Burning Bridges

My friend Brittany Bridges is in a really tight spot, with the pressure on her mounting daily. Actually, the term ”tight spot” does not even do her situation justice. Brittany is in a damned bind, is where she is. You see, Brittany is into her third trimester and is terrified that her baby might come out with suspiciously light skin. The question of, “How light will its skin be?” haunts her, yet it is the one question she has about the baby she‘s carrying that her obstetrician could obviously never answer, even if she could gather the courage to ask it. But Brittany, a strong woman mind you, is plenty concerned with that question, as this is also the one question her husband Burns, a dark-skinned man, will likely find extremely important here in about five weeks or so, should “his” baby come out overly pale.

Understand, Brittany’s baby is not “a mistake” in the normal sense of the word, though that’s what she wants to call it. She and Burns had been trying for a while. Having long since foregone birth control the pregnancy could not, in any attempt at good faith, be termed an “accident.” Yet Brittany’s situation could certainly be considered “accidental” per se, as it was possibly the inadvertant result of a worse than questionable decision followed up by a steamy series of intensional, inappropriate, and ill-timed actions; “ill-timed” I say, because Brittany was perfectly aware when the inappropriate behavior was taking place that her ovular timing was right; her body was primed for conception, it was in essence her time to shine. She knew this for a fact because that very same obstetrician had told her so. In that context, the baby she carried could hardly be labeled a mistake, could it? So, perhaps her lack of judgement in a weak moment could be designated an accident, but should it be? No, I don’t think so. Mistake is the right word, but is it really a mistake when she would probably do it again? No again. It can only really be called what it is, poor judgement, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be the one to tell Brittany that. She is still my friend, after all.

If you don’t mind my labeling her situation as tragic (even though it produced a life, which is the very antithesis of tragic), then this whole tragedy began innocently enough several years ago, stemming indirectly out of Brittany’s love for music. She’d met Burns in college, where he was, even at that young of an age, already a popular hip-hop DJ on campus, famous on the frat party circuit. After graduating Burns followed his passion for music to Nashville, where his fresh ideas for turning good music into great music carried him quickly up the music industry ladder. And while Burns had followed his passion for music to Nashville, Brittany had followed a desire for Burns to Nashville, and therein lay the problem. Hers was a desire for Burns… not a passion.

Tyler Redding, on the other hand, had passions of his own. The music Tyler created would be as good if Burns, or any other producer for that matter, never touched it. Tyler Redding was a talented young man on the fast track to neon stardom, and was ready for all the perks that stardom entailed. He was not about to let anyone slow him down. Tyler Redding was in hot pursuit of “the life”.

There it is then, in a nutshell. My friend Brittany found herself irremediably pulled towards two musical men for entirely different reasons. Burns had given her a comfortable life of reliability, society, and love, while Tyler left her weak-kneed, as emotionally confused as a little girl every time she heard him sing. One had something she needed, the other something she craved. And worse, Brittany had allowed both men to love her within the allotted time frame... so that there was no way around the cold, hard truth of it. My friend Brittany, normally a smart and sensible woman, had allowed indiscretion to lead her into a sure enough bind.

Being a music producer, and with a wife who was not shy to complain about Burn’s already long work days, bringing the musicians home became the natural progression for him. The struggling artists didn’t care where they played for him so long as their songs were heard. And it was no great imposition for Brittany, either. In fact she welcomed it, as the young songsters offered her mind some stimulation after her long, boring days alone in their big, Sylvan Park home. Brittany also found that she had her own gift for softening the blow at the end of an evening, consoling the less talented artists through their “end of dreams” with a divine empathy which she truly felt, and which meant something to them coming from one who so obviously had her shit together. Most of those who came to play for Burns were struggling and hungry, their savings gone. Some were barely making it on the bar scene, awaiting a bigger break that rarely arrived. No matter their situation though, if they were good enough Burns would help them, if not bringing them in to his own label then getting them inside another door where he thought their sound might better fit. For her part, Brittany wined and dined them all, making them welcome and comfortable, cheering their successes, or grieving alongside their failures, the perfect queenly wife for her kingly husband... right up until Tyler.

Burns had called home ahead that night, as he always did. “I’m bringing company for dinner... no, just one, a singer/ songwriter named Tyler Redding.”

It was her first time hearing the name, and seemed inconsequential at the time, but Brittany had done this often enough to know the drill. On this Autumn night she’d brought in barbecue and its “fixin’s”; slaw, beans, a light Pinot, a fire in the pit, soft lights on the patio, though nothing over-the-top. Comfortable was her goal, though elegance was her nature. I can’t know it for fact, but I would assume that she dressed herself up a little on this night, knowing that Burns would not change out of his suit once home. The Brittany Burns I know was never one to appear lesser than, not even to her husband.

At first glance Tyler Redding seemed no different than any who followed Burns home, his hungry good-looks a match for the others, and promising some talent. Comfortable in his scuffed boots, blue-jeans, and a bicep revealing plain white t-shirt, Tyler had “the look” from the ground up; tall, thin, with an angular yet youthful jawline which smiled often, shining through the darker shadows created by his Stetson’s wide brim until Brittany was forced to tip her head to try to make out what the youngster actually looked like up under there. She suspected that she would be pleased if she could see. The curiosity of it pushed her closer to him in her attempts, though he seemed non-plussed by that, willing to play her game, tipping his head down when she got too close, keeping his eyes frustratingly hidden from her, but not his speaking voice, which while soft also remained so rich in tone that it produced a longing in her to hear it sing from their very introduction. Brittany found it amusing how his uncased Fender was always close to his hand, even through dinner, as if he was afraid to let it out of sight, similarly to a child‘s worn blanket. She even teased him by mentioning the “security blanket” analogy, but he only smiled that same smile with his hat brim tilted down in front to hide his face whilst drawling out a sing-songy “yes mam” to her in that honey-rich baritone that straight-up tickled her insides in such an exciting way. Since college she’d had zero interest in any man other than Burns, but what is a girl to do once she finds herself enmeshed in curio?

The patio was dark when “showtime” finally arrived, though the dim string lights above offered a pleasant halo around the flickering orange warmth of the fire-pit. Burns uncorked their third and last bottle and had hardly found his seat as Tyler’s quickly and expertly tuned guitar readily matched the fireplace’s warmth with it’s volume, the delicate plucks of each string singing out it’s own lonely, distinct tone while simultaneously bending and wailing their sad lives away in perfectly chorded harmonies whose resplendence completely captured their tiny, two person audience in a mere handful of progressions.

Brittany unconsciously rubbed at her bare arms when it began, surprised at the emergence of chill-bumps on such an agreeable night, the melancholy of the hypnotic notes pulling her into the young man’s era-less vibe… and then, God bless him, the boy began to sing.

From the first lyrical word it was obvious to her that what she was seeing and hearing was different than any who had passed through before, that it was much, much better. Burns was very good at his work. He had a knack for spotting talent. He had discovered, and been the first to record, several artists who were now radio staples in differing genres, but this time Brittany sensed that her husband had outdone himself. This time Burns had a legitimate star on his hands, a star so bright that, such as it was with the three wise of men of Christmas fame, this one‘s star begged following.

For at the same time that the guitar cried oh-so silkily, numbing her emotionally, Tyler Redding’s voice reached overtop its drones like a steady hand to lead her into some unchartered place that only he knew, lending a weakened Brittany to snatch at that hand hook, line and sinker; her curiosity piqued by some wondrous sense of the magical, because that was the bait, the piper’s magic in Tyler’s pluckings’, tones, and lyrics; an enchantment which drew her out of her emotional hiding place, pulling her towards him and away from everything else until she found herself tensed on the edge of her seat, her body leaned in for Tyler and away from Burns… and she didn’t even care, for in the orange half-light of the crackling fire-pit, and under the reassuring glow of the string lights, as the final resonances echoed away his tenebrous hat-brim finally lifted, presenting his eyes to hers, revealing to her a desire in them that matched perfectly with her own. Not so very long ago Brittany had willingly promised herself to Burns, and to Burns only… but here in this young and handsome crooner my lovely and talented friend had met her match.

Now, I hope I have not misconstrued my friend to you. Brittany is nothing if not a good woman, a heretofore honest woman. I had always thought of her as the very best of women in fact; smart, feminine, caring.… everything a woman should be. And even as she first confided to me this situation that she’d gotten herself into I could feel the pain she‘d caused herself in deceiving the man she loved, for she does love Burns. That much is obvious. And believe it or not, Britt is not the cheating kind. Hell, I’d taken my own shot with her (to no avail), and had settled, albeit unwillingly, into the dreaded “friend zone” with her, as she is not the sort a man easily dismisses. No, I am certain that Brittany loves Burns… but neither could she help herself with Tyler. She was not alone in that helplessness either. The Nashville “Woo-Hoo” girls are already lining themselves up in their short-shorts and pink cattle boots along the sidewalks outside the Broadway bars when his name is displayed on the marquee, the sunburnt girls vying with one another for a peek at those shadowed eyes lost beneath his wide hat’s brim. No, Tyler’s star is shooting, and even as she did it Brittany knew that she could never, that she would never, belong to Tyler Redding. But even knowing all of that the poor woman still could not help herself.

Isn’t it crazy how twisted up a girl can become on a road as black and white as Music Row?

But then, who am I to judge? I suppose none of us is immune to the magic of music, though I still can’t help feeling for my friend.

And I’ll just hope (for her sake, of course) that Beyoncé doesn’t come singing around me…