The Life — and birthday — of Brian
Every now and then you meet someone who changes your life in ways you would never have imagined. You don’t recognize it at first, of course. Rarely does one consciously submit their worldview to the type of gentle scrutiny that holds up a mirror to the subject, inviting transformation if only a small peephole can be chiseled through a lifetime of rigid patterns and beliefs. If you’re lucky, you meet that person at a point in your life when your mind and heart have fertile ground for the seeds of growth on offer. If you’re stubborn like me, it might take a while, but you eventually get there.
It all began one chilly winter evening. Walking into the bar at the anointed hour, I was furious with my partner. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be in any of these places with him. Not in this particular context and certainly not tonight, with my dissertation defense just around the corner. He refused to take ‘no’ for an answer, though, evoking all the leverage at his disposal. He wanted to go on dates with other couples, and he needed me to come with him. “Look how cute they are,” he offers, pointing at their shared dating profile, as if I have any choice in the matter if I want household peace as I try to tie up the remaining loose ends of my thesis. What he meant, of course, was, “Look how cute she is.” It’s not jealousy that’s holding me back. It’s the lack of interest in online dating and the prospect of casual hookups in general. But I digress.
We enter the bar and, recognizing us from our pictures, they motion to us to join them at their window seats. They are, indeed, cute, and, while they seem cool enough, I am most certainly not in the mood. I introduce myself and sit next to the guy, who introduces himself as Brian, a cutie with brown hair and glasses. My partner sits on the opposite side, next to her, a cute, playful blonde, who also seems friendly. I’m still very upset with him, but I immediately feel comfortable. Taking conversational turns, the four of us make small talk to break the ice. “Have you met any cool people through these apps?,” my giddy partner inquires. “A few,” they agree, “and you two?” I glare at him, but thankfully neither of them seems to notice. “You’re the second couple we’ve met,” he shares, “and, yeah, the other couple was cool, at least until he realized she wasn’t interested in sex and was only going to dig his brain, talking about politics all night.” I’m not sure if I imagine it or not, but they seem to exchange glances that suggest his comment made them uncomfortable. Not that this would ultimately matter, in terms of his success in trying to woo her, as it would take approximately five minutes before he would burn that bridge. Never tell a feminist “girls really shouldn’t lift weights.” For fucks sake, don’t you learn that much in high school?
The flow of conversation is matched only by the flow of alcohol, which, at this point, is coursing through my veins. A superpower of mine has always been my ability to drink an obscene amount, while still appearing to be coherent. I call it the brain autopilot. The problem is, the next day I remember almost nothing, and any references made by my drinking companion to conversations had under these conditions will, embarrassingly, fall on fallow ground. Aside from some vague recollection of a vigorous debate about the basis of value for crypto — versus government-issued — currency, this would be one of those instances. Thankfully, however, I do retain a general sense of the overall tone of a given evening. A feeling, if not exactly a memory. On this occasion, I woke up feeling a connection had been forged. Even if I couldn’t say exactly why — or what that connection might entail.
Reeling from a nasty hangover, I receive an email from Brian later that morning, referring me to a couple of promised websites, one that would provide evidence to support some argument or another he had made the night before and another that I had apparently requested but had, of course, forgotten. Some pleasantries about the evening are also included and, scrolling to the bottom, I read, “I’d love to get together again one of these days soon if that’s something you’d enjoy.” Being new to all this, I don’t really know what to expect, etiquette-wise. I’ve never gone on dates with people while in a serious relationship with someone else. Indeed the opposite. Every boyfriend I’ve had prior to my current one was insanely jealous of even my male friends. Unsure how to respond, I quickly shoot off a casual “yeah, let’s do it one of these days,” collect my things to leave for campus, and head out the door. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, I think to myself.
As the months pass, many a tipsy night with Brian is also passed. Under the soft red lights of some bar or another, we debate politics, relationships, ethics, and any other topic about which there can never be ultimate resolution. “One of these days we’ll have to develop something akin to human rights for AI,” Brian asserts. I scrunch my nose, argue that robots aren’t sentient beings — could never be sentient beings — and around we go. This is in 2015, many years before anyone ever heard the name ChatGPT. As different as our debates may be in content, they all share one common thread — This Brian guy can hold his own, even when we’re talking about topics in, or adjacent to, my field of study.
More often than not, discussions about politics make way for discussions about polytics. I repeat over and over to Brian that I’m not interested in being poly. I’m ok with being open, I say, but not developing actual romantic relationships with people outside of my current one. That’s what I also tell everyone else in my life who actually knows my partner and I aren’t exactly monogamous. Undeterred, however, Brian pokes holes in nearly every reason I amass as to why polyamory is not for me. “Serious relationships are hard enough with two people,” I argue, “Add more variables, and you’re asking for trouble.” Identifying the general dysfunction, by no means unique to poly relationships, at the core of each potential issue I anticipate might arise, he makes significant progress on defusing my well-constructed and defended repudiations. “Poly just makes existing relationship problems clearer earlier on than in monogamy,” he repeats to me, “Would you prefer to know after a month or after five years that you can’t trust your partner to be honest about their feelings?” Well, Brian, I guess you have a point there. “But, what if my partner wants to spend more time with another partner? I’m time greedy, and I want attentionnnnn,” I tell him. “Well,” he reminds me, “people often occupy more of their time with work, family, or hobbies than their partner may like. This isn’t unique to poly.” The issue, he tells me, would be the ability (or lack thereof) to express one’s needs around time and presence to their partner and for their partner to work with them to see if this need can be satisfied, rather than dictating how, or with whom, your partner might spend their time. Ok, Brian, I see your damn point, I think to myself, but I’m still not ready for that. But Brian is patient, and his deployment of the Socratic method can erode even the most ardent relationship dogma.
The years go by, and we meet up on a quasi-regular basis. Sometimes a bar. Sometimes an event. Sometimes a party at someone’s house. Sometimes a restaurant — one I could never afford but offers him the opportunity to treat me simply because “he enjoys treating people he cares about to nice things.” Never content to allow me to lazily exist on social autopilot, Brian regularly exposes me to alternative ways of organizing relationships, describing — and showing me — arrangements I never would have considered fathomable in my pre-Brian life. Meet so and so, he would say, he’s married to her, she’s partnered with him over there and her on the other side of the room— oh, and her other partner, well, she has three partners, two here and a girlfriend in Finland, with whom she has a baby. South Carolina mind: blown. And here I thought I had left all of my provincial social constructs behind. Take that, Mrs. Waters — my religion teacher in elementary school, who, quite literally, sought to instill the fear of god in all of us!
The aforementioned peephole begins to open slightly, welcoming in the tiniest ray of light. Having been introduced to all of these different ways of organizing relationships, I finally begin to entertain the idea that maybe I, too, could actually care for someone, romantically, outside of my current long-term relationship. This wasn’t hypothetical, of course. A crush had developed between me and a friend of four years. He and his wife, both in my social circle, had not told anyone they were in an open relationship, precluding anything from developing between us until I garnered the growing courage Brian had carefully cultivated. One late night, I uttered the words to him over an excessively loud dj set at a political fundraiser: “We’re in an open relationship.” “So are we,” was “whispered” back at me, opening up all sorts of tantalizing possibilities. Only later, and after an unimaginable degree of grief and heartache, would I learn that a relationship model not so lovingly referred to as “Don’t ask, don’t tell” is something you don’t want to do, much less ask about or tell. Brian would immediately, and consistently, caution me about this, but it was too late. The heart wants what the heart wants.
One evening, perhaps a few weeks before Brian guesses the identity of my secret new love interest, he accompanies me to a neighborhood bar to meet him and his partner, the latter of whom, in light of their relationship agreement doesn’t know with any certainty that we are seeing each other. The two of them are tipsy when we arrive. Having shared with Brian that he works for a large financial institution and that, given his leftist views, this is generating a fair amount of cognitive dissonance, he goes all in. Introducing himself, he shakes his hand and playfully announces, “ah, you’re the <insert large bank> guy.” I duck to avoid the daggers coming from the eyes of my new partner, the OG provocateur, as I have a good internal laugh over Brian’s masterful way of communicating, “I see you.”
As the conditions in my relationship with my long-term partner and, therefore, my inter-tangled social life, implode, Brian remains a pillar of support. Never one to tell anyone what to do, his gentle Socratic method ever provides that small beam of light through the fog, illuminating the landscape for you, rather than telling you which path to take. “I support you whatever you decide you need to do,” he would reliably say, “I just want to encourage you to ask yourself what you want going forward and consider if you think this path will help you get to that destination.” The man has patience, I think to myself, on some level recognizing the dysfunction about which he is stealthily biting his tongue in an attempt to remain non-judgmental and supportive. When the inevitable day comes, the text I receive is predictably even-handed Brian tone: “I’m so sorry. I know you must be hurting. What can I do to support you?”
The old adage, be careful what you ask, likely applies here. The next day, Brian was over dragging my overweight portable air conditioning up the stairs from the basement in the stifling heat, while I sobbed on the sofa. “I don’t have a car this week,” I tearfully explain, “He took it to punish me for not succumbing to his ultimatum.” With a look of affection and concern on his face, Brian tells me he will drive me the hour and a half to teach later that afternoon. Truthfully, I’m comforted more by his company on this dark day than I am by even the reliable transportation I would not now have to secure in a context where I was now facing twice the expenses with my partner’s sudden departure. As we drive the winding road southward toward my campus, Brian, registering the depressive thoughts and dread suffocating any productivity that would be required to preside over a classroom of college students, suggests, “Hey, wanna stop at Moss Beach Distillery for lunch or a quick drink on the way?”
As I settle into my new life, living alone for the first time since college, I become open to a near dizzyingly array of new experiences. It’s as if I’m reliving my post-high school years, the structure and discipline of living at home having just been eviscerated. One evening, Brian and I go for cocktails at a spot in a neighborhood I don’t typically frequent. In a dark booth with a rustic chandelier overhead, he serves as the tour guide, ordering me one elaborate, perfectly balanced, elixir after another. Many cocktails and a magnifier or two into the evening, the conversation we share chisels away at what is left obscuring that peephole. I have an epiphany. I can be poly. So can <my secret partner>. We can bring all of this out of the dark into the light, confront the issues, openly, like adults, and construct something really beautiful as I had witnessed in Brian’s relationships and those in his social circle. Pandora’s box was now open. There was no going back.
Unfortunately, life never works out so neatly. The clarity I achieved that night was not shared by those necessary for things to develop as I desperately wanted. Throughout this most painful period of my life (up to that point), Brian encourages me to be cautious and introspective. Their chosen relationship structure inherently implies the inability — or unwillingness — to approach relationships openly and honestly. To sit with difficult feelings. He is right, of course, but the aforementioned beam of light that might illuminate the dangers lurking below was obscured by the single-mindedness with which I tenaciously pursued the love I felt certain could overcome even the most daunting obstacles.
Four years, multiple rounds of heartbreak, and untold hours spent listening and consoling later, Brian once again offers support in the exact form needed. Some people offer conditional support. Others offer support on their terms. Brian offers the support you ask for, without any discernible judgment. Offering to coach me and the same someone who had broken my heart two years before and then resurfaced, Brian painstakingly listens to the two of us, and using his usual Socratic method, guides the conversation in such a way as to lead us to our own answers. As I survey the living room where he points to the dry erase board he brought to organize our discussion, I take in my partner, opposite me on the sofa, digging deeply into the emotional vortex he has so carefully been avoiding, but can no longer ignore with the beam of light exposing its content. Six hours pass. We find some common ground. We identify some areas of impasse. Our future isn’t clear, but one thing is. If Brian can mediate difficult issues with two partners as snarky, stubborn, and assertive as the two of us, Brian can resolve the goddamn Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
This is Brian. Always taking care of partners. Always taking care of friends. Always taking care of friends of friends, for that matter. He is one of those rare gems who quietly — and without seeking recognition — serves both as a vital support beam holding up the community and a quiet leader that holds up the light to illuminate the landscape so you can choose the particular path that serves you. In a lighter sense, he just might also have exactly whatever random thing you need in any given moment — or didn’t even know you needed. A heated toilet seat? Check. A voice-responsive lighter for the candles you might place around his spectacular bathtub he invited you to enjoy, after your particularly horrific week? Check. An invigorating elixir of some sort while enjoying any or all of those things? Check. All while enjoying the welcoming, exhilarating environment he creates and offers when hosting one of the large regularly hosted gatherings at his home? Fucking check!
Perhaps there is exactly one thing Brian does not do well, namely allow others to take care of him. To hear him tell it, though, his fulfillment might exist in knowing and feeling that, for so many in his community, he is that person so many consider to be the one who changed their life in ways they never would have imagined. Maybe that is, in fact, the Life of Bri(an), who, not unlike Monty Python’s character, draws people to him because of, not in spite of, the humble, non-ostentatious strength he wields to support those around him. More humorously, as remarked by one friend, “Brian may very well be the true cult leader,” “genius wizard” that he is.
As Brian embarks on part two of his century long journey, one thing is clear. As the beneficiary of both his individual and community support, it is nearly impossible to find a way to properly acknowledge the appreciation that I have, that so many others whose lives he enriches on a daily basis, also have. Brian doesn’t actually need material things after all. Have you forgotten, dear reader, that he has whatever it is you yourself didn’t even know you needed — practically on demand? Brian also doesn’t like to be the one taken care of — at least not in the ways most people might consider spoiling someone. It is in this spirit that, lacking other resources or talents that might be appreciated, cobbling together some words creating a narrative that might (hopefully) convey how much I — how much all of us — appreciate Brian is just about all I can offer.
Happy fucking birthday, my dearest Brian ❤
I hope the second half of your century is even better than the first.