that one time i was in Kurt Vonnegut's brownstone

About 12 years ago during one hot July summer, I was in NYC with a friend of mine.

We had a free afternoon and so we headed over to see one of her friends, a woman I'd never met before. She was a personal assistant to Jill Krementz. We were heading out for drinks when she said she had to stop and drop something off at her brownstone. Oh, and by the way, she shares it with her husband, Kurt Vonnegut.

Slaughterhouse Five was a pivotal book in my youth; the irony and the conspiracy both. Vonnegut, while not achieving a premier place of idolatry, was certainly nestled solidly somewhere in the middle of my angst and admiration.

As we walked inside I was silenced with a mixture of awe and discomfort. I was not supposed to be here. It might have been legitimate, if he walked in the door while we were there I am assuming I'd have been issued a brief introduction and we'd be on our way. But his absence made the silence louder.

I touched nothing. But I did walk through the halls and look at the photographs, so many photographs, both professional and personal and taken by his wife. And the books. Oh, the books. I peered into the office and saw a pen resting on the desk near a stack of them, a few were his. I had a strong urge to touch the pen, to pick it up and grip it as if I were going to write a note. I touched nothing.

I remember feeling anxious; that this was the personal space of a public figure and it was unfair somehow to allow for my voyeurism. We were probably only there for fifteen minutes or so; her friend was doing her job, checking voicemail and sorting the post. There were a lot of both.

There were several floors but we didn't go past the first. I felt that was the least we could do. And I've always remembered those few minutes that afternoon; visiting a nondescript brownstone that housed a legend.

And so it goes. Rest in peace.