Act I — 2008

Each dining hall had its own specialty, and Stevenson did breakfast. I guess “specialty” is probably being generous, since we knew damn well those eggs came from a carton, but you know what I mean. Once you got past the pre-liquified eggs, it was a pretty good place to grab a bite to eat.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, my buddy Phil and I would grab a couple of breakfast burritos after class (we cleverly nicknamed them “Breakfast Barrias” after our International Relations professor) and play video games/watch YouTube videos/generally waste time in his room.

Today, he decided we were going to watch Bruce Springsteen videos.

Phil was a die-hard fan and made it his mission to convert me. It was probably my fault for admitting that I thought some of his hits were cheesy. That’s a one way road to “You just haven’t heard the right stuff!”

Maybe he was right. I mean, he’d managed to turn me on to some of the gloomier acoustic albums like Nebraska and Devils & Dust.

“Would you ever see Bruce live?”

“Eh, I don’t know. Aren’t his shows kind of expensive?

“Yeah, but he’s worth it. The man plays for three hours!”

“Eh…”

“Well, what’s your price?”

“My price? I don’t know… I’m not that big of a fan.”

“Well, what if you got a free ticket?”

“Free? Yeah, I guess I’d go if it was free.”

We went to our next class and never really talked about it again. Until…

Great songwriter. Questionable taste in hats.

Act II — 2009

“HEY. Do you remember a year ago when I asked if you’d ever see Bruce Springsteen?”

“Kind of?”

“OK, but do you remember what you said?”

I didn’t.

“You said that you weren’t really a fan, but that you’d probably go see him if you ended up with a free ticket. Well, buddy, I’ve got a free ticket to see Bruce doing Born to Run in St. Louis and you’re coming with me. Be over here in about an hour.”

Yeah, that sounded like something I’d say. I looked across the room at my girlfriend, who was back in town for the weekend and preparing for a day at a pumpkin patch. She wasn’t gonna like this…

“Alright, I’m probably in. Give me a minute,” I muttered into the phone.

After a bunch of “We can go to the pumpkin patch next time you’re home!” and “I did tell him this over a year ago…” bargaining, I was in a car en route to St. Louis. Apparently Ticketmaster screwed up their order and gave them an extra GA ticket to apologize. Not bad…

Since Phil was driving, we didn’t listen to (or discuss) anything but Springsteen on the trip to St. Louis. We agreed that Clarence Clemons was a total badass. We both hoped Bruce would play “Prove It All Night.” But all of that went out the window when I tried to make him admit that “Queen of the Supermarket” was a godawful song.

Fast forward a few hours later, and we’re all gathered outside of the Scottrade Center for the results of the floor lottery. You see, to prevent people from camping out in front of the venue all day, they had you redeem your ticket for a numbered wristband. Two hours before the show, they’d pick a random number to be the first ones in the venue.

Guess who went in first that night?

I thought Phil was gonna piss himself. He stole a bunch of napkins from a pretzel stand on the way in so he could scribble requests on them. Naturally, I picked “Reno.”

We were front and center on the rail when Springsteen came onstage, giving us high fives and letting us strum that famous blonde Telecaster. He played hits! He played deep cuts! He was sweating bullets and launching snot-rockets onto the floor like it was nobody’s business. After all, who was going to tell Bruce Springsteen where he could blow his nose?

Grown men were weeping. At one point, Phil squeezed Bruce’s calf for what felt like minutes and gave me a truly unsettling look. This wasn’t just a concert. This was something else.

It was a great show, and then I had my moment with The Boss.

He grabbed my napkin when it was time for requests. It would’ve been pretty cool to say he played “Reno” for me, but instead he tossed it back in my face and said “Man, I can’t play that one!” Apparently he likes to keep his shows with the E Street Band family-friendly.

I thought I’d get lucky when he walked by and took my napkin a second time, but he just laughed and threw it at me again. Whatever.

Even if he didn’t play my request, I left completely satisfied. It was a marathon of a set, covering 27 songs and lasting more than three hours. Dude wasn’t performing out there. He was working.

I became a believer in Bruce that night. Well, maybe I still had a little ways to go…

Act III — 2015

I was halfway drunk in a hotel room in New York City. The night before had been a late one and all the coffee and croissants in the world weren’t gonna bring me back to 100%. After leaving a cocktail reception with a Moscow Mule for the road, I sat on my bed and looked out the window at New Jersey.

The room had a little Bluetooth speaker, which came in handy when I wanted to listen to Father John Misty while I took a shower. But right now there was only one thing I had in mind — listening to some Bruce.

I started off with some Nebraska, staring across the river and thinkin’ hard about auto plants in Mahwah and the gambling commission. Then I moved on to “Born to Run” and, well…

THE HIGHWAY’S JAMMED WITH BROKEN HEROES ON A LAST-CHANCE POWER DRIVE/EVERYBODY’S OUT ON THE RUN TONIGHT, BUT THERE’S NOWHERE LEFT TO HIDE

Boom. In that moment, with that line, I reached what we’re just going to call “Peak Springsteen.” I couldn’t contain myself and started firing off texts to anyone who would possibly get where I was coming from.

I was.

I was halfway drunk in a hotel room in New York City, but now I truly understood Bruce Springsteen.

The author gets up in the evening and he ain’t got nothin’ to say. He comes home in the mornin’. He goes to bed feelin’ the same way.