Kurt Vonnegut died after a fall that resulted in permanent brain damage that left him vegetative. But he didn't die immediately. Rather, he spent the weeks in an undetectable part of himself debating the very strange offer he received.
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After his fall, there was a very sickening thud and everything suddenly faded to black, then straight to white and he was somewhere else. He realized he was looking straight into a bright light and his head was inclined. He turned his head to the side and looked around. He was in a large strip mall parking lot. It was night. The stores were all shut and nondescript and the lot had large stadium type lights to keep the lot safe from prowlers and the like. He had been staring up at one. He didn't know why he had been doing this; one moment he was at home in New York and took a spill, the next he was..wherever here was. He felt strange too. For one, he didn't feel any of the nerve screaming pain he felt moments ago. Also, he didn't feel anywhere near as tired or achy as he normally did. He looked down at his hands and was shocked. There were no liver spots! They were the hands of a much younger hand. He was wearing a trench coat, simple slacks and dress shoes. After a moment, he realized he was also wearing sunglasses.
"What the heck am I doing?," he said to himself. Out loud. He looked at his hand again. Still the same, younger hand. He looked around again. Emptiness all around. Except..he saw the shape of a person, old and stooped over, making his way towards him. He started off in that direction, calling out, "Hello there. Where might we be?"
The figure raised his head, indicating he'd heard him, but said nothing in response. The closer he got, the more Vonnegut could hear him mumbling to himself inaudibly. When they were almost face to face, he said "We might be in the Amazon basin, seeing the forest destroyed to make room for hamburger meat. We might be in Egypt, on our way to see the pyramids of Giza. We even might be trying to make our dreams come true instead of living our nightmares. But we aren't doing any of those. We are in Midland City."
Vonnegut was immobile with shock. The figure in front of him was an older, shabbier dressed man. He looked and sounded identical to his father as an old man.
"D..Dad?!?" he stuttered out.
The man grimaced slightly.
"I'm not your father. I had a son once. You killed him. I look like your father because you wanted me to, because finally you needed me to."
Vonnegut might have been surprised to be confronted by his creation Kilgore Trout, but by this point he had exhausted all his incredulity by now and simply accepted the situation as it came at him. His (probably) didn't lie to him, and it no was stranger than anything else up until now. He was probably hallucinating in a pain-induced stupor. But a thought occurred to him.
"But I killed you! You died after Timequake!"
A dismissive wave and clearing of the throat from Trout.
"We're all dead from the moment we're born," he said. "In any case, I'm not dead yet."
"But, why not? And you said we're in Midland city? I made that place up! Where is this?"
"The asshole of the mid west, aka Midland city. Look, do you remember giving me free will all those years ago?"
"Certainly."
"Well, what you did then was unprecedented in the history of God, the devil and everything. Not only did you make me an actualized individual, you made yourself a part of the work. So I decided to return the favor. Since I'm a part of you, and you me, I could bring you into the fiction, into Midland City. You're nearing the end, kiddo. Your fading to black and fast after the fall you took. I brought you here and am going to set you free to live on in this place with all your madness and baggage and everything. But unlike you, I am offering you a choice. Stay here and see what lies beyond the horizon in your newly 50 year old body or just let it all end."
"Why am I do I have to be 50? Why not 20 or 30?"
"You're much better off with a little wisdom under your belt, believe me. But anyway you wrote yourself as 50, so 50 it is."
"Do I get to think about it?"
"Think! When did anybody in our gibbering monkey species ever think? Do what you want and let me know."
Vonnegut started to walk away then, not sure if he believed any of what he'd been told. He figured he could always take a look around and see the truth for himself. What did he have to lose?
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Vonnegut lay in a coma state for several weeks. Finally, one way or another, he came to a decision and left us behind here. But what did he choose? Oblivion or a kind of eternal purgatory. I don't know for sure. But every time I look at that last image of Vonnegut in Breakfast Of Champions, a single tear in his eye, and I think I know the answer.
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