THE BOSS’S WIFE Part 2

THE BOSS’S WIFE Part 2

ELEGANZA

John Mendelssohn

(Our story so far: While our smug upscale narrator is trying to pick up Julianne [Mrs. Bruce Springsteen] Phillips in a yuppie brunch joint, Michael Jackson comes in with his chauffeur, who turns out to be Elvis Presley.)

“Jeez,” Michael Jackson says, hitting himself lightly on the forehead with the heel of his hand for not introducing them himself, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

“But I thought,” Mrs. Springsteen manages, “that you were, well...”

“Dead?” Elvis asks, grinning. “Well, ah’d sure hope you woulda after what Rogers & Cowan charged me to get all the newspapers to say ah was.” He laughs a resonant good old boy laugh and pulls up a chair from another table. He notices me, offers his hand, and says, “How you doin’, bubba? Elvis Presley.” His handshake’s no linebacker’s, but at least his hand’s warm.

Mrs. Springsteen tells him that she’s just thrilled to death, but that she’d never have expected to meet him under such circumstances, working as a bodyguard and without the Memphis Mafia.

He bums one of her cigarettes and explains how he realized, at 42 years old, that he had to get his “head into a different space,” having come to find the adulation that he’d enjoyed all his adult life meaningless. And a magazine interview with John Lennon had made him realize that his entourage of sycophants hung around with him only because he paid them to and because it was an easy way to meet prospective sexual partners. He’s been driving Michael Jackson around in order to acquire humility.

He obviously hasn’t been paying much attention to rock ’n’ roll. When Michael tells him, “Julianne’s husband’s in the business,” he says, “Is that a fact?” so as to suggest that he’s never heard of The Boss. And there seems to be no trace of irony, but only a lot of sadness in his voice as he says, “If he ever makes it to the top, I hope you won’t do what Priscilla done to me, and write a book about your private life together.”

“But I’m sure she never would have written it if she hadn’t thought you were dead,” Mrs. Springsteen says, so as to make you suspect that she and Priscilla might have been knownto have brunch together.

The King begins to giggle a wonderful infectious giggle that soon has everybody in the restaurant giggling too. “Ah gotta tell you, little lady,” he tells Mrs. Springsteen, “that ah was just kidding about not knowin’ who your hubby is. Ah mean, hey, ah’ve got a couple of the boy’s albums, Born In The U.S.A., of course, and one that ah cain’t remember the name of. Nice stuff, although ah’ve got to admit that I prefer John Cafferty & The Beaver Brown Band.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mrs. Springsteen replies, making no secret of her annoyance. “Well, Bruce and I love your stuff too. We’ve got 14,000,000,000,000 Elvis Fans Can’t Be Wrong, The Sun Sessions, and My Aim Is True. But My Aim Is True is the only one we ever play.”

The King guffaws and punches her lightly in the shoulder. “Kiddin’, honey,” he exults. “Just kiddin’. Ah’ve just seen the Cafferty boy on MTV. Damn copycat, if you ask me.”

Before Mrs. Springsteen can finish sighing with relief, who follows the maitre d’ into the place, looking intimidated but surprisingly stylish in a Gian Marco Venturi Italian wool blazer ($525), a Claude Montana fly-front wool and cotton shirt with inverted pleats (about $250), a Giorgio Armani patterned silk-crepe tie (about $38), and Armani striped broken-herringbone wool trousers (about $143), but The Boss himself.

As he approaches our table—our table, Michael Jackson’s, Elvis’s, and ...mine— he wears the expression of the class nobody crossing the gym to ask the hottest babe in school to dance. “Hey,” Michael says as he finally arrives, “my main man. How you doin’?” It occurs to me that he might not remember The Boss’s name. But The Boss is too busy studying the tops of his Cesare Paciotti rust-brown perforated slip-on suede loafers (about $250) and rubbing under his nose to notice.

“It’s a pleasure to know y’all,” Elvis says, offering Bruce his hand. “Elvis Presley.” Bruce looks up from his loafertops. His jaw drops on his solar plexus and his eyes bug out like a cartoon character’s as he sees that the man whose hand he’s shaking really is who he claims to be. Sweat beads on his brow. He tries to say something, but can’t.

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“Hey, bubba,” Elvis says, trying to free his hand, “chancps are I’m gonna neec/the ol’ paw for somethin’.”

The Boss’s manager, former critic Jon Landau, who I recognize from Newsweek, follows his famous protege in and hurries over to shake Elvis’s hand himself. “Hey, this is really a thrill,” he tells The King delightedly. “I mean, really a thrill.” Everybody’s looking at me like they expect me to get up and offer Landau my chair. Everybody, that is, but Landau himself, who can’t wait to be seated to jabber excitedly. “Hey, Mr. Presley...”

“Elvis, bubba.”

“Elvis...what would you think of the idea of you and Bruce cutting a single together? Like how about if he wrote a song for you, and the E Street Band backed you? My God, can you just imagine, dominant figures of two generations of American rock ’n’ roll...”

“Whoa there, bubba,” Elvis says. “Keep your britches on. Would Patty Scialfa have to sing on it?”

Bruce and Landau look at each other like they’re trying to figure out what the right answer to that one is. “Kiddin’ again!” Elvis whoops delightedly. “Just pullin’ y’alls’ legs.”

“This guy,” says Mrs. Springsteen, shaking her head admiringly, “this guy here has got to be one of the great kidders.”

“Isn’t it amazing,” says Michael Jackson, between sips of Mrs. Springsteen’s ice water, “how the Lord gives some of us so many gifts?” He never asked Mrs. Springsteen if he could help himself to the water. These superstars are so casual with each other! He looks at Mrs. Springsteen and says, "He made you a talented actress as well as a model.” He looks at her husband and says, “He made you a provocative songwriter as well as a uniquely exciting live performer.” He looks at Landau and says, “He made you both a gifted producer and a manager.” He looks at me and, not knowing me from Adam, gets no farther than “He made you, uh...

As the best chauffeurs will, Elvis rescues him from his predicament. “Seriously, though,” he wonders shyly, “would the song we’d cut have to be about unemployed refinery workers? I’d kinda like it better if it wasn’t. I mean, could you maybe write something about an executive vice president of a multinational corporation whose position has been made superfluous by merger with an even bigger corporation?”

“I never have,” The Boss admits, even more shyly. “But that might not mean that I couldn’t.”

“You’ll excuse us,” Michael Jackson says, rising. "We’re supposed to meet a couple of babes in a minute. We’d better get situated at our own table.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Landau tells Elvis as they shake hands again. “We’ll have lunch. I’ll get Dave Marsh to set it up with your people.”

Jon Landau heads for the men’s room, leaving only me and the Springsteens at the table. Considering how big a fan of the common man he’s supposed to be, The Boss pays precious little attention to me. He looks down at the tops of his loafers and mumbles to his lovely bride, “I’m tryin’, honey. I really am tryin’ for you.”

I hope somebody looks at me some day like Mrs. Springsteen looks at him. Talk about your look of love! She takes his hand and holds it to her cheek. “I can see that you are, Bruce,” she says, “and I love you for it. And I realize now that I love you just the way you are, just the way you’ve always been. You don’t need a Gian Marco Venturi Italian wool blazer, a Claude Montana fly-front wool and cotton shirt with inverted pleats, a Giorgio Armani patterned silkcrepe tie, and Armani striped brokenherringbone wool trousers. I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.” They reach across the table for one another and kiss like they’ve just been pronounced man and wife. Hey, I think, why not ignore me a little bit?

They’re still going at it as I get up. “You have my omelette, Boss,” I say quietly. I wonder if I ought to go join Elvis and Michael Jackson, but Judy Garland and Janis Joplin are sitting at their table, and there aren’t any empty seats left. So I go back to the newsstand without getting Mike’s manager’s phone number, find my place in the latest CC, and think about what might have been. E