An Experimental Life

I met a legend once. I have met several others since then, but Ray was the first.

It was years ago--I can't recall how many. I was at a convention in St. Louis where Ray Bradbury was the guest of honor. The same Ray Bradbury who made me want to write when I read R Is For Rocket.

There are writers I admire for writing the way people really think and talk, and writers I admire for writing the way people should think and talk. Ray Bradbury is one of the latter. Everything he ever wrote was beautiful to me, whether the magical realism of Dandelion Wine or the bittersweet beauty of R is for Rocket. Heinlein was my introduction to science fiction, but Ray was the person who made me want to write it myself.

I had no chance of meeting the man, of course--Me being a lowly fiction writer for a small RPG company. But I did.

Certain needs strike one at certain times; among those needs is the one to relieve pressure on one's bladder. A new acquaintance and I happened to feel that very need at about the same time, and were washing our hands afterward while we discussed geeky and gamerly matters.

The door behind us opened, and in walked a smiling (and rather tipsy-looking) Ray Bradbury, with an atomic marguerita clutched in one hand. He had that slightly flushed, disheveled look that made me think of the "kindly uncle" type in children's books and movies. His suit was a little rumpled, and his tie was loosened.

You must understand that I am not usually over-awed by celebrity. In this case, however, I was paralyzed. I stood gaping in the mirror while the water ran forgotten and Ray entered a toilet stall. Finally I turned to my companion and asked, "Was that...?"

"Yeah, I think that was..."

"Oh, my god... That was..."

We finished in a whispered chorus, "RAY BRADBURY!"

"We gotta wait for him to come out of the stall," my companion urged, still whispering, "we gotta get his autograph. Maybe he'll even shake our hands!"

So we continued washing our hands, over and over again, taking as long as possible so as to have an excuse to be there when the Great Man finished with the business of being merely human and stepped outside the stall to resume the business of godhood. After a few minutes we abandoned pretense and simply stood, leaned against the cold sink counter top and watching the stall door like vultures ready to swoop.

When Ray finally emerged I began babbling something along the lines of, "Um.. Excuse me, Mr. Bradbury... Um... Sir... Could we, um... I mean... that is, uh... can we have your signature.. Um... I mean, can we, um... trouble you for your autograph?"

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am seldom at a loss for words, so take my incoherence as a sign of how over-awed I was.

Ray chuffed and smiled and said, "Oh, sure," in a voice I can still imitate with some degree of accuracy. It was a baritone voice, I'd say, with shades of amiability seldom heard by these ears. He asked me to hold his drink for him (It was blue. Looked like an atomic margarita or a tarantula, I remember. And no, I have no idea why he took it into the stall with him.) while he signed his name for us, and--geeky as it sounds--I felt awed and honored to do so.

Ray Bradbury, arguably one of the most influential voices in speculative fiction, stood there in the hotel men's room and signed autographs and shook hands with two starstruck fans. He even made idle chit-chat with us, although I could not tell you what was said, except that I think I babbled something about his book "R Is For Rocket." I doubt he remembered the incident five minutes later, but I shall always cherish the memory for the wacky kindness of a man I so admired.

After leaving the men's room I immediately went to share the experience with a friend.

"Jen! I just... I mean... RAY BRADBURY! He smiled and was really friendly and asked me to hold his drink, and, and..." I held up his autograph. "He SIGNED his for me, and he was cool and just really friendly and stuff, and," Here I held up my hand, and I think my eyes may even have misted a little. "He shook my hand! This hand! He just--"

Jen smiled tolerantly and held up her own hand, cutting me off. "That's great," she said, "So... Where did this, uh... meeting take place?"

Again I babbled incoherently, finally managing to get out the whole story. She nodded sagely and queried me again.

"Let me ask you something, Rob... Did he wash his hands before he shook yours?"

For the second time that evening I was paralyzed, this time staring at the skin of my palm and imagining all the little microscopic critters that might now inhabit it.

She chuckled at my reaction. "So, basically what you're telling me is that you shook the hand that shook Ray Bradbury's, um...."

I'm sure I must have looked non-plussed.

"Well, thank you for ruining that moment for me, Jen."

She laughed again. "No, I didn't ruin it. I just turned it into a story."

I, of course, excused myself to rewash my hands and realized that, yes, indeed she had turned into a story.

But you know, I would not have changed the way we met at all. I was part of a brief moment in the life of one of my heroes--a moment one that only one other living person was witness to, and one that demonstrated his essential kindness to and love for his fans.

As much as I loved his writing before we met, he was even more of a hero to me afterward. He left me a story that, however silly, belongs to me, and me only, to tell. I got to meet and speak with him once more, almost as briefly as the first time, and asked him if he ever got tired of the adulation of tongue-tied fans such as I was at our first encounter. He laughed kindly and said no.

And you know, if my claim to fame is that I "shook the hand that shook Ray Bradbury's, uh...," there are worse claims to fame. And worse ways to meet a legend.