Kurt Vonnegut: Breakfast of Champions

“I would remember that he was the best employer in town,” said Francine. This was true. Dwayne paid high wages. He had profit- sharing and Christmas bonuses at the end of every year. He was the first automobile dealer in his part of the State to offer his employees Blue Cross-Blue Shield, which was health insurance. He had a retirement plan which was superior to every retirement plan in the city with the exception of the one at Barrytron. His office door was always open to any employee who had troubles to discuss, whether they had to do with the automobile business or not.

For instance, on the day he insulted Harry’s clothing, he also spent two hours with Vernon Garr, discussing the hallucinations Vernon’s wife was having. “She sees things that aren’t there,” said Vernon.

“She needs rest, Vern,” said Dwayne.

“Maybe I’m going crazy, too,” said Vernon. “Christ, I go home and I talk for hours to my fucking dog.”

“That makes two of us,” said Dwayne.

Here is the scene between Harry and Dwayne which upset Harry so much:

Harry went into Dwayne’s office right after Vernon left. He expected no trouble, because he had never had any serious trouble with Dwayne.

“How’s my old combat buddy today?” he said to Dwayne.

“As good as can be expected,” said Dwayne. “Anything special bothering you?”

“No,” said Harry.

“Vern’s wife thinks Vern is trying to turn her brains into plutonium,” said Dwayne.

“What’s plutonium?” said Harry, and so on. They rambled along, and Harry made up a problem for himself just to keep the conversation lively. He said he was sad sometimes that he had no children. “But I’m glad in a way, too,” he went on. “I mean, why should I contribute to overpopulation?”

Dwayne didn’t say anything.

“Maybe we should have adopted one,” said Harry, “but it’s too late now. And the old lady and me—we have a good time just horsing around with ourselves. What do we need a kid for?”

It was after the mention of adoption that Dwayne blew up. He himself had been adopted—by a couple who had moved to Midland City from West Virginia in order to make big money as factory workers in the First World War. Dwayne’s real mother was a spinster school teacher who wrote sentimental poetry and claimed to be descended from Richard the Lion-Hearted, who was a king. His real father was an itinerant typesetter, who seduced his mother by setting her poems in type. He didn’t sneak them into a newspaper or anything. It was enough for her that they were set in type.

She was a defective child-bearing machine. She destroyed herself automatically while giving birth to Dwayne. The printer disappeared.

He was a disappearing machine.

It may be that the subject of adoption caused an unfortunate chemical reaction in Dwayne’s head. At any rate, Dwayne suddenly snarled this at Harry: “Harry, why don’t you get a bunch of cotton waste from Vern Garr, soak it in Blue Sunoco, and burn up your fucking wardrobe? You

make me feel like I’m at Watson Brothers." Watson Brothers was the name of the funeral parlor for white people who were at least moderately well-to-do. Blue Sunoco was a brand of gasoline.

Harry was startled, and then pain set in. Dwayne had never said anything about his clothes in all the years he’d known him. The clothes were conservative and neat, in Harry’s opinion. His shirts were white. His ties were black or navy blue. His suits were gray or dark blue. His shoes and socks were black.

“Listen, Harry,” said Dwayne, and his expression was mean,

“Hawaiian Week is coming up, and I’m absolutely serious: burn your clothes and get new ones, or apply for work at Watson Brothers. Have yourself embalmed while you’re at it.”

Harry couldn’t do anything but let his mouth hang open. The Hawaiian Week Dwayne had mentioned was a sales promotion scheme which involved making the agency look as much like the Hawaiian Islands as possible. People who bought new or used cars, or had repairs done in excess of five hundred dollars during the week would be entered automatically in a lottery. Three lucky people would each win a free, all-expenses-paid trip to Las Vegas and San Francisco and then Hawaii for a party of two.

“I don’t mind that you have the name of a Buick, Harry, when you’re supposed to be selling Pontiacs—” Dwayne went on. He was referring to the fact that the Buick division of General Motors put out a model called the Le Sabre. “You can’t help that.” Dwayne now patted the top of his desk softly. This was somehow more menacing than if he had pounded the desk with his fist. “But there are a hell of a lot of things you can change, Harry. There’s a long weekend coming up. I expect to see some big changes in you when I come to work on Tuesday morning.”

The weekend was extra-long because the coming Monday was a national holiday, Veterans’ Day. It was in honor of people who had served their country in uniform.

“When we started selling Pontiacs, Harry,” said Dwayne, “the car was sensible transportation for school teachers and grandmothers and maiden aunts.” This was true. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Harry, but the Pontiac has now become a glamorous, youthful adventure for

people who want a kick out of life! And you dress and act like this was a mortuary! Look at yourself in a mirror, Harry, and ask yourself, ‘Who could ever associate a man like this with a Pontiac?’”

Harry LeSabre was too choked up to point out to Dwayne that, no matter what he looked like, he was generally acknowledged to be one of the most effective sales managers for Pontiac not only in the State, but in the entire Middle West. Pontiac was the best-selling automobile in the Midland City area, despite the fact that it was not a low-price car. It was a medium-price car.

Dwayne Hoover told poor Harry LeSabre that the Hawaiian Festival, only a long weekend away, was Harry’s golden opportunity to loosen up, to have some fun, to encourage other people to have some fun, too.

“Harry,” said Dwayne. “I have some news for you: modern science has given us a whole lot of wonderful new colors, with strange, exciting names like red!, orange!, green!, and pink!, Harry. We’re not stuck any more with just black, gray and white! Isn’t that good news, Harry? And the State Legislature has just announced that it is no longer a crime to smile during working hours, Harry, and I have the personal promise of the Governor that never again will anybody be sent to the Sexual Offenders’ Wing of the Adult Correctional Institution for telling a joke!”

Harry LeSabre might have weathered all this with only minor damage, if only Harry hadn’t been a secret transvestite. On weekends he liked to dress up in women’s clothing, and not drab clothing, either. Harry and his wife would pull down the window blinds, and Harry would turn into a bird of paradise.

Nobody but Harry’s wife knew his secret.

When Dwayne razzed him about the clothes he wore to work, and then mentioned the Sexual Offenders’ Wing of the Adult Correctional Institution at Shepherdstown, Harry had to suspect that his secret was out. And it wasn’t merely a comical secret, either. Harry could be arrested for what he did on weekends. He could be fined up to three thousand dollars and sentenced to as much as five years at hard labor in the Sexual Offenders’ Wing of the Adult Correctional Institution at Shepherdstown.

So poor Harry spent a wretched Veterans’ Day weekend after that. But Dwayne spent a worse one.

Here is what the last night of that weekend was like for Dwayne: his bad chemicals rolled him out of bed. They made him dress as though there were some sort of emergency with which he had to deal. This was in the wee hours. Veterans’ Day had ended at the stroke of twelve.