We wandered about Pixar for a good hour or so, and then we trundled off to dinner. Jason had chosen this Moroccan place, the name of which I can’t remember. There was a bit of a snag when we realized that Moroccan-style dining involved sitting on the floor, which Mr. Rigney was not able to do, but the staff kindly set up a Western-style table for us toward the back, so all was well.
As it happened, Jason and I were sitting right next to Mr. Rigney at the table on opposite sides, and therefore shamelessly monopolized him for most of the meal, while his wife held court at the other end. He told fascinating stories all through dinner, and I’m now kicking myself for not having written anything about them down at the time. Three years on, sadly, I can’t really remember the substance, though at least a few of them involved anecdotes of his childhood, and we compared notes on growing up in the South. I do remember at one point gaining startled kudos from him for knowing what l’esprit d’escalier meant.
He seemed…contented, to me. And by that I mean not just in emotional terms, but as an entire - outlook on life, I guess. What I have no doubt struck some as insufferable arrogance, came across to me as a relaxed self-confidence that needed absolutely no outside validation. Truly, an intensely annoying attitude, to those who see it as an affront to their own lack of security.
This was a man who knew exactly who and what he was. He was a storyteller.
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