Losing Graceland

by Micah Nathan

  Ben saw how nervous the old man was, how he sat in the backseat and stared out the window, fingering an orange pill bottle that Ben hadn’t seen before. Whether it was from a previous stash or he’d found another dealer, it didn’t matter—the old man was a serious pill fiend and, Elvis or not, Ben thought he needed to be in tip-top shape to stand any chance of winning. But it was too late because his voice was slurred and his eyes swayed like a ship in a storm. Walking through the rain, Ben figured, was a last-ditch attempt to clear his head.

  Then he started to sing, this lone figure with his pale gut hanging over the mane of his gold lion’s head belt buckle and rain dripping off his sagging chin. His voice lifted above the wind; Ben realized if he sang in the contest half as good as he sounded now, not only would he win, but the entire convention center would rush the stage as if Jesus himself had returned for a onetime-only repeat performance of his Sermon on the Mount.

  They stepped onto the sidewalk below a massive banner that read Welcome Elvis Tribute Artists and Elvis Fans from Around the World! A young man dressed in a black leather jumpsuit stood under the overhang, puffing a cigarette and tapping his foot. His hair was jet black, slicked into a spiky pompadour, an updated fifties greaser with a thorn vine tattoo encircling his wrist.

  The old man made his thumb and forefinger into the shape of a gun and aimed it at the young man; he pulled the trigger. The young man winked back.

  “Looking good, old-timer,” the young man said, and Ben thought, If only you knew.

  The old man stopped in front of the double doors and took a deep breath. Through the glass Ben saw an ocean of people. Folding tables stood in front of small stages where judges in blue polo shirts busied themselves with paperwork. Exposed metal rafters ran across the high ceiling like train tracks. The back of the room was filled with a giant center stage, and roadies worked on the lights and smoke machines, shouting and sound-checking and stomping officiously in their tan workboots. There were high-haired women and their husbands with every kind of mullet—the largest single gathering of mullets in North America, Ben figured. He saw food stands and souvenir kiosks and T-shirt air-brushing stations. Two massive screens hanging from the rafters showed dual Elvis movies—“Jailhouse Rock” and “Harum Scarum.”

  “I want a soft pretzel,” Ginger said.

  “You ready?” Ben said, and the old man put his hands on his hips and puffed out his cheeks. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Ben.

  “Gimme a dab,” the old man said.

  Ben dabbed his forehead.

  “All right,” the old man said. “Let’s show them the real fucking King.”

  “Pissed myself.”

  “What?”

  “I pissed myself. Felt something warm and looked down and saw this.”

  The old man pointed to the front of his pants, where Ben saw a dark splotch the shape of Florida.

  “Are you sure that’s not from the rain?”

  “We’ve been waiting so long my pants are just about dry.” The old man held his fingers to his nose. “And rain don’t smell like piss.”

  They stood behind a small stage, in a curtained dressing area with folding chairs, a wardrobe rack, and a freestanding mirror. Crowd noise, bad PA systems, and canned music echoed off the metal walls.

  The teenaged volunteer in her white polo and headset peeked her head through the curtain. She tapped her clipboard. “We’re ready when you are, Mr. Barrow.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. Just gimme a minute.”

  “Well, okay, but we’re on a reaaally tight—”

  “One minute,” Ginger said, and she shut the curtains.

  The previous contestant walked off the stage, metal steps clanging. He flashed Ginger a tired smile. His leis looked old and worn, curled plastic fading with age and stained with the sweat of countless confirmations, graduations, and weddings. He looked nothing like Elvis except that he was fat, with porkchop sideburns and tinted aviators, dressed in a white bejeweled jumpsuit. Ben realized he only looked like Elvis because that’s what Elvis had become. Put a white bejeweled jumpsuit and tinted aviator glasses on a pig and it’s Elvis Pig. Put the same on a baby and it’s Elvis Baby. Put the costume on anything and the Elvis takes over.

  Ben thought this explained the old man’s anonymity. If he was indeed Elvis, he looked no more or less authentic than anyone else because it wasn’t Elvis they worshipped. They couldn’t worship what Elvis was at the end of his life—a bloated, stumbling, drug-addled stew of irrelevancy, camp, and terminal midlife crisis. So America remade him into its image, an accessible image where everyone could become their idol. Even better if he was fat. Even better if he was mediocre.

  In the biographies Ben had read, everyone had something to say except for Elvis himself. The interviews with his Graceland maid, his grammar-school teachers, limo drivers, and bank tellers. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone thought Elvis had shown them something private and special. They worshipped their own worship, so it didn’t matter if the King was gone, because they didn’t need him anymore. Once the sneer, swivel, and heartbreaking tremolo were seared into their collective unconscious, Elvis lived forever. Flesh made plastic in diner clocks and department store Muzak. Plastic made flesh in impersonators and signed scarves sold on eBay.

  Ben remembered what the old man had told him.

  Pretending Elvis was alive was a hell of a lot harder than pretending he’s dead.

  The old man looked at the front of his pants and shook his head. “Goddamn prostate.”

  “Ginger, get a couple water bottles,” Ben said.

  “I don’t think he needs any more water.”

  Ben dabbed the old man’s brow. “Just get the water.”

  The old man stared across the hall, past the Aloha Hawaii Elvis section to the Sun Records Elvis section, where hopefuls swiveled and hollered. He stared as the piss cooled on his thighs and his lower back spasmed.

  Ginger returned with a handful of water bottles. Ben uncapped the first and splashed it on the old man’s pants. “Get the back wet,” Ben said, and she poured a bottle down the back of the old man’s waist.

  “Goddamn, that’s cold,” he said.

  The teenaged volunteer pushed through the backstage curtain. “Sir, we really can’t wait any longer.”

  “We’re all set,” Ben said. He squeezed water from the pant cuffs and ignored the smell of urine. “There. It’s like you’re wearing darker pants.”

  The old man looked at Ginger. “Darling, be truthful with me. How do I look?”

  “Hot,” she said.

  “Guitar,” the old man said. Ben handed him the stock guitar that lay in its case under the stage risers. The old man plucked a few strings and adjusted the tuning pegs. He plucked and tuned, plucked and tuned, then rolled his head a few times and closed his eyes.

  “Sir,” the volunteer started, but the old man waved her away.

  “Get that girl outta here,” he said. “She’s making me nervous.”

  Ginger put her hand on the volunteer’s chest and pushed her back, through the curtain. The announcer’s voice boomed hollow through the PA. “Ladies and gentlemen, next up we have John Barrow, our oldest competitor, and he’ll be singing ‘One Night with You.’ ”

  Polite applause as Ben helped the old man up the stairs, his legs shaking from nerves or muscular failure or the effects of pills, Ben didn’t know. All he knew was he had to get the old man onstage and have him do his thing. He’d prop him up if he had to, hold him up by the waist and let him do the rest. Let him show everyone what Myra and Darryl had talked about, what everyone in the karaoke bar had seen and what was gone before they fully comprehended it, like an angel’s face in a storm cloud, or strange lights hovering over a farmer’s field in South Dakota.

  And then Ben saw them. Myra and Darryl in the middle of the crowd with the rest of Hell’s Foster Children. Myra’s eyes lit up. Darryl cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting, “Give ’em hell!” as the
y began to shove their way to the front. Families were pushed aside and some of the husbands shoved back but were quickly overwhelmed by the gang of suburban bikers, who whooped and hollered and bullied past little old ladies, children, and Elvis impersonators. A throng of security guards in red polos ran from offstage, pushing into the crowd, pointing and yelling at Hell’s Foster Children, who pointed and yelled back.

  The old man stared off into the blurry distance. He heard a young Elvis singing “Baby Let’s Play House.” The requisite screams from young girls followed. He figured if he had his glasses he’d see the young Elvis jerk and grind across the stage, driving the ladies crazy with his hair flopping against his forehead like those deep-sea fish with the danglers they wiggle for little fish. Misdirection, Hank had said. Gets ’em every time.

  Ben dabbed the old man’s forehead again. His sweat left dark streaks like a crying lady’s mascara. Ben saw the black dye under the old man’s fingernails. His hair smelled of fresh chemicals.

  “Ain’t much of a guitar,” the old man said into the microphone. He plucked and tuned once more. “Man, I like it dirty but not that dirty.”

  The audience quieted. Hell’s Foster Children turned to the stage. The security guards in their red polos stopped where they stood and watched. Ben took one final wipe and hurried off. He stood near Ginger, who coiled an arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “What song am I doing?” the old man asked.

  “ ‘One Night with You,’ ” someone shouted. There was light laughter. The old man smiled and shook his head.

  Silence. Someone yelled, “ ‘Freebird.’ ” Someone yelled, “Elvis, we love you!” In the background Ben heard the bustle of other stages and other crowds, but in their own bubble it was quiet as a country field before a rainstorm. Myra had willed her way to the front row. She leaned her arms on the stage, gazing upward, her long black hair thick and shiny as ever.

  The old man flexed his hand with the missing pinky and strummed a chord, frowned as though surprised with himself, then cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and sang.

  “I’m a poor wayfaring stranger

  While traveling through this world of woe.”

  The crowd erupted. Myra shrieked and Hell’s Foster Children roared. The judges put down their pens.

  Yet there’s no sickness, toil, or danger

  In that bright world to which I go.

  Housewives with high hair forgot how things never worked out for them, and for those few blissful moments they remembered what summer days felt like without children, bills, dirty dishes, and disappointing husbands.

  I know dark clouds will hang round me

  I know my way is rough and steep.

  A little old lady fainted, falling at the feet of a four-year-old boy who pulled on his mother’s sleeve but she was screaming. The boy pulled on his father’s sleeve but his father wore the dumbfounded expression of someone who’d declared himself a god only to find the real God sitting in his living room when he returned home from work.

  But I’m going there to see my mother

  Where God’s redeemed shall ever sleep

  Yeah, where God’s redeemed shall ever sleep

  You motherfuckers and Pharisees.

  The old man stumbled to one knee. Guitar strings popped and twanged, lashing his face as he clutched the microphone stand. It fell, squealing with feedback.

  Ben and Ginger rushed to his side. The crowd surged.

  “Go on and finish for me,” the old man said to Ben.

  Ben cradled the old man’s head. A woman in the front row screamed that she couldn’t breathe. Two men fell to the floor in a blur of fists. A teenage girl vomited. Hands reached for the old man’s clothes and Ginger kicked them away. Myra pulled herself onto the stage, fighting past a gang of middle-aged women who clawed and scratched for a piece of the old man’s rattlesnake shirt and wet white polyester pants.

  The old man smiled at Ben. “Go on and finish, son. Rest of the song is just more of the same. I’ll wiggle the pinky I have left and you can sing.”

  Ginger saw Hell’s Foster Children charge the security guards. Darryl threw the first punch because that day at the construction site he’d learned the real meaning of badass watching T-Rex squirm and cough on the dirt while the old man had stood in his karate stance with sunlight glinting off his green aviators. The old man showed him what a proper leader could do. They didn’t call him the King for nothing, Darryl had told Myra later that night, lying in bed after their evening at Lil’ Rascals. That was the first fight we almost won. You know, I’m thinking we should change our name to Hell’s Righteous Children.

  The crowd heaved. Children screamed. The announcer shouted for people to remain calm while a red wave of security guards ran from the other end of the convention center. The teenaged volunteer ran onto the stage and clutched her clipboard to her chest. “Should I call for an ambulance?” she said, but she was focused on the surging crowd and she backed away as someone threw a chair. Ben yelled at Ginger to get the car. The stage risers shook. Cups pelted the stage, spraying ice and soda. A mass of hands grabbed the guitar and Ben watched it ripped apart, punches and kicks thrown over a square of split wood, a guitar string, a plastic tuning peg.

  Myra knelt by the old man and squeezed his hand.

  “Heartbreaker still breaking hearts,” the old man said. “You like my show?”

  She leaned over and kissed him. “Best ever.”

  “Can you walk?” Ben asked.

  The old man sniffed. “Course I can walk. I’m not a fucking cripple.”

  Ben and Myra hauled the old man to his feet. They stumbled down the metal stairs. On the last step the old man bent over with his hands on his knees.

  “My back,” he said. “It’s seizing up. Can’t feel my legs.”

  A flat boom echoed through the arena as the front of the stage collapsed. Ben pulled the old man away, pushing through the crowd. Cotton candy, soft pretzels, and glossy programs spilled over the beer- and soda-slicked floor. Ben lost the old man’s grip and he looked back to see him struggling against a sixty-something woman with overprocessed blond hair and tight gold lamé pants. She pulled the old man close and clawed at his shirt. Her taloned fake nails dug into his chest; suddenly Myra was on her like a panther.

  Ben hooked an arm under the old man’s arm. They burst through the double front doors. Ginger waited for them, two tires on the curb, engine revving. The old man fell into the backseat. Ben locked his door and a strong hand gripped his shoulder. He spun with fist raised.

  The young man dressed in a black leather jumpsuit held up a gold lion’s head belt buckle. A thorn vine tattoo encircled his wrist. His slick-backed hair was stiff with dried gel.

  “You dropped this,” he said.

  Ben took the buckle and the young man stuck his head into the car.

  “Sir, you were amazing,” he said. “Really amazing. Are you—”

  “We got a scarf for this young man?” the old man said.

  Ben shook his head. “We have to leave. Now.”

  The old man ripped off his sleeve and handed it to the young man, who backed away, staring at it. Ginger floored the gas, tires smoking on the wet blacktop. The old man turned and watched out the back window, at the receding convention center sign that read Welcome Elvis Fans—Here’s Your Chance to Meet All the Elvis You Ever Wanted and More.

  13.

  en drove them into Mississippi toward Shake, past shotgun shacks and wire grass fields, stopping once at a gas station where weeds poked through the cracked blacktop like the hair of an underground beast. Clouds parted for them, opening to the south in a buttery trench with dark mountains on either side, but where they drove sun flashed gold across meadows and birds darted like volleys of arrows.

  Ginger sat in the back of the Caddy with the old man and confessed she’d never wanted to sell her body but it was all she had and it was all the world seemed to want. She felt dirty. She felt corrupted, like
a piece of rotten meat that spoiled whatever it touched. All those blow jobs and backseat quickies, the numbing taste of latex and spermicide, the snap of rubbers, the musk of strangers whispering atrocities in her ear. She couldn’t forget it and the memories never strayed far; no matter how hard she tried to be normal, she wanted nothing more than to run away. She couldn’t guarantee the old man she would stay past tomorrow. The next rest stop, the next motel, the next adventure—she might simply walk on and keep walking. Maybe she’d thumb a ride to Miami and sell necklaces on the boardwalk or make her way to Los Angeles and get a modeling gig. Maybe even sell her life story. Get cast on a reality show.

  Ben listened but said nothing. He never wanted to return to Buffalo. Fucking Buffalo. The mistake on the lake, the battered old city, ruined and rusted with sterile outposts of suburban banality and pockets of urban fortresses propped up by a few streets and self-important art mags. He never wanted to return and he wanted things to stay just as they were: a Caddy, the road, the old man, and Ginger. They’d make money selling Elvis scarves and winning karaoke contests. Maybe if the old man kept his sanity long enough, they’d return to Memphis and Ben would help the old man up Graceland’s hallowed steps. He’d boot all the impersonators like Odysseus slaying his wife’s suitors and reclaim his place as King. Sell their story for ten million dollars like Alex had said. Exclusive interview on Oprah. Maybe he could write a book and call it Tuesdays with Elvis, turning his sadness and the old man’s dementia into pre-digested mouthfuls of Sage Advice. Closure Is Bullshit. Life Goes On and That’s Good Enough. Sobbing Won’t Make a Seventeen-Year-Old Girl Take You Back.

  Ginger finished, then broke down into tears, resting her head on the old man’s shoulder. His rattlesnake shirt was ripped down the front. His sleeve dangled. The lenses of his new aviator sunglasses were already smeared. He patted her back and shushed her.