I had a dream two nights ago that I happened to run into Kurt Vonnegut on the street. Very odd scenario, yet very vivid. He was walking arm in arm with a woman that the peripheral vision of my subconscious perceived to be his wife. I had my wife by my side as well and upon spotting this celebrated author walking toward me I felt my eyes widen with delight and a broad smile stretch across my face.
The Kurt Vonnegut before me was the one I recall from my first literary introduction to him in school in the late 1970s; hair bushy and without the lightened color of age. He seemed happy for the recognition and accepted my hearty hand shake with great glee.
He noticed I was carrying two books, as I had presumably come out of the small book shop that was among the row of shops on the street, and asked if I would like him to autograph them for me. To my chagrin, I informed him that they were not any of his books to which he happily said, “Well, I’m sure they have one in this book shop that I can get for you.”
As Mr. Vonnegut rummaged through the new and used books I just stood in awe at what was playing out before me. He was happily searching, mumbling his book titles to himself, then looking back at me once or twice as if trying to discern which book might suit me.
The dream dissipated at that point and I recall thinking, “He was taller than I thought he’d be.”
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