AUSTIN, Texas, May 9, 2005 — Something you should know about me by now: meeting new people is hard for me. Oh, I like to hear other people's stories. I like to meet people. Especially if they are interesting to me. But. It's hard. Even being around people I know but not that well is hard. I'm only comfortable, truly, around a few people. No biggie. Always been that way. It's one of the defining things in my life. I was thinking the other day that I should try to write something about that.

I mention it because I have set up a lunch with a friend of a friend who is a filmmaker. His friend,

someone we are acquainted with, told him we might know how he could find the money for finishing a film he did. (It needs editing.) I know nothing about finding the money. But I found him interesting from the e-mail. I thought maybe I could write an article about him for a guest spot in FFP's column. So I set up to meet him today. I told him we wouldn't have any great advice about funding. I offered several possible spots and he picked one: NeWorlDeli. Said he actually did a scene there in the movie he shot.

I was really sleeping well. FFP got up, went to the club, was back before eight. He was going with his Dad and the newspaper people to shoot a picture to go with an article they are doing. I finally got up around seven-thirty. I got dressed for exercise then fooled around with my journal, called my dad, drank coffee. I wrote back to the filmmaker, confirming the time for lunch. I told my dad I'd come in the afternoon, maybe take him out somewhere if he felt like it. He seemed OK.

I finally got to the gym. I told myself I needed to get off the bike and do some weight work. But I didn't. I kept riding. I was reading the Book Review from The New York Times from two Sundays ago. A Jonathan Lethem article. A review of a book about Gödel. A few other reviews that help my attention for a few paragraphs or even to the end of the piece. I spent an entire fifty minute bike ride reading the book review. I had the article on James Wilcox in The New Yorker and the book by him (Sort of Rich) queued up. But I didn't read either. (Except at stop lights the rest of the day.) All I did after getting off the bike was some lower back and ab work and not much of that.

At home I ate a snack, got a shower. I told FFP (who was back from a successful photo shoot with his dad) that I'd set up the meeting for a late lunch. He said he'd go. That's unusual. Usually he doesn't go along on my day-to-day tangents. We are more likely to agree on dinner plans than lunch ones.

We went to NeWorlDeli and met the guy. He had on jeans and a V-neck undershirt, his hair was tousled and he was unshaven. He knew the gal (owner?) behind the counter and the guy I know is an owner came up later and greeted him. His story about making a scene for his movie here seemed true...they asked about it.

He told us about the plot of his movie (which was similar to a novel he'd written). It tracked an experience he'd had himself, he said, and explained that. (Basically a guy gets some money, really his wife's, and then when it's gone he has to figure out what he should do.) His wife, he said, was a musician. (The type I call the 'record-label-bruised singer songwriter who broke free but left a stack of unreleased songs with the big bad company.') They met in New Haven as actors, I believe. They came here to have a place for her music to flourish. He works evenings in a baseball training facility for kids or something. He seemed well-connected. He claims to know Sandra Bullock and that she gave him money for a project that failed. He claims to have met Jack Valenti and to be considering a documentary project about him.

I believe the guy, I like him OK, I think his wife would be interesting. I wouldn't give him (or anyone else) money to make a movie. Too dicey in my old age. (Although we've done foolish things with our money when we were younger.) I know how little chance his projects has, but I admire his creativity and the ability to try to finish things in the came way I admire the friend who has written a play, the other one working on a cop novel, the one writing a historical novel, friends who paint and create.

But Forrest bristles. That's the only way I can describe it. He does this when he's trapped with people he doesn't like, his body language clearly stating he'd rather not be there, that he won't be drawn in. He'd brought stuff to take notes. All he writes down is the wife's name, I think. He won't enter the conversation much. I don't get it. He looks at his watch and says we have to go.

In the car he says the guy is like a guy he once had a business association with. If the former assoicate were named, say Pogonip, which he's not then he would have said, "He's a Pogonip-style, isn't he?" This guy from the past, I hated instantly, thought he was a bullshitter. But FFP let him office with him, got taken by him and pissed off by him in ways I've forgotten and a few I remember. I say that I don't think this guy is that type. I remind him that I, not he, picked the other guy out instantly. "I know, but I've learned my lesson." He says.

I feel sad. I envy the guy his enthusiam if not his poverty. I told him in the e-mail I'd buy him a coffee or meal and could promise little else. (I did buy him a sandwich.) I try to discuss this with Forrest. He tells me that his hope for his retirement is to continue his column, to paint and to write a non-fiction book that someone who won't return his calls suggested to him, asking about a co-author thing.

All day this thing will hang over me. When I meet new people, I usually get a buzz. But, I realize, only if Forrest is also interested. Because he is the one who is comfortable around people, who fuels our social life, especially when we are just beginning to get to know new people. Oh, I can have friends he's not involved with. And I do. And some of them he doesn't really think are good choices. But it's so much better if we both connect. The other thing that hangs around all day is that shyness, that thing that keeps me from busting ahead and really getting into things. The thing that I fought my whole life in order to work, have a social life. Meeting new people is a reminder of this battle. Meeting new people FFP instantly dislikes a reminder of how dependent I am on him for branching into new things.

I realize that not everyone gets a little nervous twinge in almost every casual encounter with new people. I mean I don't like going to a store and asking for help from a clerk. I mean, I do it. It's no big deal. But it takes a lot of energy. I remember a few years ago when I realized that my dad was almost exactly this way. He loves socializing but he has that nervous edge that colors all encounters. The two of us were somewhere and needed something and couldn't figure it out. "Maybe we should go in here and ask," I said. "You go do it." He said. I realized that a simple encounter to ask directions or whatever it was was a little barrier for both of us. It's laughable sometimes to realize how much you are, for better or worse, your parent's child.

I go to Durable Medical and buy dad a walker for Dad that has four wheels and a seat. This way he can go around the house and then sit down on it to do something. I go to the bank and make some deposits and go to Dad's. I do my usual tidy up and checking on things. I offer to take him on an outing or something. But he doesn't want to go out. I get the mail in. He has some cards, a 'thank you' note and a get well card. I show him how the new gadget words and he tries it out. I don't stay long. I feel sad. I think I'm still getting used to him living a circumscribed life and not really complaining about it. Actually he has been living less expansively for some time. But the last six weeks, he's really been out very little except to doctors and hospitals.

I go home. I try to write this journal. I have trouble writing what I want to about the day. FFP decides to go to the store and comes back with fish filets and makes fish stew. We eat that and some salad. I sit down to read the paper. We watch stuff off the DVR. I read and read. And finally sleep.