It was my first time flying business class. The trim flight attendant escorted me to my aisle seat, and I settled in. Sitting by the window was a tall man. He had a mass of dark curly hair that fell down to his collar. His thin face was embellished with a moustache. His eyes were droopy, like a sad dog. He had on a crumpled tweed sport coat and khaki slacks. I noted the fingers of his right hand were nicotine stained.

It was seven hours into the flight before I got up the nerve to ask: “Are you Kurt
Vonnegut?”

He turned and replied. “It depends. Do you think he’s the greatest writer since
Mark Twain, or did his books ruin your life?”

My answer was drowned out by a deafening explosion. The plane pitched up
then pivoted left on its axis into a downward spiral. We made several turns before the pilot managed to level out the aircraft. The sounds of panic were silenced by the impact. The water was not terribly cold. I saw a large blue suitcase floating nearby. I grabbed onto it. By the time I turned around the two halves of the plane had sunk below the gentle swells. Among the flotsam I saw my seat mate clinging to a piece of wreckage. With each uplift of a wave we surveyed what was left of a jet liner full of human beings.

“I think we’re the only ones,” I said.

He said quietly, “The poor bastards.”

In the distance the tops of a row of palm trees were visible against the lowering
sun. A light breeze and the carriage of waves pushed us towards them. Just before dark the sound of surf came from a white line of breakers. We rode the curls over a coral reef and into a calm lagoon. I dragged the suitcase onto the beach and sat on it. He left his gray piece of metal lapping against a black rock protruding from the sand. He walked down the beach and stood looking out to sea as the full moon lit the crests of parallel waves extending to infinity.

He came back to me and asked, “Are you injured?”

“No,” I said,” just cold.”

“Me too. Maybe there’s something to wear in the suitcase.”

I unlatched the heavy clasps on the case. Inside was a carefully folded wedding
dress glowing in the moonlight.

“That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever seen,” I said and closed it back up.
We walked up to the the line of palm trees. There was waterfall and a small cave of black rocks warmed by the sun. We had water and shelter. Amazingly we both slept on and off until the sun rose.

“We should explore and see if this is inhabited,” I said. “I wonder if the pilot tried
to get us as close to here as he could.”

“I can’t get what he must have been going through out of my mind,” he said.” I can’t even think about it. So, are you? I asked. “Are you Kurt Vonnegut?”

“Yes, but that isn’t going to help us here.”

“My name is Chris.”

“Nice to meet you. Let’s see if we can open a couple coconuts.”

We took two of the green husks down to the piece of wing he floated in on and
banged them against a piece of torn metal. It took some time but we finally got to the brown nut and cracked them open on the rock. We gnawed and picked at the sweet meat until we tired of it.

“Which way do you want to walk?” He asked.

“We were headed south, let’s go that way,” I replied.

Over the next several days we walked both directions on the beach. I kept track
of the days on a stick. It seemed important to me at the time. Our conversations were limited to our necessaries, avoiding the obvious. I thought about how adaptable we humans are; it became almost normal to limit my concerns to water, food, and shelter. My companion seemed to have gone into a shell. He spent much of his time staring out at the ocean as if rescue would come if he looked long enough. He was going through nicotine withdrawal which did not help what appeared to be a crusty personality to begin with.

One evening he suddenly asked. “So, which is it? Mark Twain, or did I ruin your
life?”

“Not my entire life– just a couple years.”

“I’ve never understood how a book can ruin a persons life,” he said.

“I was at a low point. My heart was broken. My life plan was torn up. It’s almost
like your books gave me permission to wallow in my despair for longer than I should have.”

“Why didn’t you just stop reading them?”

“Don’t you think we read what reflects our mood at the time? Maybe reading
about hopeless people makes our pain seem normal.”

“My books are about more than broken hearts. Look, there goes a jet. I wonder if
they’re thinking about our flight.”

“It’s hard to believe they’ve forgotten about us,” I said. “I am worried we haven’t
seen any signs of a search though.”

“We glided from thirty-thousand feet, so we’re way off the flight path. They might not have any idea which way we went,” Kurt said. “Maybe they could track us, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“I think we need to be positive there aren’t people living here,” I said. “It would be
crazy to stay here not knowing there are people nearby.”

“I agree,” Kurt said, “but we have to stay on the beach to be seen.

We formed a plan. We managed to tear a piece of metal off the wing to use as a
tool for coconuts. We had also discovered breadfruit trees. Kurt, of course, knew about Captain Bligh’s plant, so he was familiar with its taxonomy and use. We discovered that the softest ones already on the ground were edible raw–if you like sour potatoes. We would venture forth and attempt to walk around the island and stay visible on the beach.

We walked on the foam left by the dying waves; here the sand was the perfect consistency for our bare feet. Not hard and packed nor water saturated and soft. Between opening coconuts and an occasional stream we kept hydrated. A breadfruit tree appeared daily, so we were sustained by that.

We didn’t hurry. When we took breaks from the heat of the day Kurt picked up
little sticks and held them in his mouth. In the evening we looked for rocks warmed by the sun and huddled against them. I prayed. Kurt continued to look out to sea by day and up into the shroud of stars by night. We talked. He avoided philosophical questions. We mostly spoke of family, home, and hope.

In the evening of the sixth day of the trek we saw the blue suitcase leaning
against a palm tree. The piece of wing was partially buried by wind blown sand. We spent the next day in contemplation.

After that we got busy. We hacked through saplings with our jagged tool, tied
them into a frame with vines and covered it with fronds. Kurt made a bow and fire stick so we could cook the fish we speared. Our conversations became deeper and he became more willing to talk about his work.

On the night of the second full moon of our stay, we sat before the fire. Kurt held
his small stick between the fingers of his right hand.

“The one thing that bothered me the most about your stories,” I said, “is that they
don’t have much room for love. No great true relationships. I read a quote of yours where you said love stories just get in the way of what you want to say.”

“That’s right. I keep romantic love out of my stories because if I don’t the readers
won’t listen to the real story. People go nuts over love. If a couple falls in love, that’s the end of the tale. World War III could be going on, there could be hordes of aliens bloodying the streets, but all people will care about is love.”

“Isn’t that the point?” I asked. “Even in the most horrific catastrophes, love can
come through in the end. People get through them because they find love or return to love.”

“So you think love conquers all? Where was love in the firestorm of Dresden?”

“Billy Pilgrims’ wife loved him, but it wasn’t enough for him. He couldn’t see it. He wanted to escape. Isn’t that why he went to Tralfamador?”

“People need to learn how the world really is,” Kurt said. “I was trying to teach–not just tell a nice love story. Without knowledge, we just keep making the same mistakes.”

“Maybe we don’t need so much knowledge,” I said. “What good will it do us here?
We’re alive. We have today. If we found the tree of all knowledge out in the jungle, would you eat of it? Or, would you be happy with what we have?”

“We could die here you know,” he said. “Is that something you can accept?”

“We have to die somewhere,” I said. “I feel badly for my family. I worry about
them. But unless we’re saved, this is it for us. That’s the truth and the only thing that matters.”

Kurt was quiet the next day and stayed to himself. I worked on weaving mats for the floor of the hut. Later I speared a couple of the small yellow fish we had named zygronties, cleaned them, and stirred up the fire. I roasted the fish and a breadfruit for dinner. He wasn’t in a talkative mood– he seemed restless. I went for a walk down the beach, sat and prayed, came back and went to sleep. I heard him stir late in the night after the moon had set. I watched him go down to the water’s edge.

I was just about to go back to sleep when the saucer appeared. It emitted no
sound and was perfectly black. It looked more like a bus size hole in the mantle of stars than a solid object. Soon it shot a beam of purple light that enveloped Kurt. He stood with palms out. The beam modulated between purple, violet and blue. Finally it faded, then came back on one last time. Kurt again put his palms out. The light went off, and the saucer retreated, hovered in the distance for a few seconds, then vanished.

Kurt came back and stood in front of me.

“Why didn’t you leave with them?” I asked.

“I want to finish this story. I have the second act written in my head.”

Being Kurt Vonnegut, he wrote the vows. The dress fit me reasonably well, I
spilled over the bustier a bit but not in a slutty way. We held the wedding under our breadfruit tree. The birds served as witnesses, even though they did not stop chattering. We had our first kiss. I had to go up on my tip toes– his beard and moustache tickled my face.

After our honeymoon on the beach, Kurt leaned back and put his faux cigarette in his mouth. When I had caught my breath I asked.

“So what’s the third act?”

“Jeez,” he said, “I thought twice was pretty good. Give me a few minutes.”

“No, I mean our story. What’s the third act of our story?”

“Oh…Well…I guess we live happily ever after. I don’t feel like writing a Vonnegut
ending. That part of me is dead.”

“So it goes,” I said.

“Yeah, so it goes.”