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Encounters: The Aviator, or what I want to be when I learn to play

(Caption: Our view of Big Sur)

I met Kareem because we needed a contract script writer--badly. Copywriting was not Kareem's only career strength, and not exactly a career passion, but the project was temporary, and he had just come from a digital agency with too much experience on his resume to get picked up immediately in a downsizing economy.

Prior to meeting Kareem I'd spoken on the phone to another writer with an agency background. She was ready and eager to jump into our project. Shortly, after being briefed about the aggressive deadlines and requirements of the client, she reconsidered and backed away, mid-script. We were supposed to shoot the following week.

In ideal circumstances, we strive for a sane approach to project management, where we plan such things as scriptwriting and shooting schedules way in advance, but being in this Webby world we're in, projects are often inked close to launch. Some people thrive in this kind of environment, some fight it and give in begrudgingly, some reject it outright. I needed to see how Kareem would react early, before hiring him.

I was brutally frank in our interview. Our "co-created" project with Brand X was exciting stuff, but it was not without client oversight and last-minute changes. I said something that I wish I hadn't,

"I need someone who's comfortable with user-generated content that's not all user-generated...I mean, it is, but with an eye toward the brand... not that they want to influence the script, of course...it must be authentic, but brand-friendly..."

I decided to look up from staring down at Kareem's extensive resume; he remained smiling and calm.

"Yes, I think I understand," he said. He told me of several on-set projects he'd done as a creative director. The personalities he'd encountered, the seemingly contradictory directives. It was clear to me that, from a production standpoint, he'd seen it all, and he understood the dichotomous nature of client work--something that often relied on a paradoxical act of creating authentic connection. He didn't bristle when I told him we were shooting next week and still needed scripts to submit for approval. And these scripts depended on the availability of his script subjects, whom had yet to be selected, let alone contacted.

"No problem," he said.

The following week, he arrived for a briefing meeting with snacks for the team. Shortly thereafter, scripts written and approved, he arrived at the set early with props that our producer had trouble procuring. Everyone who had arrived on-set had been briefed by him and was ready to go. He got along famously with the camera crew and director. Later, when the rough cuts were complete he adeptly knew where to cut and even how to retroactively make guests look more comfortable than they actually were. Client requests that may have overwhelmed another writer/producer were creatively integrated with no complaints.

After our final shoot he suggested we go grab some coffee. Already I was trying to think of how else we could work with Kareem until a more suitable position opened up for him.

It was a hot day; I sipped ice-coffee in an air-conditioned Starbucks. He asked me, "Do you fly much?"

Encounters: The Chatty Hygienist

I imagine in her line of work you get used to hearing yourself speak. I could hardly muster an "uh uh" with the suction thingie she had hanging out of the right corner of my mouth.

"Sorry, Hun," she said, when she accidentally pulled on the suction tube and yanked my head like I was a fish on a hook. Generally I was pleased with her work. She didn't believe in a patient feeling any pain.

"You feel anything you let me know," OK?

"Uh huh."

This line made me nervous; it opened the possibility of feeling pain, even if only for a second. She said every few minutes, "You are being so good. Really you are." I didn't think I needed that kind of validation anymore, at my age, but it made me feel good. I guess I still like to earn lollipops.

As she worked she talked. About everything. Her thirty seven years in dentistry, a career choice she'd made around the time I was born. Her trailer home and love of NASCAR. Her husband. How much more she made when she was working with patients than when she was doing admin work. Her husband's disability status and how she feared it made him depressed. 

There was a picture on the counter behind her on which I fixated while she drilled: a beautiful woman smiling at the camera while her patient looked askance. Her middle part and fluffy hair made me think it was an older photo, circa 1981. She noticed me looking.

"There we are," she said."Me and him."

There was a moment when I jerked reflexively from a hit nerve; not anything tear-inducing. She stopped to give me another shot. During the first shot of novocaine that she had administered about an hour before I had tensed up, even though I didn't feel any pain. I could still feel the needle going in, and just the thought of it made me nervous.

I never used to get nervous when I went to the dentist as a kid. Despite the cavities, the braces, the pulled teeth. There was an implicit trust of professionals. They couldn't hurt me. I went through procedures a little bored. But too much has happened since then. Root canals, filling replacements, more extractions, a bridge. I now know what's going on--even if I can't feel it. I expect pain, if not now then later.

She had asked me early on, "You nervous?"

"Uh huh."

"Yeah, I can tell from your saliva. It's ropy."

"Wiwee?" I filed this fact under random thing to share with my husband, as we liked to wow each other with this kind of trivia: ropy saliva = nervousness.

"Yeah. But you've got nothing to be nervous about. I've been doing this longer than these other guys have been alive." These other guys were the dentists that hired her.

I realized that my entire body was tense. I tried to release it in parts, thinking if I let my whole body relax at once while she was lasering my gums I might throw her off and she'd cut my lip or lacerate my face.

She talked as she cauterized the intentional wounds she'd created. I was amazed at how comfortable she was having relatively intense conversations with people who couldn't provide any verbal cues of concern or interest. I learned more about her husband; he did things for her, like heated the car every morning before she left for work and made her lunch. He wasn't working any more, but even when he did he was doing stuff like that.

A thought came to my mind while she spoke of her husband, whom she clearly still adored after 30 years of marriage: I consider myself a good wife, but was I someone that could commit to these sorts of gestures? I've committed myself to many things: email, my morning Starbucks, paying bills. But I haven't committed to much outside my own benefit. What would it be like to wake up and have your first task of the day be for someone else?

"You feeling that?"

"Mmmmmm ... naw wiwee."

This was enough to stop her immediately. She continued to chat me up while I wondered, has she stuck the needle in yet? I realized she had by the taste of bitter Novocaine that trickled toward the back of my tongue, bitter I couldn't feel. I looked at the table to her right and saw empty single-use vials of Novocaine, at least five. She'd been administering it before I needed it. Now I understood--I was bored and amused by design. By the time she had made it through NASCAR I was relaxed--and numb. The part of her conversation that captured me, about her husband, distracted me during the most surgical part--the part I had dreaded most.

Another strange thought came to my mind, as this woman worked with such precision on my teeth and my mind, for which she was paid $20 an hour more than when she handled the front desk: how oddly we compensate people. I did the math and wondered if it was enough.   

Encounters: People who don't live in "phases"

A very close friend insisted that I meet a woman she'd just met. She just had a feeling we'd get along. After many fits and starts--business trips, cancelled opportunites and challenges getting into the city at the same time--we finally managed to be in the same place at the same time. I'm all for serendipitous encounters, but I've made far less time for these encounters than I used to.

I recall the salad days of the Dot Com bomb, when we had plenty of time and nothing to lose from meeting people who may or may not be helpful to us. I met people on searches, some similar to my own, and could listen to them talk about their endeavors for the sake of listening. Years later, with a small business to help run, time was at a premium. I've learned a new skill lately of folding in these occasional encounters with official business meetings.

This friend of my friend's was traveling far out of her way to meet me. She'd moved to the Bay Area not long ago and had some challenges navigating suitable places to park in the city. I could have gone to her, I thought, feeling a tad guilty.

Over coffee (or an iced latte; it was a hot day) we talked about what we were up to. Clearly our mutual friend thought to put us together for a reason. I knew that my coffee date was working on her third book. I guessed that my friend hoped I would be a potential reviewer of it when it was ready, or could help her with a blog promotion strategy. As she spoke, I realized she hardly needed my help. She'd practiced medicine as an OB/Gyn for years, then decided to follow her passion for art. After creating a national following (she shows in galleries across the country), she thought to expand on her passion for writing. She is now working on her third book, which had received competing bids from multiple publishing houses. She didn't need my help with online promotion; her growing online community was thriving. She had a staff to help her maintain it. Three years ago she had  a daughter, and her husband, a Harvard MBA, had stopped working to explore his own possibilities and now spent his days at their home near the ocean.

I thought to myself, she has everything she wants. What can I possibly do for her? Perhaps, it became increasingly apparent to me, it was SHE who would help me.