Mesopotamia

by Arthur Nersesian

  “Now, the good news is, no one will go home empty-handed. So if you’ll just follow the rules, there are concession prizes for everyone based on how you place. And all of them are worth more than the entry fee, so you’re already all winners.”

  Everyone clapped for the little Elvis wrangler. He exited and a few minutes later we could hear him saying, “The Elvises have entered the building,” then spectators wildly applauding. After some cursory remarks and a few jokes, the little man rushed back in and shouted out, “Number one, you’re on!”

  A slightly overweight Elvis in a leather bodysuit arose elastically like a S-and-M Gumby doll and strode forward. The quivery rolls of his tightly corseted fat gently bounced as he strutted out the little doorway. He had the clear advantage of being the first in a room full of imitators. All of us listened through a small amplifier that was wired into the changing room as he sang an electrifying “Jailhouse Rock.” As soon as the applause tapered, he burst into “It’s Now or Never,” then wrapped it up with “Mystery Train.” To thunderous cheers, the leather Gumby came dashing back, sopped in sweat, closely tailed by the little emcee who shouted, “Number two, pronto!”

  When Elvis number two, who was in the bathroom, didn’t respond, the man shouted, “I want the next fucking Elvis to be waiting for me here when I come out this door or you’ll lose your turn! You got to shit, piss, vomit, or jerk off, do it now!”

  When number two dashed onto the stage and opened with “Mystery Train,” it was déjà vu all over again.

  “This is going to be a long fucking night,” said the guy next to me. Some of the more experienced Elvises quickly took charge. They checked the songs of the younger imitators to make sure there were no more back-to-back performances of the same numbers.

  Over the course of the next two and a half hours, watching that chain of Elvi slowly jump onto the dark cliff of the stage, I had some clue of what the real King must have had to go through trying to remain sober year after year in the face of so much pressure. Almost everyone smoked cigarettes and a single busboy kept shuttling back and forth bringing full trays of drinks as the slowly diminishing group of Elvises got liquored up. This sing-along was as competitive as any blood sport, and you had to pay your dues to move up the ranks.

  “Did I see you at the Branson regionals?” a Native American performer who went under the moniker Big Chief Elvis asked me with a lascivious grin.

  “Not unless it was a testicle-twisting contest,” I shot back.

  “I don’t like the white man either,” he countered. Throughout the evening he kept looking over, catching me in the mirror and winking.

  Finally, I decided to go out for some air. While outside, I canvassed the nearby parking lots to see if I could spot the dirty pink Caddy belonging to the enigmatic owner. Though I saw a couple of Cadillacs, I didn’t find the one with the decals. Turning on my cell phone and checking my messages, I discovered that I had received a call from my friend at the Boston PD, who said the fingerprints from the hand I had sent him belonged to one Rodney East, previously arrested for drunk-and-disorderly.

  Holy shit! The man I was looking for—who I had gone through this entire charade to meet—was none other than the dead burglar. Then who the hell was John Carpenter? Was he the dead man? Before I could decide what to do next, my cell chimed. It was Vinetta.

  “Most of the kids are asleep. Edwina, Floyd, and I are watching the contest here on TV,” she said excitedly. I could hear some of the kids screaming in the background. “You haven’t seen the East guy, have you?”

  “Uh … no.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her all that remained of the man I was looking for was the shriveled hand in her fridge.

  “Isn’t he one of the judges?”

  “I guess, but I’m the second from the last to perform so I haven’t seen him yet.”

  “Well,” she said nervously, “I just wanted you to know that we’re all rooting and praying for you.”

  “Me too,” I said, and feeling demoralized I told her I had to go. For a moment I considered just walking to my car and driving north, all the way back to New York. Then it occurred to me that even if Rod East was dead, there was still someone else who previously went by the name of John Carpenter. I strolled over to the hill behind the tavern and began a slow ascent.

  The key thing that really compelled me to stay there was all the time and effort I had already invested. I decided to press on in my search for the man pretending to be John Carpenter. And if he didn’t exist, there was still Snake. Feeling increasingly anxious, I dialed Angela Basall, my old New York neighbor.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “Hi, Angela, how you doing?”

  “My name’s Wanda,” she corrected. “Is this a telemarketer?”

  “No, it’s me, your old neighbor Cassandra.”

  “Do I have to get a restraining order?” Wanda asked before I could get the charm going.

  “I was wondering if you have any updates on our building.”

  “Yeah, they’re tearing it down,” she said. “Now will you please stop calling me?”

  “Are they really tearing it down?”

  “They declared the damage too extensive.” After pausing a moment she added, “Hey, it’s not so bad. The insurance company is paying a lump sum check to everyone, and Hell’s Kitchen is dead anyway. Brooklyn is the new Manhattan. I got a place on the fourth stop out on the L train and it’s actually kind of cute.”

  “Well, I’m not going to be pushed out of Manhattan!” I shouted from a hilltop in Tennessee.

  “Good for you,” she replied, “but do me a favor. In the future, tell someone who gives a damn.” She hung up, thus ending my relationship with the New York neighbor who I only really became acquainted with when I left the city.

  I walked down the hillside, past the spot where Floyd had found the burglar’s body, setting my entire plight in motion. When I entered the side door of the Blue Suede, someone greeted me. It was the beautiful Thelma Presley, the other female Elvis.

  “You still got a ways to go,” she said, seeing me check the posted roster. They were about three-quarters of the way down the list.

  Even though she was older than me, she said she liked to think of herself as a younger Elvis when he was still androgynous looking. Since she had suddenly decided to be chatty, I asked her a variety of questions about the Blue Suede.

  “This is honestly the first time I’ve had the confidence to go into competition here. If you want the voice of experience, ask Sir Elmo Presley,” she said, pointing to the dealer at a table full of poker-playing Elvises. “He been singing in sideburns since the beginning.”

  By this point most of them were fairly boozed up and relaxed. Pulling up a chair, I watched their card game. Pictures of Elvis at different stages of his fame were imprinted on the face of different cards. A boyhood photo of Elvis was on the 2s, and the Vegas Elvis appeared on the kings.

  “You did that wedding down in Knoxville, did you?” I heard Sir Elmo mutter to another.

  “You mean in June?” answered another. Both men were clearly older than Elvis had been when he died.

  “Yeah, the Gunthers.”

  “The Gustlers,” Sir Elmo corrected. “They approached me first and I told them I wouldn’t do it for a penny less than five.”

  “I told them four,” another Elvis said, issuing his asymmetrical grin. The man no longer even knew he was imitating Elvis—he had become the King.

  “Well believe me, when I was done,” said the Elvis impersonator who got the Gustler job, “I wish I passed on it cause there was about a thousand guests and that bride was nothing but a bitch in satin. She didn’t like my ‘Hound Dog.’ Said I wasn’t moving my pelvis fast enough, and on and on.”

  “I wouldn’t mind moving her pelvis,” joked Sir Elmo. In a moment, another younger Elvis dropped some chips in the pot and called. All showed—Sir Elmo won with a two pair, king high.

  “Any of you fellas know this John Carpen
ter guy?” I spoke up as they were throwing in antes for the next hand.

  “Carpenter? You mean the owner here?” asked one African American Elvis with a pencil-thin mustache.

  “Yeah.”

  “I knewed him,” a raspy voice grunted.

  “Me too.” The others slowly nodded as the dealing began.

  “Does he judge this shindig?”

  “He’s one of the judges, I think,” said a decrepit-looking Elvis who probably most resembled the King in his grave. “Snake Major is the main judge. He was one of the original Memphis Mafia. Sits right in the middle.”

  “What does this Carpenter guy look like anyhow?” I asked one and all.

  “A nice, quiet, older gentleman,” said Sir.

  “Does he have any identifying marks or features?” I asked.

  “I don’t rightly remember. It’s been a few years since I saw him naked.” Everyone chuckled as he started replacing cards that had been cast away.

  “Do any of you fellas remember seeing him?” I asked.

  “I believe I once saw him when the place first opened,” said the lecherous chief Elvis. “He was all messed up, in a wheelchair—I think he was Elvis Knievel.” A couple others laughed. Sensing he was just trying to get into my jumpsuit, I ignored him.

  “I thought he was the short, fat guy who looked like a mobster,” said one Italian Elvis puffing a cigar. In that room, Elvis almost seemed to be a recessive gene.

  “No, that guy’s one of the locals who works here. I think he’s a manager.”

  “Isn’t he that fella with the busty mermaid tattooed on his arm?” asked another.

  “No, that was old Sylvester. He was the manager here back in the ’90s, but he died of lung cancer a few years ago.”

  Though everyone was reluctant to say it, they were confirming my worst fears. No one knew of this phantom partner, let alone what had led him to turn this place into an Elvis-themed establishment. One by one, as the minutes ticked away, the remaining Elvi fell like grains of sand into that great hourglass of the stage.

  Many rested or dozed before their big moment. Most were able to instantly get buzzed up when their numbers came up.

  While tiredly watching the card game and listening over the speakers to some young tense Elvis screwing up the lyrics to “Viva Las Vegas,” I started getting queasy. That was when I felt a big hand grab my ass. Big Chief Elvis was standing behind me with a giant smile.

  “You dumb … fucking … Elvis impersonator!!”

  “What’d you say?” Everyone in the room went silent.

  “You heard me!” I might as well have screamed out the N word at the Apollo Theater up in Harlem.

  “Elvis was a great man!” he returned, and rose to his feet. “And I’m proud to honor that.”

  “Elvis was a bloated, pill-popping hack, but at least he didn’t have to imitate anyone!”

  “Lady,” warned Sir Elmo, “I don’t know who or where you think you are, but this is a hallowed shrine of worship, and you just took our Lord’s name in vain.” All veiny eyes were upon me.

  “Number nineteen!” the Elvis wrangler dashed in and shouted. It was the number I had spent my entire night waiting for.

  “Wish me luck,” I said to my colleagues, then dashed out.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEN

  The spotlights, the cameras, the petals of the audience faces—all sucked the air right out of my lungs. Do it for Gustavo, I thought. I took a deep breath and started singing “Viva Las Vegas,” which was actually a fun tune, even if it was a bit of a tongue twister. By the time the applause hit, I was winded but felt a lot calmer. I wiped my brow and began song number two. “Suspicious Minds” flowed from my lips quicker than I could ever remember practicing it. Though I thought I had done my best vocalization to date, I completely forgot to employ any of my well-practiced Elvis expressions.

  Before singing the last song, I had the wherewithal to break the first rule of the contest by shouting out, “On behalf of all the Elvises here, I’d like to dedicate this song to the man that made this all possible, the owner of the establishment—Mr. John Carpenter. Please take a bow, sir.”

  Since no one was supposed to do this, it seemed truly innovative and I earned a huge cheer from the audience. Shielding my eyes, I looked at the three noble figures seated at the judges’ table before me. None of them rose, let alone bowed.

  “Well, I’d like to give Mr. Carpenter a big hand, even if it feels severed at the wrist,” I said and clapped. Even though the audience must’ve thought the remark strange, they cheered again, and I felt that if he was out there, I was sure as hell getting his attention. I quickly commenced my last song, “In the Ghetto.” Then I took my best little-girl curtsy, thanked everyone, and stepped back into the void.

  “Just what the fuck do you think you’re pulling?” the Elvis wrangler yelled at me as he followed me down the corridor echoing with applause. “If I didn’t know you lost, I’d have you disqualified right then and there. And fuck if you’re getting a consolation gift!”

  “I don’t want any bullshit gifts!”

  “Fine, you head on back now. Some of them boys want a word with you.” That was when I remembered that I had parted with my fellow tribute singers rather abruptly.

  Rather than pass through the gauntlet of angry Elvises, I turned left and exited through the kitchen. Heading out to my car, I tugged off the sideburns and caught my breath. I knew I had lost, but I also knew I couldn’t just leave. I had to go back inside that bar and still try to locate that goddamn phantom Carpenter. The only problem was, I was truly exhausted. Not only was my mojo low, I now doubted that the man actually existed. And I was certain Snake was a killer. I felt bad for Vinetta and the kids, but I had a strong urge to drive back to New York, even if it meant moving to goddamn Brooklyn.

  I decided to turn around and pay my final respects to Gustavo at that spot where he had been shot. Instead of stopping there, though, I kept walking up to the little clearing at the top of the hill. With the old mansion behind me and the Blue Suede before me, I looked down over its roof and could see one of the two narrow rivers that defined distant Mesopotamia. Five minutes turned to ten before my cell phone rang.

  “Cassandra, is that you?”

  It was Paul, my soon-to-be-ex-husband, returning my call. Feeling incredibly isolated, I took a deep breath and said, “Yeah, how are you?”

  “Where are you?”

  “About an hour and a half northeast of Memphis, stuck on a dead-end story.”

  He said he had heard Gustavo died and that he was very sorry. We talked awhile, tiptoeing awkwardly around a minefield of sensitive topics, until a big cheer went up from the old roadhouse. They had undoubtedly announced the King of the Sing. Paul mentioned how his new job was sapping up all his time. He was now sleeping, shaving, and eating in the studio.

  “I tried to get some coverage for your FEMA story,” he said, “but you know how the news works. It’s only news after a disaster happens.”

  While we talked for several more minutes, I watched waves of people getting in their cars and zooming off.

  “So what are you covering down there anyway?” he asked.

  “The Scrubbs case,” I explained. I mentioned that I would’ve been home by now but my building had been condemned and I was temporarily homeless. As our conversation unraveled, the last of the dented jalopies that had created such an acute traffic jam finally broke up and drove off. That year’s Sing the King festival was officially over.

  “So are you seeing anyone?” he asked.

  “No. Are you still sleeping with your interns?”

  “It was just once, and believe me, I wish I didn’t—” Wham!

  An instant later, when I came to, I was on the ground. My skull hurt and my cell phone was nowhere to be found. Snake Major was standing over me with three other assholes.

  “Where the fuck is it?” he hissed.

  “Where is Carpenter?” I replied. Despite my throbbing head, I rose
to my feet.

  “You don’t know shit, now give me the hand!”

  “I know that Rod East and his brother Pappy wrote that book about Elvis and you killed them.”

  He grabbed me by the throat and pinned me back to the ground. “I will fucking kill you quick if I don’t get that hand back.”

  “Special Agent Ron Wallace of the Memphis field office of the FBI has possession of the hand.”

  Snake smacked me across my mouth, then shouted back behind him, “Instead of fucking that half-wit widow, you were supposed to get it.”

  “Sorry,” I heard, and realized he was talking to Minister Beaucheete. I also saw that the other two of his beer-bellied scumbags were holding rifles. Snake suddenly pulled a hatchet out from his belt.

  “Hold on there.” The minister began backing away.

  “I need a hand,” Snake said to me, “and if you don’t have it, I’ll take yours—and throw the rest of you away.” He dramatically lifted the small axe above his head.

  “There’s three of you here,” I warned. “One of you will talk and the others will spend the rest of your lives in jail. It always works out that way.”

  “She’s right,” Beaucheete affirmed.

  “That’s a risk we’ll just have to take.” Snake grinned at me.

  “I sure as hell ain’t taking part in this,” the minister said, and started walking down the hill.

  Ignoring him, Snake barked, “This is your last chance, where’s the fucking hand!”

  “I don’t think so, you son of a bitch!” came a shrill female voice in the distance. Vinetta dashed forward, pointing Floyd’s old hunting rifle before her.

  Snake calmly set the axe on the ground. While turning to look her square in the eyes, he pulled a pistol from a shoulder holster. She shot him squarely in the chest, knocking him down with a load of buckshot in his lungs. In terror she dropped the rifle.