The Locksmith Museum.
I am sitting across from four Creoles, one woman and three men. All are in their late sixties, as I estimate. I may be wrong. I usually am. They seem to be doing okay. I mean that in every way.
On the other side of me is Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.’s doppelgänger. It cannot be Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. because Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. is dead.
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. is dead, I tell you.
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. smoked a lot of cigarettes and it gave him the kind of voice that is its own testimony to the ravages of hot particular smoke on the soft tissues of human vocal chords. If Lauren Bacall were a man, she would have sounded like Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
This guy’s voice doesn't sound like Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. This guy, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.’s doppelgänger, he has a voice more like Lauren Bacall. It is kind of eerie. It is another day in Mid-City New Orleans.
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.’s doppelgänger wants to talk me. He keeps making eye contact and idle chitchat. I remain polite yet aloof. I am not in a mood to discuss literature or, that most fascinating subject of all, myself. I just want to read today’s Wall Street Journal in peace. Every day is a variation on a theme.
Yes, it is hot today. 92 degrees. HEAT ADVISORY! 63% humidity, so, not oppressively hot. According to whoever calculates the heat index, it feels like 103 degrees.
I thrive in the weather. Always the opposite of everyone else.
I am the man in a suit.
Finally, this guy who looks like Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. is gone. I am really getting tired of typing Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. over and over again. That’s a lot of characters. Ah, well. Ars longa, vita brevis.
I am going to talk about what I really did today, not just what is going on now. I visited a street named after Hell and I went to a locksmith’s museum. What fun. Every day is a tiny adventure.