“Oh this?” he said, as if surprised I’d noticed. “I’ve been rehearsing—trying on outfits, you know.”
I’d figured he was some sort of Elvis impersonator, judging from the van, the clothes, and the achieved accent, but aside from the hair I couldn’t really see much resemblance between him and the King. “You, uh—you do an Elvis act?”
He looked at me as if I’d just asked if the thing above our heads was the ceiling. Finally he just said, “Yeah.”
It was then that Cindy emerged from the kitchen. She was wearing a white peasant dress and sandals, and she was holding a glass of wine in one hand and a zucchini the size of a souvenir baseball bat in the other. “Patrick,” she said, crossing the room to brush my cheek with a kiss. I embraced her ritualistically—you might have thought we’d known each other for a decade—and held her a moment while Joey and Elvis looked on. When she stepped back, I caught a whiff of perfume and alcohol. “You like zucchini?” she said.
“Uh-huh, sure.” I was wondering what to do with my hands. Suddenly I remembered the bottle and held it up like a turkey I’d shot in the woods. “I brought you this.”
Cindy made a gracious noise or two, I shrugged in deprecation—“It’s only half full,” I said—and Joey ground his toe into the carpet. I might have been imagining it, but he seemed agitated, worked up over something.
“How long till dinner?” he said, a reedy, adolescent whine snaking through the Nashville basso.
Cindy’s eyes were unsteady. She drained her wine in a gulp and held out the glass for me to refill. With Scotch. “I don’t know,” she said, watching the glass. “Half an hour.”
“Because I think I want to work on a couple numbers, you know?”
She gave him a look. I didn’t know either of them well enough to know what it meant. That look could have said, “Go screw yourself,” or “I’m just wild about you and Elvis”—I couldn’t tell.
“No problem,” she said finally, sipping at her drink, the zucchini tucked under her arm. “Patrick was going to help me in the kitchen, anyway—right, Patrick?”
“Sure,” I said.
At dinner, Joey cut into his braciola, lifted a forkful of tomatoes, peppers, and zucchini to his lips, and talked about Elvis. “He was the most photographed man in the history of the world. He had sixty-two cars and over a hundred guitars.” Fork, knife, meat, vegetable. “He was the greatest there ever was.”
I didn’t know about that. By the time I gave up pellet guns and minibikes and began listening to rock and roll, it was the Doors, Stones, and Hendrix, and Elvis was already degenerating into a caricature of himself. I remembered him as a bloated old has-been in a white jumpsuit, crooning corny ballads and slobbering on middle-aged women. Besides, between the Chivas and the bottle of red Cindy had opened for dinner, I was pretty far gone. “Hmph,” was about all I could manage.
For forty-five minutes, while I’d sat on a cracked vinyl barstool at the kitchen counter, helping slice vegetables and trading stories with Cindy, I’d heard Joey’s rendition of half a dozen Elvis classics. He was in the living room, thundering; I was in the kitchen, drinking. Every once in a while he’d give the guitar a rest or step back from the microphone, and I would hear the real Elvis moaning faintly in the background: Don’t be cruel / To a heart that’s true or You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.
“He’s pretty good,” I said to Cindy after a particularly thunderous rendition of “Jailhouse Rock.” I was making conversation.
She shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so,” she said. The baby lay in a portable cradle by the window, giving off subtle emanations of feces and urine. It was asleep, I supposed. If it weren’t for the smell, I would have guessed it was dead. “You know, we had to get married,” she said.
I made a gesture of dismissal, tried for a surprised expression. Of course they’d had to get married. I’d seen a hundred girls just like her—they passed through the guidance office like flocks of unfledged birds flying in the wrong direction, north in the winter, south in the summer. Slumped over, bony, eyes sunk into their heads, and made up like showgirls or whores, they slouched in the easy chair in my office and told me their stories. They thought they were hip and depraved, thought they were nihilists and libertines, thought they’d invented sex. Two years later they were housewives with preschoolers and station wagons. Two years after that they were divorced.
“First time I heard Elvis, first time I remember, anyway,” Joey was saying now, “was in December of ‘68 when he did that TV concert—the Singer Special? It blew me away. I just couldn’t believe it.”
“Sixty-eight?” I echoed. “What were you, four?”
Cindy giggled. I turned to look at her, a sloppy grin on my face. I was drunk.
Joey didn’t bat an eye. “I was seven,” he said. And then: “That was the day I stopped being a kid.” He’d tucked a napkin under his collar to protect his pink shirt, and strands of hair hung loose over his forehead. “Next day my mom picked up a copy of Elvis’s Greatest Hits, Volume One, and a week later she got me my first guitar. I’ve been at it ever since.”
Joey was looking hard at me. He was trying to impress me; that much was clear. That’s why he’d worn the suit, dabbed his lids with green eye shadow, greased his hair, and hammered out his repertoire from the next room so I couldn’t help but catch every lick. Somehow, though, I wasn’t impressed. Whether it was the booze, my indifference to Elvis, or the fear and loathing that had gripped me since Judy’s defection, I couldn’t say. All I knew was that I didn’t give a shit. For Elvis, for Joey, for Fred, Judy, Little Richard, or Leonard Bernstein. For anybody. I sipped my wine in silence.
“My agent’s trying to book me into the Catskills—some of the resorts and all, you know? He says my act’s really hot.” Joey patted his napkin, raised a glass of milk to his lips, and took a quick swallow. “I’ll be auditioning up there at Brown’s in about a week. Meanwhile, Friday night I got this warm-up gig—no big deal, just some dump out in the sticks. It’s over in Brewster—you ever heard of it?”
“The sticks, or Brewster?” I said.
“No, really, why not drop by?”
Cindy was watching me. Earlier, over the chopping board, she’d given me the rundown on this and other matters. She was twenty, Joey was twenty-one. Her father owned a contracting company in Putnam Valley and had set them up with the house. She’d met Joey in Brooklyn the summer before, when she was staying with her cousin. He was in a band then. Now he did Elvis. Nothing but. He’d had gigs in the City and out on the Island, but he wasn’t making anything and he refused to take a day job: nobody but hacks did that. So they’d come to the hinterlands, where her father could see they didn’t starve to death and Cindy could work as a secretary in his office. They were hoping the Brewster thing would catch on—nobody was doing much with Elvis up here.
I chewed, swallowed, washed it down with a swig of wine. “Sounds good, I said. I’ll be there.”
Later, after Joey had gone to bed, Cindy and I sat side by side on the plaid sofa and listened to a tape of Swan Lake I’d gone next door to fetch (“Something soft,” she’d said. “Have you got something soft?”). We were drinking coffee, and a sweet yellowish cordial she’d dug out of one of the boxes of kitchen things. We’d been talking. I’d told her about Judy. And Fred. Told her I’d been feeling pretty rotten and that I was glad she’d moved in. “Really,” I said, “I mean it. And I really appreciate you inviting me over too.”
She was right beside me, her arms bare in the peasant dress, legs folded under her yoga-style. “No problem,” she said, looking me in the eye.
I glanced away and saw Elvis. Crouching, dipping, leering, humping the microphone, and spraying musk over the first three rows, Elvis in full rut. “So how do you feel about all this”—I waved my arm to take in the posters, the guitar and amp, the undefined space above us where Joey lay sleeping—“I mean, living with the King?” I laughed and held my cupped hand under her chin. “Go ahead, dear—speak
right into the mike.”
She surprised me then. Her expression was dead serious, no time for levity. Slowly, deliberately, she set down her coffee cup and leaned forward to swing round so that she was kneeling beside me on the couch; then she kicked her leg out as if mounting a horse and brought her knee softly down between my legs until I could feel the pressure lighting up my groin. From the stereo, I could hear the swan maidens bursting into flight. “It’s like being married to a clone,” she whispered.
When I got home, the phone was ringing. I slammed through the front door, stumbled over something in the dark, and took the stairs to the bedroom two at a time. “Yeah?” I said breathlessly as I snatched up the receiver.
“Pat?”
It was Judy. Before I could react, her voice was coming at me, soft and passionate, syllables kneading me like fingers. “Pat, listen,” she said. “I want to explain something—”
I hung up.
The club was called Delvecchio’s, and it sat amid an expanse of blacktop like a cruise ship on a flat, dark sea. It was a big place, with two separate stages, a disco, three bars, and a game room. I recognized it instantly: teen nirvana. Neon pulsed, raked Chevys rumbled out front, guys in Hawaiian shirts and girls in spike heels stood outside the door, smoking joints and cigarettes and examining one another with frozen eyes. The parking lot was already beginning to fill up when Cindy and I pulled in around nine.
“Big on the sixteen-year-old crowd tonight,” I said. “Want me to gun the engine?”
Cindy was wearing a sleeveless blouse, pedal pushers, and heels. She’d made herself up to look like a cover girl for Slash magazine, and she smelled like a candy store. “Come on, Pat,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Don’t be that way.”
“What way?” I said, but I knew what she meant. We were out to have a good time, to hear Joey on his big night, and there was no reason to kill it with cynicism.
Joey had gone on ahead in the van to set up his equipment and do a sound check. Earlier, he’d made a special trip over to my place to ask if I’d mind taking Cindy to the club. He stood just inside the door, working the toe of his patent-leather boot and gazing beyond me to the wreckage wrought by Judy’s absence: the cardboard containers of takeout Chinese stacked atop the TV, the beer bottles and Devil Dog wrappers on the coffee table, the clothes scattered about like the leavings of a river in flood. I looked him in the eye, wondering just how much he knew of the passionate groping Cindy and I had engaged in while he was getting his beauty rest the other night, wondering if he had even the faintest notion that I felt evil and betrayed and wanted his wife because I had wounds to salve and because she was there, wanted her like forbidden fruit, wanted her like I’d wanted half the knocked-up, washed-out, defiant little twits who paraded through my office each year. He held my gaze until I looked away. “Sure,” I murmured, playing Tristan to his Mark. “Be happy to.”
And so, come eight o’clock, I’d showered and shaved, slicked back my hair, turned up the collar of my favorite gigolo shirt, and strolled across the lawn to pick her up. The baby (her name was Gladys, after Elvis’s mother) was left in the care of one of the legions of pubescent girls I knew from school, Cindy emerged from the bedroom on brisk heels to peck my cheek with a kiss, and we strolled back across the lawn to my car.
There was an awkward silence. Though we’d talked two or three times since the night of the braciola and the couch, neither of us had referred to it. We’d done some pretty heavy petting and fondling, we’d got the feel of each other’s dentition and a taste of abandon. I was the one who backed off. I had a vision of Joey standing in the doorway in his pajamas, head bowed under the weight of his pompadour. “What about Joey,” I whispered, and we both swiveled our heads to gaze up at the flat, unrevealing surface of the ceiling. Then I got up and went home to bed.
Now, as we reached the car and I swung back the door for her, I found something to say. “I can’t believe it”—I laughed, hearty, jocular, all my teeth showing—“but I feel like I’m out on a date or something.”
Cindy just cocked her head and gave me a little smirk. “You are,” she said.
They’d booked Joey into the Troubadour Room, a place that seated sixty or seventy and had the atmosphere of a small club. Comedians played there once in a while, and the occasional folk singer or balladeer—acts that might be expected to draw a slightly older, more contemplative crowd. Most of the action, obviously, centered on the rock bands that played the main stage, or the pounding fantasia of the disco. We didn’t exactly have to fight for a seat.
Cindy ordered a Black Russian. I stuck with Scotch. We talked about Elvis, Joey, rock and roll. We talked about Gladys and how precocious she was and how her baby raptures alternated with baby traumas. We talked about the water-colors Cindy had done in high school and how she’d like to get back to them. We talked about Judy. About Fred. About guidance counseling. We were on our third drink—or maybe it was the fourth—when the stage lights went up and the emcee announced Joey.
“Excited?” I said.
She shrugged, scanning the stage a moment as the drummer, bass player, and guitarist took their places. Then she found my hand under the table and gave it a squeeze.
At that moment Joey whirled out of the wings and pounced on the mike as if it were alive. He was dressed in a mustard-colored suit spangled with gold glitter, a sheeny gold tie, and white patent-leather loafers. For a moment he just stood there, trying his best to radiate the kind of outlaw sensuality that was Elvis’s signature, but managing instead to look merely awkward, like a kid dressed up for a costume party. Still, he knew the moves. Suddenly his right fist shot up over his head and the musicians froze; he gave us his best sneer, then the fist came crashing down across the face of his guitar, the band lurched into “Heartbreak Hotel,” and Joey threw back his head and let loose.
Nothing happened.
The band rumbled on confusedly for a bar or two, then cut out as Joey stood there tapping at the microphone and looking foolish.
“AC/DC!” someone shouted from the darkness to my left.
“Def Leppard!”
The emcee, a balding character in a flowered shirt, scurried out onstage and crouched over the pedestal of the antiquated mike Joey had insisted on for authenticity. Someone shouted an obscenity, and Joey turned his back. There were more calls for heavy-metal bands, quips and laughter. The other band members—older guys with beards and expressionless faces—looked about as concerned as sleepwalkers. I stole a look at Cindy; she was biting her lip.
Finally the mike came to life, the emcee vanished, and Joey breathed “Testing, testing,” through the PA system. “Ah’m sorry ‘bout the de-lay, folks,” he murmured in his deepest, backwoodsiest basso, “but we’re ‘bout ready to give it another shot. A-one, two, three!” he shouted, and “Heartbreak Hotel,” take two, thumped lamely through the speakers:
Well, since my baby left me,
I found a new place to dwell,
It’s down at the end of Lonely Street,
That’s Heartbreak Hotel.
Something was wrong, that much was clear from the start. It wasn’t just that he was bad, that he looked nervous and maybe a bit effeminate and out of control, or that he forgot the words to the third verse and went flat on the choruses, or that the half-assed pickup band couldn’t have played together if they’d rehearsed eight hours a day since Elvis was laid in his grave—no, it went deeper than that. The key to the whole thing was in creating an illusion—Joey had to convince his audience, for even an instant, that the real flesh-and-blood Elvis, the boy who dared to rock, stood before them. Unfortunately, he just couldn’t cut it. Musically or visually. No matter if you stopped your ears and squinted till the lights blurred, this awkward, greasy-haired kid in the green eye shadow didn’t come close, not even for a second. And the audience let him know it.
Hoots and catcalls drowned out the last chord of “Heartbreak Hotel,” as Joey segued into one of those trembly, heavy-breathing bal
lads that were the bane of the King’s middle years. I don’t remember the tune or the lyrics—but it was sappy and out of key. Joey was sweating now, and the hair hung down in his eyes. He leaned into the microphone, picked a woman out of the audience, and attempted a seductive leer that wound up looking more like indigestion than passion. Midway through the song a female voice shouted “Faggot!” from the back of the room, and two guys in fraternity jackets began to howl like hound dogs in heat.
Joey faltered, missed his entrance after the guitar break, and had to stand there strumming over nothing for a whole verse and chorus till it came round again. People were openly derisive now, and the fraternity guys, encouraged, began to intersperse their howls with yips and yodels. Joey bowed his head, as if in defeat, and let the guitar dangle loose as the band closed out the number. He picked up the tempo a bit on the next one—“Teddy Bear,” I think it was—but he never got anywhere with the audience. I watched Cindy out of the corner of my eye. Her face was white. She sat through the first four numbers wordlessly, then leaned across the table and took hold of my arm. “Take me home,” she said.
We sat in the driveway awhile, listening to the radio. It was warm, and with the windows rolled down we could hear the crickets and whatnot going at it in the bushes. Cindy hadn’t said much on the way back—the scene at the club had been pretty devastating—and I’d tried to distract her with a line of happy chatter. Now she reached forward and snapped off the radio. “He really stinks, doesn’t he?” she said.
I wasn’t biting. I wanted her, yes, but I wasn’t about to run anybody down to get her. “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, with that band Elvis himself would’ve stunk.”
She considered this a moment, then fished around in her purse for a cigarette, lit it, and expelled the smoke with a sigh. The sigh seemed to say: “Okay, and what now?” We both knew that the babysitter was hunkered down obliviously in front of the TV next door and that Joey still had another set to get through. We had hours. If we wanted them.
T.C. Boyle Stories Page 19