One last chance to make it real

I’m trying to plug my memoir. It’s called “I Loved Him First,” and it’s all about my three-decade unilateral love affair with Bruce Springsteen.

Simmering resentment has forced me to break my silence. I’m resentful of all the Johnny-come-latelies who’ve “discovered” Bruce over the years -- from Reagan speechwriters (remember them trying to co-opt “Born in the USA” as a jingoistic soundtrack?) to Ted Koppel to the “Today” show.

I’m annoyed by these people who are all newly revved up because of Bruce’s new CD, “Devils & Dust,” and his concert tour, including this week’s Pantages appearances. They don’t know my Bruce. They don’t really get him -- the romantic, poetic, earthy, sometimes-tortured, lapsed-Catholic fabulosity of him. Yet they all want a piece of him. But I’m the one with a history.

My first face-to-face encounter with Bruce was in the late ‘70s at the Music Hall in Boston. He was a seductive, worldly man in black. I was a high school girl in a pink pullover up in the balcony. When he sang “Thunder Road,” I, like every other female there, screamed with delight at his delivery of those favorite lines, slightly altered from the recorded version:

“Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night,” he sang-spoke. “You ain’t a beauty, but, hey,” he paused, with arms outstretched to hug ... me, “that’s all right.” At another point in the concert, he prefaced a song by saying, “I’d like to dedicate this song to ...”

“Eleanor Powers!” one of my friends screamed. I was a little mortified, but kind of hoping he heard it. Because we belonged together. And I loved him.

I even risked my reputation for Bruce. In high school, I interrupted Sister Patricia Marie’s art class to give her a listen to “Born to Run,” my anthem:

Wendy, let me in, I wanna be your friend, I want to guard your dreams and visions.

Just wrap your legs ‘round these velvet rims and strap your hands across my engines

I guess I figured the artist in her would hear his lyrics; instead, it was the nun who listened. There were raised brows, rolling eyes and a smirk tinged with mild disgust. But if she wanted me to feel cheap, I didn’t.

Jump ahead to 1985. I was living in New York, in the Village, when I got the bad news. It was a weekday morning and I had just awakened when one of my housemates knocked on my bedroom door. “I have some bad news,” she said. “It’s about Bruce.” My heart stopped. “He’s dead,” I thought.

But it was worse. He’d married a model-slash-actress: Julianne Phillips. And so that horrible day began. En route to Midtown, the subway train stopped in the tunnel abyss for a lengthy period, causing me to be 10 minutes late for work, a glorified secretarial job with an ad agency. My usually amiable boss complained that he’d had to answer the phone himself until I arrived.

“John,” I said somberly, ignoring his complaint, “Bruce got married.” He was dumbfounded at first, and then sort of gasped, “You didn’t think you were going to marry him, did you?” Secretly pleased that I seemed to be off the hook for my tardiness, I answered with a combination sigh, head tilt and “well ... ,” which you can still get away with when you’re 25.

He took it all in and then said he guessed he could understand because many women of his generation were devastated when Paul McCartney got married. (It was hardly the same tragedy, but I knew enough to keep quiet.) By afternoon, my boss’ boss had gotten wind of my heartbreak and was consoling me. “It wouldn’t have worked out between you,” he said. “You’re too good for him.”

That night, at a rooftop “Dynasty” party to celebrate the royal wedding of Blake and Alexis’ daughter, Amanda, I wore a black armband to protest Bruce’s nuptials. It was tough love, but mostly tough luck for me.

A couple of years later, as I walked down University Place, with my Walkman playing Bruce’s new “Tunnel of Love” album, I was stunned by what I heard: marital disharmony. It was all there in the lyrics -- angst, discontent, restlessness. All I could think was, “Oh, my God! Does his wife know that their marriage is in trouble?”

The following year, it was over. Who saw it coming? Me. Me, because I knew Bruce. I understood Bruce. So you can see why I resent those jumping on the Bruce bandwagon these days.

I don’t expect much luck promoting my tome on the talk-show circuit. After all, mine is not a memoir of transformation. I loved Bruce then; I love him now (and am resigned to his happy second marriage to Patti Scialfa). And “Born to Run” is still my favorite song of all time. Another minus in talk-show terms is that there’s no salaciousness in this book.

Nonetheless, I’m going to push forward, come what may, for the sake of those glory days.