Here is an excerpt from Playground — in rereading it for the first time in 25 years, it occurs to me that I must have been reading a lot of Vonnegut at the time.
Several years ago a young woman was walking by Columbia University when a small piece of the building suddenly became dislodged and hurtled through the air towards the ground, striking the woman on the head and killing her instantly. God only knows what her last words were. She might have been thinking about almost anything at the time, but more than likely, she was probably not contemplating the possibility that at any moment a small chunk of Columbia University would fall out of the sky and hit her on the head.
If such a thing were ever to happen to me, on the other hand, there is a good chance that in that last moment, just prior to being struck, I might be thinking about just such a possibility, because ever since I read about what happened to that woman, I find myself thinking about it all the time, glancing up at buildings constantly.
That woman’s death is classified as “accidental” in the official records, as distinct from those deaths which result from violent crimes, fatal diseases, suicides and “natural causes.” Natural causes are when a person is much too old to have any fun being alive any more, yet stubbornly refuses to contract a terminal illness. They often die in their sleep. Most people assume that dying in one’s sleep is a better way to die than being strangled by a nylon stocking, or any of the other less peaceful ways in which a human life can abruptly terminate itself.
Recent studies have indicated, however, that whenever anybody dies, no matter how they do it, their spirit drifts up a a beautiful, long, blue tunnel, cheered on by all their dead friends and relatives. At the end of the tunnel is an unbearably precious light into which, if they are smart, they will dissolve themselves and disappear forever. This would seem to imply, however, that all those dead friends and relatives who had lined the inside of the blue tunnel had either been apparitions — projections of the recently deceased’s imaination — or else they had all been too afraid to dissolve into the light, choosing instead to hang around in the blue tunnel and wait for their friends.
The interesting thing about the young woman hit by the flying piece of Columba University, is that it was sort of a suicide in reverse. Many suicides — including a very dear friend of mine — leap from high buildings and are killed when they strike the pavement. Very rarely does the pavement leap from a high building and strike the person. It has also been reported, by people who have fallen from high places and miraculously survived, that one is treated on the way down to a rapid series of images which seem to recount one’s entire life.
When I heard about the lady at Columbia, I couldn’t help thinking that if pieces of building had any consciousness in them, as some people would most certainly suggest — the same people who claim to hear tomato skins screaming in pain as they are pierced by a knife, just prior to becoming part of someone’s lettuce and tomato salad — then that piece of building might have witnessed an extraordinary series of images as it fell to the ground: the original, cool feeling of frest cement coagulating on its belly, the smell of beer on the bricklayer’s breath, and perhaps a glimpse of the secretary in the Dean of the Business School’s outer office, one of her legs swinging rhythmically and continuously over the other.
But the point is that people often seem to die when they least expect it. In the case of the young woman at Columbia, I’m sure she never suspected the day before it happened that when she had turned to a classmate after an excruciatingly boring class and remarked, “This place is killing me,” that in fact, it would. The class was called “Italian Political and Social Thought Since the Unification,” and if the falling brick hadn’t killed her, the class probably would have. Her untimely death had an enormous impact on me.
It made me realize that at any moment, whatever I happen to be saying may turn out to be my last words. This gives one pause to think; for awhile I went through a period where my every utterance was loaded with significance, just in case. Philip, my infinitely patient roommate, had to put up with daily scenes like the following:
“Morning, Norbert,” he might say, “I gotta do a load of laundry… how’re you doing?”
“When you say ‘How am I doing, are you referring to the small ‘I’ in the sense of my personal ego, or are you in fact addressing that realm of my being which is timeless, which is in fact one with all consciousness, with the highter Self of all other seemingly individual ‘I’s?”
“Can I let you know later?”
I do not think I am overly preoccupied with the possibility of instant, unexpected death; it is true, however, that I never buy more than one subway token at a tinme, even though I ride the damn thing 15 or 20 times a week. And it is also true that I do seem to have a bit of difficulty with planning anything in advance:
“What do you want to do about dinner tonight?” Philip might ask me, 5:30 in the afternoon.
“Well, uh, how soon do you need to know? Do you need a commitment from me?”
“I figured we’d eat at around 6 like we usually do, and I figure it will take about 20 minutes to get it together, so if you could let me know in five or ten minutes, I think we’ll be in good shape.”
“Oh terrific, no problem,” I reply, greatly relieved at the extension. “Great, yeah, we’ll talk in a little while. See you later… you take care of yourself, now.”
Poor Philip is left scratching his head after nearly all of our interactions each day. But I worry about my friends, stepping so lightly through Time as if they are going to live forever. Take Weissbaum, one of my best buddies. The man is constantly computing Gaylord Perry’s earned-run average. That’s dangerous. Just as the flying building is about to do him in, I can imagine him saying, “If he can shut out the Braves Monday night, it will put him at 3.28 for the season…” Boom! And that would be it on Weissbaum.
See it’s just that I’m very, very uncomfortable with the idea of dissolving back in the unbearably precious light without having somehow used myself up. I don’t want to float down the beautiful, long, blue tunnel feeling like I never gave life my best shot, that there were whole parts of me that I hadn’t even begun to use up.
It’s a little like when you are planning a vacation and you do your very best to arrange your meals the last few days you are at home in such a way as to finish everything in the refrigerator that would go bad — the milk, for example. Staples, like ketchup, grated parmesan cheese, you don’t worry about. The bread you can freeze. But I don’t want to die with a quart of milk sitting in my refrigerator.
Yet there is only so much time in a life, and one simply cannot do more than a few things well. We must let certain things slide. I would like to go hot air ballooning, for example. But I am willing to die without ever once riding in a hot air balloon, although that would be a shame. I already know, however, that the most I could ever hope for is one or perhaps two afternoon rides in a hot air balloon, for I certainly do not have the time to master hot air ballooning, as some people do. There are people who know all about hot air balloons. How they work, how to fly them, the more technical principles of helium, the subtle nuances of the wind and air currents. On such a person’s tombstone, or in their obituary, it will most definitely say, “He (or she) was a hot air balloonist.”
There are a remarkable number of things just like this. Some of the things which I have greatly enjoyed during my life, but which will most likely never be mentioned in my obituary, are whizzing down the Aqua-Slide in Long Branch, New Jersey, and hitting fungos to my friend Weissbaum, the baseball fanatic.
“Fungos” is the basball term for long, fly balls which one person hits with a bat and another person catches, an activity, amazingly enough, whichh is actually a lot of fun. It is a pleasure which is strictly human, although it is true that seals, too, seem to get a kick out of tossing balls back and forth and balancing them on their noses. Baseball players, of course, and certainly Weissbaum and I, do not ever balance baseballs on our noses, and so perhaps that is a pleasure which is strictly seal. There are people in circuses however, who do, in fact, seem to experience extraordinary pleasure from the balancing of not only balls on their noses, but spinning plates, chairs, and even other people. These individuals will probably parade through the beautiful, long, blue tunnel balancing torches, and be quite content and proud: in their case, the milk of their life was to balance things on their noses, and they fulfilled that destiny with grace and dignity.
If the flying building did get me tomorrow, I’m not exactly sure what would be said about me. I have been living with this extraordinary dread in my very heart and soul that my milk is turning. The present work is an attempt to save myself. If Columbia University collapses on my head tomorrow, these are my last words.
