I love Kurt Vonnegut — maybe a little too much.

 

If you haven’t read him, give it a try. 

 

I flew back to Denver from San Francisco to meet a guy who worked at a brewery called Wynkoop because Vonnegut left some posters and stickers there, down in a basemanet.

 

Obsessed? Maybe. I’ll let you decide.

 

I Don't feel the need to explain why to anyone but myself.  

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So, before I tell you this story, here's the passage I remembered, by a writer much better than me: 

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"Listen: Only three weeks ago at this writing, on September 6th, 1996, Joe and I opened a show of twenty-six of our prints in the 1/1 Gallery in Denver, Colorado. A local microbrewery, Wynkoop, bottled a special beer for the occasion. The label was one of my self-portraits. The name of the beer was Kurt's Mile-High Malt.

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You think that wasn't fun?

 

Try this: The beer, at my suggestion, was lightly flavored with coffee.

 

What was so great about that?

 

It tasted really good, for one thing, but it was also an homage to my maternal grandfather Albert Lieber, who was a brewer until he was put out of business by Prohibition in 1920.

 

The secret ingredient in the beer that won a Gold Medal for the Indianapolis Brewery at the Paris Exposition of 1889 was coffee! Ting-a-ling!

 

That still wasn't enough fun out there in Denver?

 

OK, how about the fact that the name of the owner of the Wynkoop Brewing Company, a guy about Joe's age, was John Hickenlooper?

 

So what?

 

Only this: When I went to Cornell University to become a chemist fiftysix years ago, I was made a fraternity brother of a man named John Hickenlooper. Ting-a-ling?"

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Timequake, Kurt Vonnegut

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So, the Vonnegut Call

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It started with a one-way ticket from England to the States. I won’t explain the why of that either. That's my business, not yours. There was no plan—just the urge to explore.

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I ended up in San Francisco, in a dazzling trans bar (someone I met in Key West invited me - thats another story), doing karaoke with a beautiful man in a velvet jacket.

 

But right in the middle of it, my phone rang. Denver area code. A voice I didn’t recognise. An accent I couldn’t place.

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“Is that Sarah?”

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“Yeah... who’s this?”

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He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he asked,

 

“You got in touch about Vonnegut? That right?”

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I blinked. I hadn’t thought about that in weeks. A random email I’d sent late one night, not assuming I would hear anything back.

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“Yeah, I did,” I said, cautiously.

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“I’m from Wynkoop. The brewery? No one’s asked about that in a long time. Are you still around? You want to talk?”

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I stepped out of the bar, the music and lights still pulsing behind me. I hesitated.

 

“I’m still in the U.S. Took the Amtrak west. I’m in San Francisco now.”

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He paused too. The call had the odd awkwardness of two strangers talking about something neither quite understood.

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He recognised my accent.

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“You’re English, right? When do you fly back?”

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“Haven’t decided.”

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“Well,” he said slowly,

 

“We’ve got some stuff in the basement.

 

My dad knew Kurt. It used to be his bar.

 

I run it now. Like I said, no one’s asked about any of that in a long time, but my dad was proud of it. I was just a kid back then. Never read the book myself.

 

But if you want to come by, I’ll give you the tour.”

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I thought about my dwindling bank balance. The general confusion of the situation. Was it worth flying across the country for a few dusty boxes in a brewery basement?

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I decided it was.

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I told him I’d book a flight and be there tomorrow.

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I never regretted it.

 

The original poster from the beer launch hangs framed in my hallway. There’s a bumper sticker on my fridge.

 

No one ever asks about them, and that’s fine.

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They mean everything to me.

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