It was nearly three o’clock on a snowy January morning in 1974 on the south side of Indianapolis. I was at Bakemeyer, ensconced in a chair purchased from AmVets, re-reading Sirens of Titan, my favorite Kurt Vonnegut book. I was in my last year of college, and, given the hour, it was fortunate that I only had afternoon classes the next day.

A moment of clarification: I was living on Bakemeyer Street at the time, but my housemates and I also referred to the duplex where we lived as “Bakemeyer.” It didn’t fit everyone’s ideal for off-campus housing, but eighty dollars per month split three ways made it easy to overlook its shortcomings. No central heating was at the top of that list. To compensate, a massive oil stove resided in the middle room.

My two housemates weren’t around. Louie had left two hours earlier for his graveyard shift at UPS while Roger had returned from a Humble Pie concert at eleven in a state of near-ecstasy, raving about having sat in close proximity to one of the group’s monster speakers. He was upstairs in a deep sleep.

I was close to the end of the book when I felt a growing frustration. A line from a song by the singer Melanie had lodged itself in my head and refused to leave:

“I wish I could find a good book to live in.
Wish I could find a good book.”

I steeled myself and read on. Important events were happening in the story! The book’s hero, Malachi Constant, was returning to Earth courtesy of his Tralfamadorian friend Salo. And then a sentence took my breath away.

“The space ship landed in four inches of fresh snow in a vacant lot on the south side of Indianapolis.”

Above that sentence, the arrival time was listed as “three in the morning.”

I pored over the pages carefully, searching for specifics. There was only one: Constant had been let off near a bus line.

“What about Meridian Street?” I thought, realizing a moment later I’d said the words out loud. Something odd was happening. When I’d first read the book, I was in the dorm; now I lived on that south side Vonnegut was writing about.

The next thing I knew, I was pulling on my winter coat and sprinting toward Meridian Street less than two blocks away, oblivious to the falling snow. As I ran, I fought off the yammering voice of Reason. What urged me on was a feeling of certainty that on this particular night, anything was possible.

I reached the corner of Bakemeyer and Meridian Streets and looked northward. Just south of Pleasant Run Parkway on the west side of Meridian was an empty lot I’d never noticed before. And on this lot was an alien space ship in front of which an elderly man and a creature with “tangerine colored skin” were conversing.

It was Malachi Constant and the Tralfamadorian Salo! I moved closer to get a better look. Salo had three legs as Vonnegut had described, but I was too far away to confirm that he had three eyes.

The conversation ended. Salo returned to his ship and prepared for takeoff.

“The ship arose with the sound of a man blowing over the mouth of a bottle. It disappeared into the swirling snow and was gone.”

I stood there, mesmerized by what I’d seen. Or was my brain playing tricks on me? I felt anchored to the spot where I stood. Meanwhile, Constant crossed the street to a bench to wait for his bus. I didn’t recall there ever having been a bench there, but, given what had just transpired, I accepted this anomaly as mere window dressing in the drama being played out.

Constant swept some snow away and settled on the bench. I knew that his bus would be terribly late, but I dared not disturb him. I was not about to intrude on the sanctity of the author/character relationship.

For the first time since I left the duplex, I became aware of the cold. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my coat. To my surprise, my copy of The Sirens of Titan was in the left pocket.

A sense of loss washed over me. But why? Considering the unearthly events I’d witnessed, the feeling seemed out of place. And then it hit me.

If I’d been there a few minutes earlier, I might have had the chance to interact with Salo. I could have given my copy of the book to him to take on his mission from “one rim of the universe to another.” It would have been a far better item to deliver to whatever intelligent life forms he encountered than the message he was required to convey. And it would be quite proper since I believed that Salo was the narrator of The Sirens of Titan.

My attention went back to Constant waiting patiently on the bench and I immediately realized my folly. How quickly I’d forgotten! What about the author/character privilege protecting Salo? Would I really have broken it just to discuss some pet theory of mine?

Snow was beginning to gather on the hat and overcoat of Malachi Constant. I preferred to think of him as Unk, the name he went by on Mars and Mercury. It was as Unk that the man’s true nature was revealed; it was an admirable one.

I’d been enthralled by all that I’d seen, but it was time to take a step back. Was this real or just a grand hallucination? I remembered the words to Melanie’s song. Was this merely an elaborate wish-fantasy spun by my unconscious so that I could “find a good book to live in”?

As I struggled with self-doubt, a new quotation popped into my head. I was taken aback. “That’s not Vonnegut,” I said to myself. “That’s from Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” The quote was this:

“But it’s the truth even if it didn’t happen.”

Even though the words were paradoxical, they were strangely comforting. I decided on the spot, unequivocally, that what I’d experienced was the truth and was real. I’d been given a gift! Who was I to question it? Let the professional naysayers and bubble-bursters scoff all they wanted!

And so, it is my opinion that a bench should be placed at the southeast corner of Meridian Street and Pleasant Run Parkway, and that beside the bench, a marble plaque should be installed honoring the events I witnessed. The plaque should read something like this:

Here at this spot, Malachi Constant, AKA Unk, AKA The Space Wanderer,
spent his last moments on Earth. He was the beloved mate of Beatrice,
the proud father of Chronos, and the best friend of Stony Stevenson.
He lived a full life and was at peace when he died.

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Robert Morse has had one-act plays produced in Indiana and Michigan and public readings in New York and Chicago. In the ’80′s, he performed and wrote for the comedy group Pavlov’s Salivation Army. He lives in Indianapolis.