Brian's Song, Part 2
This is a little reminiscence about a dear friend I met in the early 1990s, Brian Langer. If you’d like to read Part 1, you can do so here.
********************
Every time Brian and I meet throughout the summer, I learn a bit more about him. Because Brian is perpetually single and because I’m still raw from the dissolution of my marriage, we end up spending a lot of time together.
I’m fascinated by his obvious eccentricities, though the word “eccentric” doesn’t quite seem to do him justice; he’s even more eccentric than eccentric. Whatever “regular” society considers normal, Brian is determined to turn on its head.
To begin with, he’s an intelligent, able-bodied man in his 30s who doesn’t have a job. Instead, as an inventor, he spends his working hours (anywhere between 3:00 AM and mid-afternoon) tinkering in his “laboratory.” Once he’s played with his inventions enough, he sleeps, rouses about seven hours later, showers and begins his social day.
For Brian, “social life” often involves platonic get-togethers with one of his best friends, a prostitute named Penny Hoar (yes, I did ask, and yes, that’s her real name), hanging out at the local greasy spoon, KOS (which he is convinced is pronounced “chaos,” though I find out later, is actually the name of a Greek island, pronounced just as it’s written), or spending the evening listening to jazz and blues at Grossman’s Tavern, a favorite hangout of the university set.
As the August days grow shorter and new semester prep beckons, I assume we’ll drift apart once school starts up again next month and I return to a full teaching load. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, our friendship deepens with each long, alcohol-buttressed conversation, usually at one of the local bars.
There’s something about Brian that elicits long, intimate conversations and confidences that I rarely share with others, especially not males. Yet I feel a strong sense of safety and steadiness in my relationship with him, knowing my secrets are safe and impenetrable, as if housed within the thick and sturdy walls of a safety deposit box. I trust that what I tell him will remain private, and I also trust his opinion.
I marvel over and over how we could nurture such a deep friendship given how completely different we are.
With time, Brian tells me more about his past as well. He grew up in a regular middle-class family. His father was a doctor. He had two sisters and a brother. While his birth family still lives in Saskatoon, he left in his teens, is no longer in touch, and admits he hadn’t been the best son when he left.
As someone who grew up in close-knit, albeit highly dysfunctional, family, the idea of cutting all ties with my relatives seems both exotic and courageous to me.
********************
“I’m so jealous!” I screech into the phone.
It’s spring of 1995, and I’m lying on the couch in front of the TV in my basement apartment, Diet Pepsi and Caramilk bar by my side, only half glancing at Murphy Brown on the screen.
By now, Brian and I have settled into a comfortable, dependable friendship, where we speak on the phone for hours on weeknights, getting together in person on weekends for brunch or bar hopping.
“I know. But you can visit.” He giggles. His giggle sounds like a cross between a wheeze and cartoon Goofy’s “hyuk hyuk” laugh.
He’s just told me he adopted a dog. Ever since I left my marriage and the gorgeous German Short-haired Pointer I shared with my ex, I’ve been craving another canine in my life.
“What’s her name? What kind of dog is she?”
“A mutt. I named her Sheilagh. After one of my ex girlfriends.”
I don’t ask. Over the years, I’ve learned a lot more about Brian’s past and his former relationships.
For instance, he told me he had been a drug addict in his youth. He called himself a “needle junkie,” and, when I stared blankly at the term, he explained it meant he would take any drug offered as long as it could be injected. One day, in his twenties, he decided to quit cold turkey, and hadn’t used drugs since then.
He had also dated dozens of women and admitted to making a lot of poor choices in that area. One ex-girlfriend, in particular, remained a sore point for him. They had lived together for a short time, and his regret and anger were clear when he told me the story.
“She was actually bigger than me,” he said. I didn’t find that hard to believe. Brian was tall, but quite skinny. Another reason he and I could never date.
“And she used to shove me around when she got pissed off. It started out as a joke, but eventually, she would slap me if she got mad. One time, we were in the kitchen and she hit me. I guess I was fed up; I slapped her back. Well, she called the cops on me. I ended up in jail overnight for assault.”
Looking at the guy in front of me, it seemed impossible any police officer could accept that Brian was capable of assault.
“That night, I made a decision,” he said. “That no matter how awful my girlfriend is to me, I won’t ever hit another woman. It doesn’t matter what she does. I’ll either just sit there, or leave.”
It’s clear from his face that jail had been traumatic. Despite his quirkiness and nonconformity, in every way, Brian is always law-abiding. A few weeks ago, he even boasted about getting his taxes done early. I can see how a night in jail would not only upend his daily life, but also unsettle his self image as a good human.
Something about the story disturbs me, and the unease sticks with me, like cigarette smoke embedded in the fabric of a sweater. It comes back to haunt me, later.
“So when can I meet Sheilagh?” I say.
*******
Now that we’ve been friends for more than five years, departing from the norm is just a regular feature in Brian’s overall personality, like his silly laugh or his unnerving directness. Or his garlic allergy, which prompts him to ask long, detailed questions, entirely un-selfconsciously, about every dish on the menu whenever we eat together at a restaurant.
The thing is, as I get to know him more and more, I realize that Brian is actually more “closet bourgeoisie” than pure nonconformist.
I mean, he has an incredible work ethic, even though he works odd hours. His home is always immaculate, even if he does live in an old duplex that looks like it should be condemned. He’s meticulous with his finances and consistently saves for retirement.
Yet he takes great pride in the fact that he’s “different,” and he nurtures it the way he’d care for a rare and exotic bird that elicits both squeals of delight and strange stares from passers-by. He loves the fact that everything about him is different from everyone else we know.
And then one day—seemingly out of nowhere—he decides that he does want to be just like everyone else after all.
“Can you dog sit Sheilagh for me this weekend?” he asks. We haven’t spoken for a couple of weeks, and I’m taken aback.
“Sure,” I say. I’d never pass up the opportunity for a surrogate dog in my life. “Why?”
“I’m going to a Tony Robbins seminar!”
I’m speechless. Of course, I’ve heard of Tony Robbins (who hasn’t?), but this just isn’t what I’d expect from my uber-eccentric, anti-establishment friend.
“Wow,” I finally answer. “What’s the seminar?”
“It’s all about finding your true potential,” he says. “You know, where they get you all fired up. And then you actually walk on fire.”
I’ve heard these things can be intense. “That sounds pretty crazy,” I say.
“I know!” And there’s that distinctive giggle again. “This really could change everything.”
And so, it does.
(Continued in Part 3. . . .).
********************
As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this article, please share it with someone else! Or support me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription. I’ll be eternally grateful either way.
*******************