T A B L E_ T A L K

Publish, perish -- or workshop: Is an MFA useful training or diversion? Contribute your 2 cents in the Education area of Table Talk

How-to, why-not and what-for -- find it all at barnesandnoble.com Search by:  Keyword Title Author

R E C E N T L Y

Barhopping with the Bud Girls
By James Hibberd
Salon Exclusive: After five years of hand-wringing about binge drinking, an investigation reveals just how low some beer distributors will go to saturate the college market
(02/01/99)

Think fast and lie
By Katy Shrout
One recent graduate offers advice for confused college seniors facing the end
(01/29/99)

Saturday night fever
By Mindy Hung
Stomach flu, a batch of pot brownies and the '60s drug myth: Why one woman can't seem to take any of it seriously
(01/27/99)

Camille on Campus
By Camille Paglia
Warning! Mentorship land mine ahead!
(01/27/99)

The Big Lie
By Michael O'Donovan-Anderson
Why have today's students become a bunch of grade-grubbing morons?
(01/25/99)

BROWSE THE
IVORY TOWER
ARCHIVE

STALKING KURT VONNEGUT | PAGE 1, 2, 3
- - - - - - - - - -

My legs stopped moving, my head turned in the old man's direction. I peered closer to make sure it was him. Almost certain it was, I walked up beside him, close enough that he looked up at me from behind the smoke screen fluttering between us.

"Umm, uhh, uhh." I never stammer over my words. Never. "Are you, uhh, are you Kurt Vonnegut?"

"Yes." He said it as plainly and coldly as if he were a court witness and I the prosecutor who'd delivered the question.

But it was him. Confirmation. And with that a mental floodgate was opened, unleashing a dam of neediness: I had questions, I had compliments, I desperately wanted advice.

"Wow." I actually said Wow. "You are truly my favorite author of all time. Do you mind if I sit down next to you for a minute?" I was already crouching down toward the bench. He was older than I had imagined him. And his face was sad, which didn't surprise me. His life has been replete with struggle and grief. His countenance just happens to tell his life story more than others.

"No, no," he said in a crabby kind of way. "I don’t want to talk to anybody right now."

"Oh, OK," I said, quickly standing up straight. "I understand. I just think you're wonderful." He never smiled, never thanked me. But I walked, no, speed-walked, down the street, turned the corner, and began running like I had been momentarily dipped in heaven. Hell, I had been.

And, Kurt, I defended you when I told my friends and family about this headline in my life (a mere footnote in yours) and they said how rude you were, how jaded you'd become. "No," I said to them all. "He just wanted some peace and quiet to smoke his cigarette. He wanted to be alone."

A few weeks later, I saw a flyer that said Vonnegut would be reading at the Union Square Barnes & Noble in the Village. On that particular night, in the front row of the crammed event, sat a young man with a camera, his library of Vonnegut books, ready to be signed, and a grin the size of a Chiquita banana. In a slightly altered version of the words of Vonnegut himself: That young man was I. That was me. That was the author of this tale.

It turned out that he didn't read. Someone else read for him. He just answered a moderator's questions about literature and life. And, oh so inconveniently, the moderator said at the end, "Mr. Vonnegut will not be signing any books, but you can purchase some pre-signed books over at that table. Thanks for coming out."

Shit. I stuffed my now-dead-weight books away in my bag, grabbed the nearest scrap of paper and scribbled a note to Kurt, one drafted loosely in his own playfully irreverent style. I figured, he's not gonna contact me. Worst he can do is ignore the letter. I'll live. But not giving it a shot -- that I couldn't accept from myself. I memorized the note:

Kurt, If you ever get overly bored with the monotony of old age, feel free to give me a call and we might feed off one another. Lord knows I could use some wisdom from a self-proclaimed old fart like yourself. And who knows, I might add something to your life. Maybe not. But at the very least, you'll get a free meal out of it.

Thanks for existing,

Dan Stern [my phone number]

I pushed through the crowd growing around him and said in a loud whisper, "Kurt, here," and slipped him the note across the table behind which he was sitting. I saw him pocket it, so I walked away, saying to my friend as seriously as I've said anything before or since, "He'll call. I really think he'll call." What else does he have to do, I figured. His recent writing gives off the impression of a man waiting to die. He implies in "Timequake" that he's already said all he could ever say. I could be the youthful fuel that lights a fire under his ass, or if he's not interested in that, let him, if only for kicks, call and say, "Hey, kid, that note took balls. Let's grab lunch." I've joked with my friends and said, "Imagine if you called and asked me what I did last night and I said, 'Oh, not much. Just went over to Vonnegut's to hang out.'"

Needless to say, must I say the obvious, oh damn I hate this part: He didn't call. I supposed, or rather hoped, that maybe he was just playing coy, like a guy who likes a girl but doesn't want to seem too forward. Maybe he was just waiting for the right time. Who am I kidding? That note was used for kindling that night, that is if the thing even made it home with him.

That was around the time my friend suggested I write a story about being young and hopeful and searching for a mentor or someone to respect or someone to aspire to be like who can help point us the way home. A story about finding someone we believe in but who wants nothing to do with us. A story about the frustrations and disappointments that come when we're just starting out and our unwritten futures are waiting to be discovered. Either that, my friend said, or just write a piece about stalking Kurt Vonnegut.

In the ensuing days, weeks, I struggled in my writing, in grad school, in my job search. I just haven't been able to find that voice that suits me, that says what I want to say in the way I want others to hear it. My work in the creative writing program I'm enrolled in has been panned by my classmates, ripped to pathetic pieces and put back together only to be shred apart again and again. And, good God, is there a job in this town that I can somehow get, please, one I could actually tolerate? The closest I've come is an editor/writer position I interviewed for at what turned out to be a porn publisher. And someone else apparently wrote smuttier prose than I, because I haven't heard from the company since.

But Kurt, you've been there, too. Remember? Your son, Dr. Mark Vonnegut, said it himself. When a reporter asked him what it was like growing up with a famous father he replied, "When I was growing up, my father was a car salesman who couldn't get a job teaching at Cape Cod Junior College." When you were 25, like me, you had published nothing. The masses didn't embrace you until you were well into your 40s. I can't wait that long, Kurt. And I know I'm not alone in my pursuit of you. I know other hopeless hopefuls want a piece of you, too. I see them standing in line, shoving your books in your face, begging you to scribble down the symbols that spell your name, that they think will make them complete. But Kurt, when I ask for your signature, I'm not only thinking of myself, I'm considering posterity. How prized my signed copies of your novels will be when I'm famous. "And now the next item up for bid from Dan Stern's estate is his copy of 'Slaughterhouse-Five,' signed by the book's author, Kurt Vonnegut, who just happened to be Dan's literary hero. That's right, folks, these two gems from the age of the archaic written word actually crossed paths once. It includes all of Dan's shrewd little notes and witty remarks he jotted down throughout." Kurt, I'm special. I really am, can't you see?

Don't you know I don't even use semicolons anymore because you said they serve no purpose? That I try to always follow your advice that when one writes he should be a good date on a blind date? That I start so many of my sentences with "And" and "So" for the reason you gave in "Breakfast of Champions" -- to acknowledge the continuity of life?

N E X T_ P A G E .|. I'm part of your karass, Kurt