In Bryan's Eyes

I once saw the entirety of my own tragedy pass, in a single moment, through the eyes of an old man. It was at my going away shindig. Our going away shindig–my housemate Scarlett’s and mine. She was leaving to pursue her PhD at my own old stomping grounds in San Diego. And I would travel to Oregon to attempt a second bachelor’s degree in an entirely new subject. So we would leave behind the Lorrain Street house, a slightly derelict semblance of a modest mansion in old Austin, Texas.

 It was nothing new to the house, losing residents. Lorrain Street was in its second decade as a communal home for unrooted adults working in the music-centric town. The home’s claims to fame, other than its rate of lessee turnover, were that it had once hosted a working bakery in its kitchen, and that it had a partial view of the very real mansion across the street, home to music legend Jerry Jeff Walker. Yes, our wifi network was called Jerry Jeff Gawker; password: SangriaWine.

 The old guy, my tragedy seer, was the PI–”principal investigator,” as I’d come to know well since living here–on the research project Scarlett had been working on for the last year. Or maybe he was just a colleague from Pickle, the big research facility associated with UT Austin. I wasn’t clear. He was one of Austin’s many hip older folk who were up for musical adventures with the twenty-somethings, and he’d joined us at a number of shows around town. He and I were friendly enough, and I probably even remembered his name at the time. Bryan?

 Bryan struck up a conversation.

 “So this is your going away party too, I hear.”

 He was there as a guest of Scarlett’s, of course.

 “Yep,” I explained to him my plans in Oregon. I was still hoping someone in academia would hear what I was planning and tell me whether I was on a good path or a giant dead end, but people always seemed to assume I knew exactly where I was headed. I didn’t, of course.

 “So is your boyfriend heading west too, or are you planning to do the long distance thing?”

 I blanked at him for a moment. Was he confusing me with someone else? Was this an off kilter pickup strategy?

 “No boyfriend to worry about.”

 Incredulity filled his face, “Did you two split up?”

 I shook my head, furrowed my brow. No breakups here. Just no boyfriend.

 He looked like I was having him on, and almost seemed angry. Maybe I was poking fun at the old guy.

 “Come on,” he said. “I’ve been out with you guys several times. We just went to that dance at the old trolley barn a week or two ago.”

 I knew what he meant, of course–who he meant. I even let it warm my heart a bit that, at least in one person’s mind, we had been an item.

 “Oh, Dwayne?” I asked. “We’re just friends. Just roommates, really. And only that for two more days.”

 A gaping maw appeared between his bushy mustache and beard. I was surprised by the magnitude of his reaction. Where was his investment here?

 “He’s actually out picking up his long-distance girlfriend from Berkley, now,” I continued, as if to strengthen my case. “She’s just finished her PhD. I guess Dwayne’s PI said he could rig up a postdoc position for her here. So they’ll be postdocking here, together. And living here, together. At Lorrain Street.”

 I saw all the dots connect in his eyes. I couldn’t blame him. If my own eyes were as easily read as his, it was hardly his fault for thinking that Dwayne and I were a set. I knew I mooned over Dwayne–hung on his every word, every glance. It was pathetic. Half the tragedy. But Bryan’s assumption that we were paired made me wonder if the glimmer of reciprocation I often thought I glimpsed might not be so imagined, after all.

 There had been moments, several moments, when I felt sure Dwayne was pushing me to make a move, like the ball was in my court. But it wasn’t. He and Sam weren’t official, at least before her arrival here had been planned. He was technically a free agent. But they weren’t not together either.

 I’d somehow never met Sam. Dwayne flew out there, or her visits coincided with my being out of town. It made her even harder to live up to. How could I possibly open myself to intimacy and vulnerability with Dwayne, knowing that he would inevitably compare every aspect of me against this other specific candidate?

 I couldn’t compete. Not with legendary Sam of PhD stature at UC Berkeley, for whom postdoc positions are simply whipped up. This, to say nothing of my discomfort at the idea of sabotaging a relationship with roots already developed.

 Meanwhile, my job in Austin was doomed anyways. The company had been acquired and employees were falling like flies. So in unison with the news that the top floor bedroom at Lorrain Street would be taking on a second inhabitant, I’d found the Oregon option. For better or for worse. That is, I was running away.

 I shrugged at Bryan, feeling uncomfortable. I watched as the look in his eyes shifted from surprise to distaste. I saw that, though he might enjoy music, going-away parties, and late nights out like us young folk, he was neither young nor stupid and he suddenly remembered that we were. I saw him scoffing at the waste of a vibrant connection, at things being allowed to go unsaid where courage might have yielded something beautiful. I saw him so disgusted that he deposited his half-finished beer on the counter, turned, and exited out the back door.

 Then again, maybe all I saw was a man embarrassed at having misjudged a social arrangement and hurrying away from an awkward exchange.

 In any case, it was my last encounter with Bryan.

 I thought of that confrontation several times over the years. I thought of it after the few phone chats I had with Dwayne in the months following, during which I tried, unsuccessfully, to keep up the momentum of our close friendship from afar.

 I remembered it again years later when messages from Dwayne started to trickle in.

 What are you up to?

 How are you doing?

 What’s good?

This pandemic is awfully lonely.

 Until one day, when Dwayne messaged, wanting, of all things, to see some pictures of my dogs, and I told him I’d do him one better. I sent him a snap of my eleven-day-old son. I told him about Mark, and our pandemic elopement at The Marriage Hut. I told him I thought the two of them would be fast friends and about how miraculous motherhood is. He complained that he wasn’t consulted for approval on Mark.

 After some friendly catch-up, the texts ceased, permanently.

 I think of old Bryan and his blatant dismay sometimes when I think about how far my life has come and how it is filled with more happiness and love than I’ve ever known; how now when I consider all the possible life paths for which I’ve long since missed the turnoff, I feel no sense of remorse. I think of how that near stranger took my whole tragedy in his eyes and just walked away with it.

 Then again, maybe it was never my tragedy he was witnessing.

-Kara Shay

Kara Shay, married lady and mother of one, is a bit of a scatter brain. Among the scatterings of her mind you’ll find past, future, and half-finished art projects, mostly paintings and mosaics, bits of novels, and a smattering of cheeky essays, as well as altruistic and probably impossible social justice campaign ideas, sustainable infrastructure designs, various knowledge relating to plants and mushrooms (including encyclopedic knowledge on how not to grow them), a deep love of animals in general and of dogs and horses in particular. That is, you’ll see all that if you can adjust for the glare of overwhelming love for her family.