Messing Up

I paid $74 to watch an old man wave his arms. Normally, that’s not my thing—but it was John Williams, conducting an orchestra. His whole body bounced, his coattails swinging. The violin players grinned up at him, chins pressed to their instruments. As the soundtrack of my childhood surrounded me, I looked around the audience, loving everyone.

From a distance, they looked normal—except that shawl was a Gryffindor scarf. That white dinner jacket with a red carnation? It belonged in a museum. And those hair buns? Impressive. Most impressive. These were my people, my tribe, my—

I spotted the back of a tall, boxy head.

I sat up. Was it?

It was.

Pete Docter. The director of Up.

I recognized his cranium because I’ve obsessed over movies since I was old enough to embarrass myself. My social life has always been a series of small humiliations—awkward pauses, forgotten names, jokes taken the wrong way. Who needs it? Better to hide in my room and watch movies—and videos about movies. Now a talking head from those videos had popped into real life.

John Williams stabbed the air. The brass blared the opening notes of Star Wars.

I'd seen enough movies to recognize the start of an adventure.

At intermission, I tried to meet Pete Docter in the aisle, but he went up the other aisle. I raced to the foyer and stood on my toes, scanning the crowd.

There! His head bobbed on a sea of heads.

I followed, weaving around couples in conversation, cutting through the snack bar line, repeating, “Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me…”

I don’t go nuts around celebrities. I don't shriek or demand photos. I usually pretend I don’t recognize them—while texting everyone I know. But Up makes me laugh through tears, this story about a lonely widower finding a friend. I wanted to shake Pete Docter’s hand, thank him, and tell the story for the rest of my life: I met a great artist once.

When I reached his back, my knees shook. “Mister Docter?” I called, but my voice was a whimper, drowned by the crowd. "Mister Docter?" I touched his shoulder.

He spun around. It really was him—a lanky man with a rectangular head, as geometric as his characters.

“Mister Docter?” I felt dizzy.

“Yes?”

“I’m Hank Voge.”

“Oh, hi!” He nodded to show he remembered me.

“No, we don’t know each other,” I said.

“Oh.”

I could read it on his face: What sort of person taps a stranger on the shoulder?

Handshakes require some setup. Nothing complicated—just greet the person, shake their hand. Thank the person, shake their hand. Say goodbye, shake their hand. But you need to say something.

I stuck out my hand. No words.

Pete Docter blinked at it, confused.

Then, catching on, he reached for it—

But before our hands could meet, someone cut between us. Then another person. And another. I kept my hand out, waiting for the traffic to pass, but they kept coming—more and more people.

Pete Docter dropped his hand. But when he saw mine, his face lit up. He looked me in the eye and swung his hand out again, waiting with me. We were in this together now, Pete Docter and I. By God, we would shake hands even if the whole building passed between us.

It was such a playful gesture—leaning into the awkwardness, making it a game. It felt like something I’d do. I’m always breaking into song, putting on voices, making mischief. Be serious, people say. Stop being weird.

Had I found a kindred spirit?

It was a ridiculous thought. I blush to confess it. But as we looked into each other’s eyes, playing statues across a stream of people, I wondered if Pete Docter and I could be friends.

We stood like that for at least a full minute. When the last person had passed, we shook hands.

“Thank you for making Up,” I said.

“I’m sorry?” he shouted. The room was so loud.

“Thanks for making Up!”

He looked confused.

“Thanks for making your movie”—I paused for clarity—“Up.”

“What?”

“Up!” I cried, unraveling. “Your movie!”

“Oh yeah,” he said, leaning away, nodding. He had decided I was crazy.

“Thanks for making it,” I said.

He kept nodding. “Uh-huh.”

“Thanks.”

I stumbled off to faint somewhere.

Two years later, the Castro Theater celebrated Toy Story’s twentieth anniversary. I arrived early to get a good seat, and as I admired the old theater—the chandelier, the murals, the organ—I noticed a familiar head.

Two.

Together in the front row.

Pete Docter and Andrew Stanton.

Oh, if only that last conversation had gone well! I could say, “Hey, Pete,” and he'd introduce me to Andrew Stanton, and we'd all get beers after the show, trading stories, falling over each other laughing. They would proclaim me a long-lost brother!

But no. Pete Docter probably told stories about me—the weirdo with the handshake. I couldn’t face him...

No, come on. He probably forgot all about that. And I had to meet Andrew Stanton. Finding Nemo is the story of my mother and me, performed by cartoon fish.

A woman in black showed Pete Docter a document.

I made my move.

“Mister Stanton?”

Andrew Stanton smiled. “Yes. Hi.”

“Thanks for making Finding Nemo.”

Pete Docter swiveled and looked at me. I pretended not to notice.

“Thanks for coming over,” said Andrew Stanton. “What’s your name?”

“Hank Voge.”

“Good to meet you, Hank.”

He shook my hand, no problem, and tried to make conversation, telling me about this event, asking me questions.

But all I could think about was Pete Docter, staring at me.

“Well, thanks for, um, Finding Nemo,” I said. Again.

Andrew Stanton didn’t know what to say this time. “Yeah…”

“Thanks.”

I fled.

The audience was starting to arrive: couples sharing popcorn, families saving seats with their coats. I took my seat, alone, and stared at the ground.

My hands.

The ceiling.

Then I glanced at them.

Andrew Stanton and Pete Docter were looking over their shoulders at me, muttering to each other. The story had a sequel.

Please, someone, dim the lights. Roll a movie. Show me people through protective glass—every conversation planned out, every line just right. And music by John Williams, transporting me far, far away.