dad's murder. The old man was happy and handing out little gifts to the staff and some veterans waiting in line. Once he walked toward the elevator that is when it happened, a nurse a rather large woman. Oriental, came up to him while his hands were on his packages, and when the elevator door was open, she gave him a hockey hip check Dad tried to grasp the sides, but lost his balance and fell from the view of the cameras. Per the FBI, the elevator was rigged not to bring the actual car up so Pops fell to his death, down the empty shaft and do his death. His killer ran out the front door and into a car that had been waiting next to the front door.

The FBI said that most likely it was a contract of that guy Ivar and his girlfriend Jasmine. It was weird, but I had met Ivar once when my Dad was his boss he brought over Christmas gifts one Christmas. During the time, the FBI was giving me the details, they said that Ivar and his girlfriend were most likely hiding out in the Philippines, as it was easy to get lost with all the islands. Once they find them; they are going to extradite them back to the USA. They told me to keep on my toes, which is just great since nobody kept Pops alive, boy did he have shit for luck, winning the Lotto then getting pushed down the elevator shaft. Well, it is just me at the cats and the dog, but my youngest sister Mary tries to get back in the house. Dad was right about her. She is out of luck. I did take the old man's last piece of advice they won't know about the money. Since my sisters aren't the bookish types, I have no fear that they will read this story and discover that I am rich. AND SO IT GOES, MUST HAVE BEEN THE RIGHT PLACE AT THE WRONG TIME. GOOD-BYE DAD, YOUR ASHES ARE SPREAD IN THE BACKYARD. I played your Dr. John Cd per your request: “I been in the right place, but it must have been the wrong time. I'd have said the right thing, but I must have used the wrong line. I been in the right trip, but I must have used the wrong car. My head was in a bad place, and I'm wondering what it's good for. I been the right place, but it must have been the wrong time. My head was in a bad place, but I'm having such a good time.?”