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Last week I had a meeting with a sound engineer who has been in the theater business for many years. I called him about renting equipment, and we talked for over an hour. He’d been a projectionist at one of the most impressive buildings in Bay St. Louis, a huge theater on the beach that fell on hard times when multiple screen houses opened in the larger town of Gulfport. I was taken by his energy and knowledge and by his generosity. At one point, I asked if he’d work as a consultant. He said, "That’s what I’m doing now. Whatever advice I give you is free, whether you take it or not."

We talked for a long time at the Mockingbird Cafe, a popular haunt, and one of the first businesses to open after Katrina. The discussion focused on whether movies could be shown easily and cheaply in a space I was considering. As is his way, he discussed several options. Then after an unusual lull in the conversation, he said something that surprised me. He ask how old I was. I didn’t understand. His tone of voice and the look in his eye suggested he was serious, but I couldn’t make the connection between our conversation and his question. He saw my confusion and helped me along, "Fifty, fifty-two"? Like most of us, I like to imagine I look younger than I am, but he was close, too close, and getting closer. Afraid of how high he might go, I blurted it out, "I’m fifty-five."

He smiled and paused, and then the strangest thing happened. He proceeded to list all the things that might and probably would go wrong with the movie theater. He said people wouldn’t come because the theater owners in Gulfport would keep me from getting first run films. He described how expensive projector bulbs often go dark in the middle of a show and are known to burn the flesh off a hand or cause blindness when they’re changed. Finally, he predicted that after all my hard work and sacrifice (the losing sleep, the going in debt, the failing health). a national chain with deep pockets would build a state-of-the-art multi-plex in Bay St. Louis and put me out of business.

I don’t remember a lot of what happened after that, except somehow we ended up in the parking lot, where I discovered it was raining and my car’s right rear wheel was flat. After an awkward silence, he hugged me and said, "I’m behind what you’re doing. This town needs a theater. Anything I can do, I mean anything, just call." The pep talk was surprising considering what preceded it, but I could see he was sincere. He was genuinely excited about the project and didn’t want me to give up. Yet, for some reason, he felt compelled to show me what I was up against.

I puzzled over this and finally understood he was right to bring a sense of reality to my "dream job." Still, our encounter caused me to question my motivation. I mean, he had a point. Generally speaking, projects like opening theaters in disaster areas are the province of idealistic young people eager to prove themselves. But then I realized that older people are not that different. We also want meaningful work even though we’re increasingly overlooked because of age. I sent out dozens of resumes after Katrina, but no jobs came my way.  Yes, I need a job, but not just any job. I want to help my adopted town get back on its feet, and I think a lot of older (and younger) people feel that way: they want to connect, to sacrifice, to dream. I believe that’s what the sound engineer was up to when he hugged me in that rain-soaked parking lot. He had told me the truth, but sometimes the truth isn’t enough. He was saying, "It’s going to be tough, and there’s a good chance you’ll fail. But I want to be there. I want to help."