The Other Man Meets The Other Men

"Lloyd, oh, LLOYD."

"Yes, dear."

"I was thinking about my next trip to Las Vegas."

(Oh-oh, she wants something and here it comes. I hate it when she's indirect. Why not just say my next trip to see Michael Crawford? But no, she skirts the issue as if I'm a dummy.)

"Yes?"

"You know it's going to be a signing and I have two pieces I'd like autographed, but he'll only do one per person."

"Well, maybe you could get one of your friends to..."

"Absolutely NOT, they have their own things to be signed."

(I was trying to wheedle out but it wasn't working. The thoughts of plane travel and Crawford Crazed Fans haunted me.)

"You could pay someone down on their luck."

"Don't be ridiculous, you have to come and that's it."

(Trapped, how could I face it, the adulation and scheming for ways to meet HIM, his voice, his cute little tush. It all came back now like a bad dream--the phone calls, memorabilia all over the house, and the ignominy of having had to wear that awful mask I eventually got rid of because simulating the Phantom and MC turned her on. Also I could not forget her fan friends who by now knew who I was and secretly pitied me. No, NO, I could not do it!)

"Besides, dear, I understand USA is playing Sweden in Davis Cup Tennis that week at Caesar's and you could take in the matches."

"DAVIS CUP? You're kidding."

"No, you know, Andre Agassi and the rest of them are all going to be there, according to What's On magazine."

(She had me. Unbeknownst to her I idolized Andre Agassi. He was number one in the world, defending the USA against those nasty, blonde hirsute, good-looking Swedes. Women flocked to him. He was rich. HE WAS COOL.)

"Okay, okay, I'll make the sacrifice and go, but you owe me one."

"Thank you, dear, for being so understanding," she said with the hint of a smirk.

Now it was time to act. I had to get in to see Agassi up close and personal, but how? I called all my tennis buddies for suggestions, but they were just incredulous. I had of course hidden my true identity from them as "The Other Man" and they knew me only as Lloyd, the tennis hacker with the anemic serve.

The day finally came. We arrived and checked into the MGM prior to the signing and tennis. I had to swear a blood oath I would be in line to get her poster signed.

At this point I had not thought about meeting Michael Crawford in person, but now envy overtook me. If only Rochelle would look at me with the same adulation as she looked at him and his "little tush," with which she constantly tormented me. I enviously imagined he was mostly make-up and lights on stage, but in person wasn't that good-looking or personable. He couldn't be, could he?

The next day, camouflaged in tennis togs with racquet, I went to Caesar's. Security was tight. I purchased tickets but couldn't get in. Disconsolate, I went into the racquet shop to buy some Agassi and Davis Cup stuff. It was then that divine providence intervened. A guy came in complaining his tennis partner didn't show, needing a replacement. It came to me in a flash. Of course, if we went to play tennis, the Davis Cup team would be there practicing. I stammered, "I'll play with you, I'll play with you!"

He looked at me with disdain. "Are you any good?"

"Sure," I said. "You should see my cannonball serve." (I would have said anything at that point.)

"Okay, let's go," he said and in we marched.

Gloom, we could not see any of the Davis Cup participants. After playing, he suggested we look at the tennis grandstand where matches were to be played, only now accessible from the inside courts. Upon entering the arena, there he was! My hero! ANDRE BABY, in the flesh, hitting rockets all over the place. As unobtrusively as possible, we sat in a corner of the stadium. Transfixed, I watched as he went through his drills. Then, when he made a particularly good shot, I could no longer contain myself. I yelled, "Great shot, Andre, I love you!"

Had I said that? It was too late.

Security converged on us and my ex-friend, looking angry, said, "I think we are going to get thrown out." He was right. We were politely escorted to the exit, but I didn't care. I had seen my idol and would remember it the rest of my life.

Stark reality took hold. Tomorrow I was going to face THE LINE with mucho loco Michael Crawford fans, who were always yelling, "We adore you, Michael," and other mushy stuff. I could not understand how these crazy fans could be like that, but resigned myself to endure it.

The next day came and we assembled a few hours early. While there, I noticed the gift shop selling some Agassi-Chang challenge shirts, so I bought them also, for one can never have too much of a piece of history. (Oh, Andre, if you just hadn't let Barbara--or was it Brooke?--talk you into shaving your head.)

We waited forever and finally MC appeared, flanked by some of the same-looking guys who threw me out of Caesar's Tennis. As we waited I began to notice he did have a way with the fans. He was actually a very nice guy and even better looking in person than I had expected. He was even nice to me when my time came.

Then my wife had her picture signed and looked at him like she used to look at me when we were dating. I became concerned. It wasn't fair. Just because he had looks, talent, money, and charisma was no reason to go off! We waited until it was over, and when turning to leave, I noticed he did have a "nice little tush." I remembered the look on her face and it worried me. What would make her feel that way about ME again? I had to do something. The situation called for desperate measures--but what?

And then the unthinkable came to me.

No, not that, anything but that, yet I had to...

I had to find another mask...

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