An Anecdotal Life

Odd Man Out

         Sometimes, when you're at an odd place in your life, you'll find someone who's just a little bit different than your normal fare and they'll do something, say a word or put something into motion, that will get you back to where you need to be. For me, that time was two and a half years ago, and that person was a man named Brian.

         I had just moved to the farm to live with Grandma and take another stab at college when I met him. I was feeling rather indebted to my grandmother, who had taken me in at no small expense to herself, so I'd set to finding work as fast as possible. The first thing that fell into my lap was a job doing telephone surveys for the university. It paid terribly and the hours were appaling, but it allowed me to go to school full time and I didn't have to spend anymore money on gas to get there, so I took it.

         Brian was a veteran pollster. He was a couple of years older than me and a couple of feet taller. He was always happy--there was too much hippie in him not to be--with his flip-flops and Bermuda shorts. He was a poet-philosopher, observer of life and artist extraordinaire. He could be sincere, and quite often was, but just as frequently he was full of crap.

         I was a skittish thing then, spooking at my own shadow, without a hint of social graces about me. He took me under his wing, this strange spiritual mentor and his tremulous, unsteady student.

         "Why are you here?" he asked me once during a lull in the polling lab. I blinked at him, then looked around.

         "I'm scheduled to work now," I said stupidly. He shook his head, grinning at me.

         "No, here, in school."

         "Oh." I studied my scuffy tennis shoes under the hem of my oldest pair of jeans. I wasn't exactly a fashion plate back then. "Well, to get my degree. Political science."

         "Why that?"

         "I like it?"

         "Are you asking me?" He went through the motions of logging an unanswered call before looking at me again.

         "No. I like it," I said more decisively. I logged my own call, then peeked over at him.

         "Huh," he grunted. He didn't say anything more, didn't even give me a dubious look, but I felt compelled to clear things up.

         "I love it. I mean, maybe not how things are just now--I'd like to see some election process reforms, and I'm desperate to do something about voter turnout, but I love the possibilities of..." I stopped and blushed, feeling infinitely dull.

         Brian grinned briefly. "Huh."

         Oddly enough, it made me feel good.

         Our personalities and lifestyles could not have been more different. He was a smoker--of more than one variety--and a drinker, a social man who enjoyed the bar scene and casual relationships. I was studious and intent, a girl who'd never even considered putting something with one end on fire anywhere near her mouth. I had been to a bar or two but always felt out of place. As for sex--no. None. I refused.

         And still we gravitated to one another. I wanted his flippant only-live-once attitude and I think he wanted a little of my innocence. We were good as friends, instantly comfortable and surprisingly trusting.

         My relationship with Mike was just getting over one of our off-again periods. To use a cliche or two, it was paper thin and fragile as glass. He and I were treading carefully in order to ensure that we took all the right steps this time around. Brian knew about Mike, but I think his own approach to love (it was great fun, but to be taken with a grain of salt) prevented him from being able to take us very seriously.

         The only true incident we ever had was after a Christmas party held by the professor who directed the polling group. I had arrived early to help get things set up (I had been promoted by that point, and apparently one of my new designations was as personal assistant to the professor), so I was sort of the unofficial hostess.

         After Brian arrived, I was both surprised and not a little ashamed to find myself seeking him out on a regular basis as I would pass through a room or step out into the garden. Eventually, we simply remained near one another. My own behavior disturbed me slightly, but he was one of the only people there that I knew on a personal basis, and as the alcohol began to flow more freely, the only one I felt even remotely comfortable with.

         Toward the end of the party, Brian came up behind me and touched my back. A few people had organized a smaller get together at another house and he wanted me to go with them. Heady with a few shots of liquor, my first social outing in years, and the instinctive knowledge that this man found me attractive, I agreed. It was the first and last time I ever drove under the influence of alcohol.

         Kate, my co-supervisor at work, was the one hosting the after-party. We wrapped ourselves in blankets, those who hadn't gotten their fill stocking up on beer, then headed out to sit on her icy porch and while away a few more hours revelling in our own philosophical brilliance. That was the first time I had ever actually seen marijuana.

         I had been sitting cross-legged, huddled under my afghan with Brian behind me for wind-blockage and added warmth, when I saw his long arm reach over my shoulder and take something from Kate's outstretched hand. At first, I thought it was a cigarette, but I must have known deep down it wasn't because it didn't surprise me when Brian explained things.

         "Do you mind?" he asked near my ear. I shook my head, feeling peculiarly distant. This was not the woman that I was; I didn't stay out too late, I didn't drink and drive, I didn't know anyone who did drugs, and I certainly didn't take comfort in sitting too close to men who were not my boyfriend.

         I would like to say that I felt nothing toward Brian, but that would be dishonest. That night, when I seemed destined to be someone I wasn't, I gave in a little, leaned back against him, and refused to think of Mike.

         Brian and I left Kate's to go back to his house. As naive as it may sound, I honestly did not consider what that might mean. We spent a long time sitting on his kitchen floor, eating breakfast and drinking hot tea. Sometime during that period, I told him about why I had really moved in with Grandma, the rape and everything, and I felt his demeanor change.

         "Stay and sleep here," he said gently. I peered into the living room toward his couch, but shook my head with an apologetic smile.

         "I need to go home. Grandma will worry."

         "You're sure?"

         "Positive." The alcohol was clearing from my mind and guilt over what might have happened was settling into my conscience. "Thank you, though. Really."

         He nodded, putting our dishes in the sink while I gathered my things. He walked me out to my car, then turned me to face him.

         "Be safe." And then he kissed me. I stood frozen--this was the first man to really kiss me since Robert in Kentucky--and as I stood complacent, he tried to deepen the kiss.

         But I was not the same girl I had been at eighteen. I put my hand on his chest and lowered my face.

         "Okay," he said after a moment. He hugged me then, pulling me against his lanky frame. He was always so thin, and I remember feeling his ribs easily through his shirt. "If it means anything, I only meant to sleep with you. I wasn't going to try anything."

         That startled me enough that I stepped back. I had thought he meant for me to sleep on his couch. In his bed had never occured to me. I knew in that instant that the rest of our relationship would have to be dictated by me, and nothing like that night could ever come close to happening again.

         And suddenly I felt strong. I could say no--I had said no--and it meant something. I smiled a funny little smile and shook my head.

         "Makes no difference at all, Brian," I said, and went home.

         He and I visited a couple bars after that night, but our time outside of work was scarce and we went on with the lives that were typical to us. One day, an opportunity came up and he moved away to chase his dreams. We separated as friends, both of us a little different, a little better for having known one another.

         The last thing we did was to find a book that meant something profound to each of us and exchange them. I don't remember what I wrote inside the cover of the book I gave him ("Illusions" by Richard Bach), but I do remember the gist: be who you were meant to be and don't scoff so at true love.

         He got "The Tao of Pooh," a book that was so very Brian, and here is what he wrote to me:

"To Casey:

         'An inch of time cannot be bought with an inch of gold.'

         Time spent with you certainly has brought wealth, joy, and maybe even a little wisdom into my life. Paths may converge and depart, and hours and miles can separate, but so long as you're out there this world is a little better. Remember: I have a helluva lot of faith in you.

         It's my hope this book will bring you joy.

         And maybe even a little wisdom.

                             Love always,
                                       Brian."