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Who's the Boss?

The strange, moving, and strangely moving story of one fan's personal encounters with Bruce Springsteen and...Ray Romano?
By Keith Berger

Take some time to look through the items that accumulate in a person's wallet and you stand to learn a lot about that person. In your tour through their walletland, the things you learn may not be pleasant, things such as how loudly they can yell, how easily they can outrun you, and how severely they can pummel you upon capture. If by chance, you are given permission to look through something so personal, by all means do so. It is a peek through the curtains of a window into a life.

As I examine the contents of my own wallet (no one seems to feel comfortable letting me into theirs today), I am given instant reminders of certain moments of my life, and the stories that surround them. There is the picture of my girlfriend Gabrielle and myself on our first-ever weekend "alone together" in Walt Disney World (awww!). There is a copy of Max Ehrmann's Desiderata, which serves to remind me of certain truths I might otherwise forget. There is the phone number of the wonderful lady I met on an airplane flight from Ft. Lauderdale to Detroit who "adopted" me on the spot and made me her son. And, tucked carefully between a Van Morrisson ticket stub and my Red Cross Adult CPR Certificate, is a Bruce Springsteen ticket stub, faded with age and signed in blue magic marker by...comedian Ray Romano?

Sunrise, Florida--Tuesday, December 3, 1996: Bruce Springsteen played a remarkable solo acoustic evening in front of a semi-intimate crowd of a few thousand eagerly attentive fans at the Sunrise Musical Theatre. As this was my first time seeing the Boss, I sat mesmerized as he played stripped-down favorites like "Thunder Road" and newer compositions from The Ghost Of Tom Joad. Through the magic of the night and his fresh take on the material (some might call deconstruction), Springsteen even managed to convince me that "Born In The USA," a song that I'd never had any use for, is a well-written, deeply meaningful piece of music. I stood and cheered again and again as the man and his guitar breathed fire and passion from the darkened stage, illuminated only by the stark spotlight and the energy of his aura. The absence of backing musicians allowed for the purity of the songs to come through uncluttered and without distraction. This was the music as it was meant to be heard: well-crafted songs which stand on their own without studio polish-and-shine. One man, one guitar (okay, several guitars. Ya gotta have variety!); one voice, one night. Incredible.

After the show, in keeping with my concert-going tradition, I walked to the stage in order to absorb some of the energy from the performance and to look for any stray guitar picks or other souvenirs. This mission completed, I turned away from the stage and my girlfriend very calmly said, "He's right there." Knowing her penchant for playing jokes on me, and as I detest being fooled, I replied "O.K., that's nice. Let's go." She pointed over my shoulder and said "I'm not kidding. He's right there." I turned around expecting to see a crew person tending to the equipment and there, ten feet tall (well, the stage is about four feet off the ground), was Bruce Springsteen walking out from the wings with his finger to his lips, gesturing for us not to let on that he was coming back out.

I nodded my head through my shock and waited for him to approach Gabrielle, myself, and the twenty or so others who had hung around for this unforeseen opportunity. He strode to the edge of the stage, shook hands with his fans, and spoke to those of us who could find words (there would be no autographs tonight). Unable to think of anything I would want to say in three seconds to this man who had spoken volumes to myself and countless others over a lifetime, I extended my hand upward and shook a softer, gentler, smaller hand than I would have imagined Mr. Springsteen's to be. My girlfriend simply stood and smiled, enjoying the moment in her own way.

I watched and listened as he interacted with the others, and then he was gone. Gabrielle and I smiled at each other and left the hall as I thought about the people I'd need to call to tell them that I'd not only seen one of the greatest concerts of my life, but that I, Keith Berger, had shook the hand of Bruce Springsteen, all for about forty bucks!

Later that same year, Gabrielle and I went to West Palm Beach to see one of our favorite comedians, Ray Romano. He'd killed us on the couch on Comedy Central's Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist. We'd found ourselves in the demographic that states Everybody Loves Raymond. Now we were seeing his live show at the Carefree Theatre and he was just as down-to-earth clever in person. By the time it was over, our faces ached from laughing as we prepared to leave. We caught wind of a rumor that Mr. Romano would be signing autographs, so we followed along, not wanting to miss this opportunity. I was able to speak this time and I told Mr. Romano that we truly enjoy his work and of how we'd recently had a close encounter with Bruce Springsteen, but had been unable to get an autograph. I handed him my ticket stub and he laughed and said "I'm not the Boss!" And that is why today, if you were to look through my wallet, you would find a Bruce Springsteen ticket stub signed with the words "Ray Romano, the Employee."