Just after the start of the Iraq disaster, I had been working in Oklahoma City for several months as a consultant. The company was a "snake oil" infomercial phenomenon, and the founder dragged his staff out every morning to pray (literally) for his continued financial windfall. He had a giant painting of Jesus over his desk. The backround was black and I never had the nerve to see if it was velvet. In the vestibule was a huge blowup of the founder with his other hero, George W. Bush. I'm guessing the photo op had cost him about $10,000 at a private fundraiser.

I'm not digressing, just painting a picture of the oppressive cultural wasteland in which I found myself.

Then, I spotted a tiny item, the size of the smallest Post-it Note, buried in the back pages of the very conservative daily paper. Kurt Vonnegut was scheduled to speak at one of the local christian-titled universities. In the auditorium, in the evening, open to the public. I went, jubilantly, and with the very reasonable hope that I would be one of just a handful of people there. On the way, I stopped to get one of his books to be signed...mine (I have them all) were still at home in Philadelphia. The only book the local mega bookstore carried was a recent autobiographical non-fiction. Disappointed, I grabbed it.

At the entrance to the auditorium, there were tables of Vonnegut books for sale. I asked about buying one to have it autographed. "Mr. Vonnegut doesn't do autographs", was the reply.

Alone, I found a great seat...there's always one up front in the middle, where people have refused to move in to accommodate.

His talk was rousing. Exciting. Although he seemed ill, with a very bad cough, and frail. He bashed Bush as only Vonnegut can. And the war. He was glib and sarcastic and funny. Now I had the complete collection...including the great man's own voice.

I was ready to pounce toward him to get my book signed when the "gatekeepers" Andrew Leonard described closed ranks around him. Obviously the university elite and their wives.

I was living at the Waterford, the "old school" elegant hotel in Oklahoma City. Not the new big flashy one downtown. I was surprised to see Paul McCartny in my tiny lobby. It seemed to the choice of anti-tinsel celebrities. So I knew in my heart that Kurt Vonnegut would be going back there. I made a beeline for the hotel and went straight to the bar and waited. Not a stalker. A disciple.

Sure enough....he walked in, with the university hierarchy and sat down. I walked over and asked him to sign my book for my son Zach. "I don't sign books," he said.

"But," I answered, "Zach is a huge fan, has read everything you have ever written and is now a Marine waiting to go to Iraq, where his brother is today. If anyone deserves your autograph, he does."

He signed it. And I sat down with them, much to the dismay of the extraordinarily pretentious ladies in their take-the-celebrity-out dresses. And I bought Kurt Vonnegut a drink. Scotch.

Later, when I called my son and told him about it, he asked if there was an asterisk-looking thing next to Vonnegut's signature. Why yes...but how did he know? "It's his asshole", Zach answered. "Whenever he signs his name, he draws a picture of it." I have no idea how Zach knew that, but he reads everything and seems to know everything as well.

I sent Zach the book, with the little notice from the paper, and my bar tab for two scotches...one for me...one for...sigh...Kurt Vonnegut, pasted on the flyleaf next to the signature.

The next day, I went into the office, absolutely giddy. "Guess who I had a drink with last night! Kurt Vonnegut." They all just stared at me. Finally someone asked, "who?".

And that's the story of how Kurt Vonnegut rescued me from ignorance for one memorable evening.

Anonymous wrote:

Nita: Wow, you've got the story nicely set up so that you're the only the real human being other than Vonnegut in the whole room.

In the Vonnegut universe, kindness is the only virtue.

Alas, that is not the universe that publishes Salon!

Dear Anonymous:

I didn't feel it necessary to go into the whole crabby thing about how these women treated me. So I made the comment about their dresses and their pretentiousness as a shortcut. That's how it's done sometimes. And if you think Vonnegut was incapable of depicting jerks whose motives are not pure...think again.

There's nothing wrong with being critical of people who choose to be worthy of it. In fact they treated me with rudeness and arrogance, all but knocking me out of the way. They were genuinely annoyed, clucking and scowling, that I had the audacity to speak to Mr. Vonnegut, a venue that they clearly felt was outside my place. I didn't think it was necessary to give every detail in what I consider a very positive reminiscence. It was pretty apparent after listening to them, that their arrogance was born of self-importance, and not substance. I don't mind suffering assholes who actually have something to offer. I do mind assholes who don't like anyone who doesn't live in their country club subdivision...and I'm entitled to that opinion. I'm also entitled to the literary license to cast them in a shorthand characterization of the kind of people they are.

I wrote a memory. I didn't clutter it with crap. Why do you feel you need to attack me when you don't know the whole story...and why did you do it anonymously?

And finally, where the hell do you get off talking about kindness and Vonnegut and Salon, when you are clealy motivated by the need to be critical in the unkind extreme, and in the most personal attack.

Jerk.