Jailbird

by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

It turned out that he had been telling stories all morning in court, too. The judge was fascinated, and almost everybody else in court was, too—presumably by such unselfish high adventures. The judge had encouraged Hapgood, I gathered, to go on and on. Labor history was pornography of a sort in those days, and even more so in these days. In public schools and in the homes of nice people it was and remains pretty much taboo to tell tales of labor’s sufferings and derring-do. I remember the name of the judge. It was Claycomb. I am able to remember it so easily because I had been a high-school classmate of the judge’s son, “Moon.” Moon Claycomb’s father, according to Powers Hapgood, asked him this final question just before lunch: “Mr. Hapgood,” he said, “why would a man from such a distinguished family and with such a fine education choose to live as you do?” “Why?” said Hapgood, according to Hapgood. “Because of the Sermon on the Mount, sir.”

allowing the Allied Armies to pour at high speed disguised as a man, though. “I sometimes think that the custodian could have been Mrs. Jack Graham, though.

“I remember the hugs,” she said. “I remember you said you loved me. No man had ever said that to me before. My mother used to say it to me a lot—before she died.” I was starting to cry again. “I know you never meant it,” she said. “I did, I did,” I protested. “Oh, my God—I did.” “It’s all right,” she said. “You couldn’t help it that you were born without a heart. At least you tried to believe what the people with hearts believed—so you were a good man just the same.”

Perhaps my favorite bit of Vonnegut.