November 23: Velvet Draperies, Happy Thanksgiving, Many Directions

So Billy read it.  He knew where Montana Wildhack really was, of course.  She was back on Tralfamadore, taking care of the baby, but the magazine, which was called Midnight Pussycats, promised that she was wearing a cement overcoat under thirty fathoms of saltwater in San Pedro Bay.

So it goes.  

Billy wanted to laugh.  The magazine, which was published for lonesome men to jerk off to, ran the story so it could print pictures taken from blue movies which Montana had made as a teen-ager.  Billy did not look closely at these.  They were grainy things, soot and chalk.  They could have been anybody.

Billy was again directed to the back of the store, and he went this time.  A jaded sailor stepped away from a movie machine while the film was still running.  Billy looked in, and there was Montana Wildhack lone on a bed, peeling a banana.  The picture clicked off.  Billy did not want to see what happened next, and a clerk importuned him to come over and see some really hot stuff they kept under the counter for connoisseurs.

Billy was mildly curious as to what could possibly have been kept hidden in such a place.  The clerk leered and showed him.  It was a photograph of a woman and a Shetland pony.  They were attempting to have sexual intercourse between two Doric columns, in front of velvet draperies, which were fringed with deedlee-balls.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Until I started transcribing this section of Slaughterhouse, I had completely forgotten about these little passages about the adult bookstore.  So, yeah.  Certainly, Billy doesn't really have any interest in what is being sold.  He was drawn inside by the Kilgore Trout novels, and he picked up an old porn magazine because Montana Wildhack was on the cover.  Ditto the movie machine in the back of the store.  Again, it's all about the different parts of Billy's life connecting in one particular place.

I just returned from Thanksgiving dinner at my sister-in-law's house.  Turkey and mashed potatoes and dressing (with cudighi sausage) and sweet potato casserole and corn, among other things.  It had a little of everything, and it was delicious.  And, of course, there was a whole bunch of family.  Lots of laughter and jokes, some a little inappropriate.  They are, after all, family.  There are always inappropriate jokes.

My wife and I have been married for 22 years.  We dated for five years before that.  So, I have been a part of my wife's family for close to 30 years.  To steal a line from Citizen Kane, I know where all the bodies are buried.  In some ways, these holiday dinners are like Billy Pilgrim's life--all these different memories and people intersecting and manifesting.  Of course, there was no pornography involved, as far as I know.

Last night's Thanksgiving meltdown has passed.  I have resigned myself to the fact that my December is going to be insane, with events and readings piled on parties and workshops.  I can't avoid it.  This weekend, some time, my father is going to be transferred to a local nursing home.  Hopefully, one that is close by.  In a few minutes, my sister and brother will be back from Grand Rapids, where my brother had an external defibrillator implanted.

Am I feeling thankful?  I suppose so.  My father will be well taken care of.  My brother is still kicking, with a little less force than before.  My kids are healthy.  Ditto my wife--and she's getting healthier all the time.  And I'm doing well at work.  Teaching award.  Poet Laureate.  Writing.

His life might be going in many directions, but Saint Marty is a blessed man.