Brian's Song, Part 1
April 6 is an important day in my world: it’s both my anniversary with the HH and also the birthday of my friend Brian Langer. While I haven’t celebrated with Brian in many years, I’ve been wanting to write something about our odd, yet meaningful, friendship for a long time. And what better place to throw it out there than this very Substack? So here is the beginning of a piece I’m working on about Brian.
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It’s 3:12 AM on a Sunday morning in the summer of 1992, and I’m sitting on a park bench in a deserted park with a man I don’t know.
“I bet you’re thinking that you’re alone with a strange man and who knows what I could do,” he says. “I could be an axe murderer, for all you know.”
I have to laugh. Fact is, I have indeed just been thinking that exact thought (or worse).
Whatever this is started out as a date, but it pretty quickly became something else; I’m just not sure what, yet. No matter. I already know in my bones that there’s no threat from this man and that he would never hurt me--or anyone else. Brian has a quiet, naturally gentle nature that’s obvious, even to me, skittish and anxiety-prone as I am.
How did we end up here? I met Brian last week at a party that my colleague, Janet, invited me to. It’s been over a year since my marriage broke up in a sudden and traumatic way, and I’ve still not recovered from learning that my ex was basically lying to me from the beginning of our relationship. The idea of trusting a man enough to go on a date seemed inconceivable.
When we arrived at the party last week, Janet immediately took off to chatter and mingle with the other guests. As I stood awkwardly by the kitchen entrance, a plastic tumbler of wine in my hand, I was approached by a smiling man: tall (maybe just shy of six feet) and lanky, he appeared to be in his forties with short, frazzled hair that had begun to thin on top. What struck me most were his eyes: almost too large for his face, in a Marty Feldman kind of way, yet with a compelling clarity and somewhat mischievous sparkle.
He held his own plastic cup aloft, as if the dark brown liquid within were toasting my bravado in attending this shindig.
“Is that a rum and coke?” I asked.
“Just coke,” he said. “I quit drinking alcohol.” He smiled even larger, obviously self-satisfied with his achievement.
“Wow, good for you!” I said. “How long has it been?”
“Four hours,” he said, taking a swig. “I quit this afternoon.” Big smile.
Was he joking? I searched his face and saw a twinkle in those Marty Feldman eyes.
“Wow, that’s quite some willpower you’ve got there.”
“Yes, I know!” He nodded vigorously, clearly proud of himself, then broke into laughter.
“Brian,” he said.
“I’m Ricki.” I couldn’t help but smile.
We spent the next three hours chatting. He was friends with the host, who was his accountant, he hated parties but this was a special friend, he lived just down the street, he didn’t know anyone at the party, he was single, he hailed from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, where it got so cold in winter that you had a special electrical cord on your car so you could plug it into a space heater, even in a closed garage, to prevent the engine from freezing.
I asked what he did for a living. After an almost imperceptible pause, he offered, “I’m an inventor.”
(I found out later that this was, technically, true: in the late 1980s, he had invented a tool for audiophiles that he humbly named the “Brianizer.” It was a “Leslie emulator” that is still appreciated and resold by stereophiles even today).
When it was time to leave, he extended his hand. “Great to meet you,” he said.
“You, too.” I realized it was the first time I’d actually enjoyed myself--even laughed--in months. After the debacle with the Starter Husband, I’d sworn off men. For life.
“Hey, we should meet again,” he continued. “How about going out for dinner next week?”
I was so taken aback I didn’t have time to come up with an excuse. “Sure,” I said.
By this time, all I really knew about Brian was his name and, apart from his obvious intelligence and slightly zany humor, not much else.
And yet, here I am now, 3:15 AM in darkness so deep, I can barely make out the human form on the bench beside me.
“I’m not worried,” I say. “I know you’re not going to do anything.” I stand up. “But I do have to get home.”
“Okay,” he says, rising.
When we approach my house, we stop at the curb. “Well, I guess we’re not really attracted to each other,” he says. I’m again taken aback by the straightforwardness.
“Yeah, I guess not.”
Anyone looking at us would notice the jarring contrast between a fashion-conscious woman in her 30s with moussed hair, gigantic faux jewel earrings, fuschia sweater (complete with 90s-era shoulder pads), black miniskirt with textured tights and new black ankle boots, eyes (in the style of Duran Duran) outlined in kohl and lipstick painstakingly chosen to match the sweater’s hue exactly. Beside her, a thin, slightly disheveled man with short wiry brown hair, his jeans and red cotton sweater, while clean and neat, having both seen better days, scuffed and well-worn sneakers on his feet.
“That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, though,” he goes on. “I really enjoyed talking to you. Maybe we can do this again.”
And for the following twelve years, we did. Brian became one of my closest friends, a confidant, a supporter and ultimately, a matchmaker. Even today, in 2024, I still miss him.
This is for you, Brian.
(continued in Part 2. . . . )
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Such a lovely tribute to your friend. And I couldn't help but laugh at the description of the outfit you wore on your date. Happy anniversary to you and 'the HH'!