For weeks, Brian looked out to see “Evan Hansen” on practically every MTA bus careening down the avenue below the living room windows. When he first heard about this play, he could see as plain as day the handwritten name that kept appearing on the end papers of his grade-school textbooks. You weren’t supposed to write your name in these books, but “Evan Hansen” and his clotting blue ballpoint had gone on a tear across third, fourth, and fifth grades. The coincidence of continually winding up with an “Evan Hansen” book annoyed Brian. It felt as if something—the universe maybe—was pummeling his own identity into nonexistence. Consequently, the first time he saw the familiar giant letters sail past on a city bus, he felt the same way. “Evan Hansen” had got there first and put the flag up. There was no room for Brian Paszkowski.

He frequently looked out the windows because the place was small and his girlfriend was usually doing something in the bathroom when they were supposed to be standing spiffed up on the subway platform. As his mind idled, he’d find himself studying the guy often waiting below in the bus shelter no one ever used because it was one stop from the end of the line. The guy always wore a pristine white T-shirt that looked expensive for a T-shirt plus a small gold chain. He never looked up from his phone, and the MTA drivers knew not to slow down for him. He was the most optimized dealer Brian had ever observed. He had an uncanny ability to never be seen in the act. Brian would look down to answer a text and the guy would be gone.