The Other Man Strikes Back

It was five minutes to midnight when the call came in. The phone was ringing. Normally I would have thought someone died but it was the Michael Line: Fan club business.

"Phlone for you dear," I mumbled.

"What?" she said.

"Phrone!" I bellowed. "Phrone!"

"Okay hon, I'll get it. You really need to improve your speech, dear," she volunteered.

"I know sweetheart but it really takes time getting used to this mask."

She picked up the receiver and said "Hello." There was a long pause followed by a scream. "He's married? No, I can't believe it! It, it can't be true!"

It was terrible. It was gloom. They say that terminal patients when told of their plight go through stages. She went through the stages. First denial: "You can't believe those British rag tabloids." Then anger: "How could you do this to me after all I could have given you?" Finally, resignation: "Oh well. I hope he's happy with the b-----."

The word had come. I allowed the suggestion of a smile to cross my face partially hidden from her eye by the mask. Perhaps now I could be free of it . . . and him!

I perceived her vulnerable and pressed my advantage. "Uh, dear? Can I have my study back now?"

"No!" she screamed. "The pictures stay on the walls."

"And the music box, the phantom dolls, the autographs?" I pleaded.

"They stay too."

"But what about the club?" I interjected.

"It'll survive. After all, marriage never stopped Elvis."

"But dear, the tattoo."

"I'm sorry. 'M.C.' stays right here on my boob forever."

"The candles. At least get rid of them. You know my smoke allergy."

"The shrine stays and that's final," she said.

Then one last clairvoyant leap of faith overcame me. "Okay, okay. Keep your Michael Room but could I at least take off the mask?"

"Yes. Take it off and burn it for all I care," she replied angrily.

At last, at last, I thought. For months I had been telling my friends it was prescribed by my dermatologist for psoriasis. My patients assumed it was the latest in infection control. On occasion it had actually been found useful because it dulled hearing through my right ear which I often turned toward my wife whenever she went off about "the now newly married man."

Perhaps time would also end the meetings in my home, the calls at night, and all the other insanity.

And then I remembered. A chill crept up my spine to dampen the glee as I recalled an awful fact. That mask was ceramic and wouldn't burn!

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