Losing Graceland

by Micah Nathan

  “Ten thousand is a lot of money,” Ben said.

  The old man nodded. “Goddamn right it is. What’s the point of money if you can’t use it for something noble? Something better than fancy sunglasses and ruby rings? Something more than a gold medallion with a sapphire Jewish star … what’s it called? You know what I’m talking about, man. The Jewish star. What’s it called.”

  “Star of David?”

  “That’s right.” The old man snapped his fingers. “You Jewish?”

  “My father was Jewish.”

  “What does that make you?”

  “Confused.”

  The old man nodded again. “I’ve spent enough money to make Solomon puke. Wasted it on phonies and frauds, con men and cocksuckers looking for a teaspoon of the muck. And at the end of the day—”

  He stopped suddenly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He shut his eyes and Ben thought he was going to sneeze. Then the old man choked back a sob, and Ben looked around for the waitress to bring him something. A cup of coffee, a hug from a pretty lady, whatever it would take …

  “All I’m saying,” the old man said through a clot of mucus that rattled when he cleared his throat. He opened his eyes. “All I’m saying is the money don’t mean a thing.”

  Ben waited as the old man blew his nose into his napkin.

  “Ten thousand is a lot of money,” Ben repeated.

  The old man sniffled. “Maybe for you.”

  “But you can fly to Memphis, first class, for a tenth of what you’d pay me to drive. And if time is important—”

  The old man brought his fist down on the table and their glasses rattled. People turned and stared. His upper lip quivered as he spoke. “Son, do you think I’d put my fate and Nadine’s into the hands of some pilot?”

  “I don’t—”

  “I remember those two fools they pulled off that Boeing 737. Saw it on CNN. They were hopped up on weed and God knows what else. Levorphanol, from the looks of it. Even in the goddamn press conference, when the one with that Clark Kent hair went on about how sorry he was. Christ, he was hopped up then. And even if you get past the pilots, you still got to worry about a hijacking. You can’t tell me they put U.S. Marshals on every goddamn plane. X-ray machines and metal detectors don’t always work. Not with the polymers they use now, and the ceramics, and who the hell knows what else.”

  Ben looked out the diner window, across the wide boulevard, to the rows of apartment buildings with parking lots for front lawns. He wanted to give the impression he was thinking it over. Ten grand would solve his problems. Get an apartment in Amsterdam, live like a bohemian. He wouldn’t need much—a bicycle, decent food, a couple cases of cheap wine, and enough spare cash for the occasional date. Ten grand would give him escape. A white board with fresh markers that he could use to draw whatever history he wanted.

  Escape, he realized. The town, the mall, his apartment suddenly became a locked room with cement-gray bars surrounded by the thrum of traffic and the plastic smell of … what? Conformity was too easy a label, mediocrity too elitist. It was something else. Disappointment, maybe. Or tacit acceptance.

  Ben stared at the old man. A black lock of hair fell down over his forehead and for a moment he really looked like Elvis. Not that Ben knew what Elvis really looked like—he only knew him from diner clocks and the silly beach movies he’d watched as a kid. But whoever that Elvis was, the old man looked just like him.

  “Is this a serious offer?” Ben said.

  “Serious as cancer.”

  “Ten thousand for me to drive you to Memphis. That’s all I have to do.”

  “That’s all.”

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  The old man sat back and took a swig of vanilla Coke. He crunched an ice cube. “Shoot.”

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s not who I am, but who I was.”

  “Then who were you.”

  The old man swallowed the shards of ice. He smoothed back his hair and his eyes dropped half lid. Heavy eyes, thick lids, dark bags beneath like halved grapes.

  “I was the King.”

  Their apartment sat above Manchurian House, a Chinese restaurant off the wide boulevard surrounded by treeless flat and the crenellated horizon of low-slung strip malls and plazas. A framed poster of Brando hung above the brick fireplace. Ben’s roommate, Patrick, sat on a three-legged Naugahyde chair, Ben across from him on the couch. An aquarium stood in the corner, green with algae, two fish swimming blind through the murky water. Home theater speakers hung on the walls.

  “He didn’t come out and say it,” Ben said. “He didn’t actually say he was Elvis.”

  Patrick licked his joint closed, spitting a fleck off his lip. He wore jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt, one leg draped over the chair’s arm. He wheeled the lighter. “I doubt he even has the ten grand.”

  “He’s got the money,” Ben said. “I watched him buy a classic Caddy with a roll of hundreds.”

  “That was probably his entire stash. Last of the Social Security.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Uh-huh. What was it like?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  Patrick exhaled smoke rings. “It sounds kooky.” He laughed. “That’s a good word. Kooky.” Another puff, and he shrugged. “You know, you could work with me at city camp. The pay sucks but there’s always a few available high school seniors—”

  “No thanks.”

  Patrick grinned. “My bad. I forgot about Jess.”

  “Don’t talk about her.”

  “Still?”

  “Yes. Still.”

  “Jesus, Ben. It’s been almost a year.”

  “Six months.”

  “A year. Six months.” Patrick puffed, and spoke with his breath held. “Whatever. You need to move the fuck on. I’ll get you a job at camp, you’ll meet a young blonde, and all the pain will just fade … away.”

  Patrick held out the joint but Ben ignored him. Instead he lay back on the couch and put his arm over his face. He remembered how his dad would stomp into the living room fresh from shoveling snow, and the entire house smelled like winter coming off his clothes. Those central New York winters: silent, sharp, and brittle. In the spring his dad smelled of lingering rain. In the summer, warm wind. In the autumn, dry leaves and someone’s fireplace. His dad a god who carried the seasons in his pocket, big as the world.

  3.

  been up all night,” the old man said. “Mapping our route. Load these bags into the trunk and I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Ben did as the old man said and waited in the driver’s seat of the old Cadillac El Dorado, staring into the dark of the garage door. In his bag he’d packed several paperback biographies of Elvis, remainders bought from a sales rack in Barnes & Noble the night before, sandwiched on the shelf between The 50 Worst Album Covers of All Time and a book on the Knights Templar. The old man had wanted him at the house by six A.M., and when he showed up on the front step, the old man answered the door wearing his red sweatsuit, holding a muffin in one hand and an electric razor in the other. He was barefoot and gray stubble dotted his puffy face. When he spoke he scratched his head and looked at the ground as though it were speaking to him and he was trying to hear what it had to say.

  He’d led Ben into his living room, where maps were spread on the floor next to packed bags, stacks of books, and magazines. The magazines were the type that Ben liked to browse while waiting in line at the drugstore—tales of Nostradamus, Bigfoot, alien abductions, and the occasional Elvis story. Grainy doctored photos of a fat guy in a white jumpsuit peeking out from a car or walking into a gas station restroom, and damn if the old man didn’t look a lot like the grainy doctored photos.

  “There will be many things you question during our journey together.” The old man handed his bag to Ben. “You will question my purpose, my morals, and my lucidity. But always remember that though these old eyes look cloudy, they’ve seen to
the end of the universe. They’ve peeked through the keyhole in God’s bathroom door, gone through the devil’s drawers and found his unpaid parking tickets. Now, you don’t have to believe me just yet—if I was standing where you’re standing, I’d wonder why isn’t this crazy fool in a straitjacket with a stick between his teeth. But until you believe me, pretend to believe me and we’ll get on just fine. You eat breakfast?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Any good?”

  “It was okay.”

  “What was it?”

  “A chicken burrito.”

  “Goddamn, that’s a strange breakfast. We’ll grab some proper food on the road.”

  Ben stared into the dark of the garage door and wondered if Patrick was right. Maybe he’d lost his fucking mind. Driving to Memphis with an insane old man in search of a missing stripper. Face-to-face with the star of tabloid mags and conspiracy theorists, the once-dead king of American kitsch found alive in Cheektowaga, New York. Complete with matching sweatsuit, poorly dyed hair, and a fat gold ring with a lightning bolt.

  He remembered his last summer job. One year ago, right after his dad died. Harold’s Department Store in the Palisade Mall. He’d taken it in the vain hope of saving enough money for his trip to Amsterdam. That dream sustained him for three months. Any longer and he was worried he’d start humping the mannequins, or eating the bizarre food they sold in the aisles—chocolates in giant gold tins, pickled peppers stuffed into gift-wrapped jars, Swedish fruit bread decorated with red ribbons. He folded ties and flirted with the girls at the makeup counter. Eighties Muzak constantly oozed from ceiling speakers, horn instrumentals of “Papa Don’t Preach” and “Maniac.”

  Sometimes he’d get pot from Patrick and sit in the bathroom at work, toking with a can of Glade in his suit jacket pocket. He felt older than anyone his age, an ancient twenty. He’d left little poems for a girl with long curly brown hair who worked the fragrance counter. Haikus on the back of discarded receipts. Drinks later at bar/You order something funny/Slippery nipple?

  One day she was fired for stealing perfume gift sets, and Ben watched her being escorted through the aisles, flanked by two security guards, clutching her purse as mascara-stained tears streamed down her blushed cheeks.

  He quit and tried living at home, but it was a disaster. He heard his mom talking with his dad’s ghost while doing dishes, heard her greet him when she came home. He believed she was going crazy. Really crazy, not just throwing-yourself-at-the-coffin crazy (which she hadn’t done, instead doing something scarier like sitting stiff as a board in the front pew and staring ahead while everyone else dabbed their eyes).

  The passenger door creaked open. The old man dropped a sack onto Ben’s lap. A jumble of hundreds rolled tight, wrapped in rubber bands.

  “You didn’t look like the briefcase type,” the old man said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  They drove until noon through the hills of southern New York State, a wisteria-on-white speck beneath a giant sky banded with feathered clouds, and they stopped for lunch in a small town just south of Erie, Pennsylvania, that laid claim to the first public library in the country. The restaurant called itself Italian and it served butter-soaked garlic bread in a plastic basket. The old man ordered an iced tea and chicken parm, and Ben decided he couldn’t wait any longer.

  “There’re some things I need to know,” Ben said.

  The old man wiped butter off his chin. He’d changed at the first rest stop into a white sweatsuit with a black belt, gold lion’s head buckle askew because the duct tape no longer held it tight to the leather.

  “Shoot,” the old man said.

  “Have you contacted the police about your granddaughter?”

  The old man leaned forward. “Now, why would I go and do something stupid like that?”

  “Because it’s their job. Finding missing people.”

  “Police find bodies,” the old man said, “not people.”

  “That’s a nice outfit,” the waitress said. She set down the iced tea and took a straw from behind her ear, pausing with it in midair. Her black hair showed white roots. She stood with one hand on her waist. She looked at Ben, then back at the old man.

  “This your grandson?”

  “I’m his driver,” Ben said.

  The waitress raised an eyebrow. “A driver? You must be rich.”

  “Just blind,” the old man said.

  “Oh, I doubt that.” She sauntered away, straw still in hand.

  The old man winked at Ben. He drank his iced tea.

  “Are you hiding from the law?” Ben said.

  “I’m a fugitive. But I’m no criminal.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not paying you to understand. I’m paying you to drive.”

  “Fair enough,” Ben said. “But if something happens and the police pull us over—”

  “Obey the traffic laws and we won’t have to worry.”

  “I’m just saying things happen sometimes. And if they do—”

  “If they do, you keep your mouth shut and let me handle it.”

  Ben rubbed his forehead. “Can I ask you another question?”

  “Might as well.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Tupelo. Jesus, who doesn’t know that.”

  “What was your first public performance?”

  “Professional or amateur.”

  “Amateur.”

  The old man narrowed his eyes in thought. “Mississippi Alabama Fair. If you want to get technical, one year earlier I auditioned for the role of Johnny Appleseed in the school play. Had to sing for it. Didn’t get the part.”

  “What year did you get your first guitar?”

  The old man sipped his iced tea. “Is this a fucking quiz?”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “I don’t have to prove myself to nobody. Especially you. Now, if this is how it’s gonna be—”

  “It isn’t.”

  The old man sipped again. “You’re one tightly wound sonofabitch. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Not in those exact words, but yes. All the time.”

  “You need one of those spiritual retreats,” the old man said. “Take a year off in India or something—get yourself a robe, a bowl of rice, and let the universe decide what you’re made for. It’ll do it, too. The universe is always saying something good.”

  “What did it say to you?”

  “Nothing. Already knew I’d be who I was. But a year in India would’ve been nice. I’d stay at one of those places where the gurus hang … what the hell they called …”

  “Ashrams,” Ben said.

  The old man snapped his fingers. “That’s right. I don’t care for those Indian girls, though. Big noses and little mustaches.”

  When the waitress returned, the old man pulled her aside. He took out a thick roll of hundreds and closed her hand around the roll of money.

  “You got some folks who eat here and can’t afford the good stuff,” the old man said. “The steak and veal, I mean. Maybe even a glass of wine. Am I right?”

  The waitress stared at the money held in her fist, at the old man’s mottled hand wrapped around her own.

  “I guess,” she said.

  “Fact is, same old same old drives even a good man to addiction. Drugs, pornography, gambling. A five-dollar pasta platter, week after week, turns them away from hope. I don’t imagine the owner is the generous sort, willing to cut a good man a deal. Give that good man a steak instead of a burger. Veal cutlets instead of spaghetti. Am I right?”

  “He hasn’t given me a raise in two years,” the waitress said.

  “You take this money, then,” the old man said. “Keep a couple hundred for yourself. Use the rest to help some of them good men who can’t afford better. Buy his family a couple steaks. Ice cream sundaes for his kids. A bottle of wine for his wife. Make him feel important.”

  “Are you serious?” she said.

  “Do I look serious?”


  “I can’t tell.”

  “Darling, this is my serious face.”

  The waitress frowned. “What am I supposed to do? Ask every family who comes in here if they can’t afford a better meal?”

  “You look like a smart lady,” the old man said. “Figure it out.”

  The waitress glanced at Ben, and he nodded as if to say, Yeah, I know.

  After lunch they walked past the town hall, a brick building with white columns, and the lampposts were all ornate black iron that looked incongruous on sidewalks next to franchise sub shops, a video store, and a hair salon with faded fashion magazine photos plastered inside the glass. The sun glowed pale behind a gang of thick clouds and Ben had heard on the restaurant radio there was rain where they were headed. South to Cleveland. Another three hours by way of side streets, backways, and small towns with twenty-mile-per-hour speed limits.

  The old man said he needed to walk because his back was tight from sitting in the car. The chicken he’d ordered wasn’t just not agreeing with him; the way he figured, it was engaged in a full-scale war with his lower intestine.

  They walked to the end of Main Street and doubled back, the old man rubbing his stomach, belching and wincing, like he was a veteran of many gastrointestinal wars and knew the right balance of attack and retreat. When they got back to their car, the old man stopped and leaned his arms on the roof, gazing out over the town hall lawn.

  “What I’m about to tell you will sound like the biggest pile of horse shit you ever heard,” the old man said. “You won’t hear this story anywhere else. Not from any book or documentary.”

  Ben kicked at a pebble and watched it skitter across the street.

  “But you have to swear that what I’m going to tell you remains between us and God,” the old man said.