Brian's Song, Part 3
This is a part of a reminiscence about a dear friend I met in the early 1990s, Brian Langer. If you’d like to catch up on previous excerpts, read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.
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It’s been a bit of an adjustment getting used to this new and “improved,” Yuppie version of Brian. After Tony Robbins, Brian came back channeling Gordon Gekko in the movie Wall Street.
“The guy’s amazing!” he enthused when he stopped at my apartment to pick up Sheilagh. “You leave just knowing that you were. . . meant for more.”
To be honest, I’m happy to see this transformation, even though I find some of his new practices distasteful. I always thought that Brian was too smart to be spending his time with derelicts in a home that should have been torn down and recycled.
A few weeks after the event, we meet for brunch. He’s already completed a course about computer printing (or “computer something,” as my friends and I refer to the field in general) and has been looking for a–gasp!--JOB.
“It’s time to start making some money,” he tells me, as he removes a new leather jacket and carefully drapes it over the back of a chair.
“You know, I realized I’m lonely. I want to have kids. And it looks like I’ll need a job if I want to find a wife and have a family.” He crooks his index finger at the waitress across the room.
Secretly, I worry that it will affect our friendship. It’s been great having a “perma-date,” a guy with whom I can be entirely myself, who will also accompany me to social events when a date is required. It’s also lovely to have someone to go out with in the evenings when my women friends are busy (most of them out on real dates).
It’s because of my comfort with Brian that, I realize, I’ve begun to think about re-entering the dating scene myself.
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It’s March, 1997. Brian calls to announce he’s throwing a party. Not just any party, mind you–a huge bash in honor of his 40th birthday on April 6.
“Who’s invited?” I ask.
“Well, you, of course,” he says. “And also some of my regular friends–but only certain ones. And a few people from my new job.”
“You’re inviting your old friends with your new friends?” I ask.
This new Brian–who now sports “slacks” instead of jeans, buttoned shirts instead of T-shirts, his leather jacket paired with scarves and a beret–well, at this point even Brian himself would no longer fit in with his old friends.
“Just the ones who won’t start breaking things after a few drinks.” He says. “And maybe a few even older friends, back from when I last had a job.”
As far as I know, the last time he had a job was almost 20 years ago. But I smile and start planning what I’ll wear to the party.
As the date approaches, I’m consumed by dread. I know most of Brian’s friends live on the fringes of society, either because they’ve opted out, like him, or because they’ve been shoved out due to addiction, crime, or social mores that still, in the 1990s, weren’t quite acceptable in polite society.
But Brian has become a cherished friend. I know he has single-handedly restored my faith in men and the fact that some men, at least, can be trusted. Plus, I genuinely want to be there for his 40th.
So, I don my best denim mini-skirt, black sweater and boots, dangly earrings and grab a bottle of wine before I head out the door.
As it turns out, I have the best time.
It feels as if every single party guest embodies a sparkly joie de vivre. Everyone I meet is friendly, chatty, and full of interesting stories.
I spend the first half of the evening talking to Brian’s cousin, Steve, who looks like a slightly plumper version of Brian himself. With all the wine-infused chatter, I can’t even remember what we talk about, but I know that I laugh frequently and easily. I’m actually relaxed—talking to a man!
The remainder of the night is taken up by conversation with a tall, smiling fellow named Cameron. I ask how he knows Brian (he used to be married to the sister of Brian’s cousin). He shares his love of music and stereos (by the way, did I know that Brian invented something called “The Brianizer”?) and how he was recently divorced and ended up living on another friend’s couch for six months.
When 3:00 AM rolls around, I prepare to leave.
“Great talking to you!” Cameron says, nodding and smiling.
“You, too!” I say. And pause.
He’s still smiling, his head bobbing. I wonder if I’ve forgotten the details of dating etiquette. Isn’t this where he’s supposed to ask for my number? But it’s been six years, so what do I know. I’m disappointed, but tired and ready to hit the road.
“Well, nice to meet you,” I offer. “Enjoy the rest of the party.”
The following morning, I realize I’m replaying the previous night’s conversations in my head. I call Brian, hoping I haven’t woken him.
Turns out the shindig went until 5:00 AM, with nothing broken except one glass in the kitchen.
“I had a great time, surprisingly,” I admit. “I had great conversations with your cousin and that other guy, Cameron.” Then I surprise myself. “Do you think I could have their phone numbers?”
Brian laughs. “Sure,” he says. “But if I were you, I’d go with Cameron. At least he’s gainfully employed.”
So that’s what I do. And to my surprise and delight, he says yes. And to my even greater surprise, here we are, 27 years later, still together.
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Now that he’s in his 40s and time’s winged chariot is hurrying near, Brian’s quest for a wife ramps up considerably. He has decided he’ll be married and have kids before he’s 45. A year ago, I might have thought that goal to be impossible. But with this new Brian who’s become a minor superstar at his computer business, I believe anything could happen.
“I joined three dating services,” he tells me when we meet up for drinks. “I’ve met a couple of women so far, but nothing’s really clicked.”
“Wow, you are a man on a mission,” I say.
“I know, I never realized how much I want to procreate,” he says. And laughs.
The guy sitting across from me is a completely different person from the one I met over five years ago. His new uniform is preppy sweaters and scarves, and he even bought a second-hand car, a Lada.
Over the next two years, Brian dates dozens of women. I have trouble keeping track. Almost as soon as I remember the name of one girlfriend, he’s on to another. While he’s open to any size, shape or ethnicity, there is no single woman measures up to Brian’s myriad criteria. Either they’re too involved in their career or not intelligent enough; too needy or too aloof; too religious or not witty enough.
At one point, Brian begins to date a friend of mine who is also keen to have a child and they decide they’ll enter into a practical agreement to co-parent while continuing separate lives otherwise. This relationship is his longest, lasting about a year.
And I have to admit, it’s also a great boon to my own social life with Cameron, since we often double date and become a frequent foursome, given that both Cameron and Brian have already known each other for years, as have my friend and I. When that alliance ends, childless, Brian decides to give up on dating for a while.
Instead, he focuses on building his business empire. One day he announces that he’s surpassed 100K in income for the first time in his life. Shortly thereafter, he purchases a house, a small semi-detached on Concord Avenue near Dupont & Ossington.
“How’s the house?” I ask when we next speak.
“It’s good. Needs a little work, but that’s okay,” he says. It’s one of those old, slightly rickety homes built almost a century ago, with two floors and a bunch of small rooms off long, narrow hallways.
“How are the neighbors?” I ask.
“I saw them moving in last week,” he says. “I think they’re students. Two young women going to Ryerson. One of them has a French name.” I can almost hear him smile. “She’s cute.”
Something sparks in the back of my mind. I know he’s still on a quest to find a mother for his children.
“Since when is a French student your type?” I’m joking, but there’s a feeling in the pit of my stomach that’s worried.
“She’s not a French student,” he counters. “She’s a student who’s French. And don’t worry, she’s 20 years younger than me. She’d have to be crazy to be interested.”
“That never stopped you before,” I say. We both laugh.
The fact is, Brian and I haven’t seen much of each other lately. We still talk on the phone and I still feel our connection, but since our fabulous foursome broke up, the HH and I have been focusing more on building our life together as a couple. I haven’t told anyone, but we’re secretly trying to have a baby.
“You’ll have to come by and see the house,” he says.
“We would love to,” I say, and I mean it. But somehow, it never seems to happen.
(Continued in Part 4. . . ).
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I am interested in how long he kept that Lada!