Wonderful. I’m going to have to sit listening in my living room, while that alcoholic, brain scattered man sits in my kitchen with MY husband talking about the war. Planning out his book. Making it sound like they were a bunch of heroic, grown, mature men. That is just ABSURD! They were only children for God’s sake. They were no more mature than my babies sleeping upstairs in their beds. I can’t imagine the horror that those poor boys had to endure, and he wants to write a all glamorous book about it! I can’t take it anymore. I have to stop this. I can’t read another one of these Frank Sinatra John Wayne war loving books. I need a coke.
What is going on in my life right now?! Why is my father acting like this? Has he lost his mind, or is this some ploy for attention? Writing letters to the newspaper. Talking about aliens from Tralfamadore? His Friends, the Trafalmadorians? I knew that he was having a rough time but this is too much. He’s making our family look bad. I’m going to have to talk to his colleages at the Optometry office. He shouldn’t be around patients the way he’s acting, lord, I don’t even want to think about what will happen when he starts pushing his alien theories on his patients. Who will listen to an optometrist, who supposedly fixes vision and makes everyone see things clearly, that sees aliens and non-existent planets? I’m going to have to send him off somewhere.
This would be the perfect idea for a book. This man, Billy Pilgrim. What an interesting man. This anniversary party was a great idea. That lady, Maggie, is such a gullible character. She’s a bit boring, but I could look past that. I can make fun with her for sure. But back to Billy. I mean what did he see? He turned ten different shades of white. Just by listening to a song? He just about passed out cold. I wish he’d talk to me, I’m clearly an expert on these things. I can just see the outline of my newest book now. Maybe people will actually read this one. Maybe not, most people don’t particularly care for stories of strange men, with hallucinations of aliens and different planets.
He was there? Yeah, right. This annoying man is driving me crazy. He is weak. I wish they’d just let him die. He doesn’t understand that I am going to write a real live historical novel about Dresden. He’s wrecking my focus. Wait a minute. What if he isn’t a crazy, echoliac nut case? What if he really was there? That could add so much to my book! Someone who was actually there, a personal account! What more history is there? Someone who will actually tell me what happened and how it was to live in that moment and still be here to tell about it! But he doesn’t want to talk about it. I must forget I ever thought this. I can’t let him know I actually considered believing him. I’m better than him, and he needs to remember this. So it goes.
