Losing Graceland (8 page)

“Ben, you’re drunk and you’re yelling at me.”

“I’m not, goddammit. I’m trying to get you to listen—”

She hung up. Ben tried to calm himself, staring at a framed reproduction photo of Gene Autry hanging on the rough wooden wall. Then he dialed her again, got her voice mail, and he began to apologize for yelling but stopped himself. Too late, he thought. He already sounded stupid, justifying his emotions yet again.

He banged through the bathroom door and splashed cold water onto his face and stared at himself in the mirror. A bulge under his right eye looked like a bubble on a bad tire. The cut on his lip had finally stopped bleeding. It was scabbed over like a giant cold sore and he picked at it. Blood dotted into the sink. He grabbed a paper towel and held it to his lip.

Frank stumbled in. He swayed at the urinal and looked back at Ben.

“Where you been?”

“On the phone with my ex-girlfriend.”

Frank grinned. His tooth was freshly chipped. “You should go see her. All those battle scars on your face and you’ll get a sympathy fuck for sure.”

“She hates me.”

“So what. The hateful fucks are the best kind.”

Ben looked at the paper towel. A red Rorschach of a naked embrace with Jessica.
One last time
, she would say.
But only because we used to love each other
.

Frank shook off the last drop of piss and zipped his pants. He patted Ben on the back. “Forget about her. Now get on out there before Elvis eats all the shrimp.”

Frank left and Darryl walked in. He nodded at Ben and took a deep breath. He leaned back against the bathroom wall, squinting
at the flickering fluorescent light panels. He’d taken off his jacket, muscles shifting and tensing beneath his black T-shirt.

“What are you doing?” Darryl said.

Ben pressed the paper towel to his lip. “Nothing.”

“That’s cool,” Darryl said quietly, to himself. He swallowed hard.

They stood in silence, echoes of their breathing in the bathroom. Darryl continued to stare at the fluorescent light panels. Ben saw dirt streaks on his jeans, something dark on his right knuckles that may have been blood but could also be barbecue sauce. Finally Ben asked, “Are you okay?”

Darryl nodded. “I’m okay.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Hurt?”

“The fight,” Ben said. “Did you get—”

Darryl snorted. “I’m fine. Not a scratch. Jesus, do I look like the kind of guy who’d have a hard time in a fight?”

“Not at all.”

Darryl glanced at Ben. “You got it pretty good.”

“I’m not much of a fighter.”

“So he’s the real deal, isn’t he?”

“Who?”

“The old man. Don’t fucking lie to me and say he isn’t. He’s got my wife dripping wet. She’d blow him in the coat closet if he asked.”

Ben took the paper towel off his lip. He looked in the mirror, Darryl still leaning against the bathroom wall, hands in his pockets, broad shoulders bulging with useful muscle. Ben imagined what he’d do to the old man.
Slaughter
wasn’t accurate enough.

“Yeah, it pisses me off,” Darryl said, answering a question
Ben thought but didn’t dare ask. “The other guys … they like his stories, his attitude. How he clocked that prick in the throat. But they don’t believe. Not like I do.”

Darryl walked to the urinal, slowly, unzipping his pants. He leaned one hand against the tile. Ben heard the trickle of urine.

“I have to ask myself if I can let her go,” Darryl continued. “If it’s worth it for him. You know, I almost caught one of his shows in Raleigh. I was sixteen. We were going as a joke, like a trip to the zoo to see some animal you never seen before. Our car broke down and we ended up selling our seats to the tow guy. Couple years later the King died. Well, that’s what we all thought, anyway.”

Darryl zipped his pants. He washed his hands next to Ben, looking at his reflection.

“I love Myra but I can’t stop her,” Darryl said. “I just hope he takes me along.”

“What’s the craziest thing you ever done on tour?”

The old man wrinkled his forehead and leaned back. The neon
open
sign was dark and the kitchen door was propped open, shouts and laughter from the kitchen staff floating out. The bartender had taken off his vest and he drank with a couple of young waitresses.

“I killed a man in Nevada,” the old man said.

Frank lowered his voice. “Like murder?”

“Like self-defense.” The old man picked through his plate of shrimp tails. “My show was over and we were driving back to the hotel, and we stopped at a traffic light. Some sonofabitch pulled Fike out of the car. Just ran up to the car and pulled him right out.
Threw him to the ground and started kicking the shit out of him. So I jumped into the front and popped that car into reverse, then gunned it and hit that sonofabitch so hard, he spun around like a top. Ran over Fike’s leg, too. But Fike was okay. Four weeks in a cast and he was right as rain.”

Ben sat at the other end of the table. He could barely see the old man through the crowd that had gathered around, filled with waiters, bikers, and even a few patrons. They sat, stared, laughed, and clapped, and the old man cruised through his stories and told corny jokes and some actually liked the stories and corny jokes but most didn’t know why they were still there. Only that they couldn’t leave because they’d never met anyone like this old fox with black hair combed high, a gash on his forehead, and claw marks on his neck from the construction site rumble.

“Took that poor man two months to die,” the old man said. “I say
poor
because even though some people pissed me off to the point where I wanted them strung up by their balls—pardon my language, ladies—I never wished death on anyone. So I sent his family a fleet of white Lincolns. And signed copies of Rajmendahi’s
The Transcendent Soul
. You ever read Rajmendahi? Man, he was something else. Met him backstage in Jersey City, 1973. Little guy, about five foot tall, voice like a girl. You never heard nobody wise as that man. Told me first they ignore you, then they make fun of you, then they fight you, and then you win. You get that?”

The crowd nodded.

“Then you win,” the old man repeated. Myra inched closer, resting her hand on the old man’s knee under the table. Ben saw Darryl sitting on the other side of his wife, staring passively.

“Do you believe in destiny?” Myra asked.

The old man shrugged. “Only Destiny I know was a black
hooker in Tupelo. We’re born, we die, and there ain’t no plans made by anyone other than us. There’s your destiny.”

The old man began to sing to himself, softly: “
All things are ready, come; come to the supper spread; come, rich and poor; come, old and young; come, and be richly fed …
”

“Tell us about Lisa Marie,” one of the waiters said, winking at his friend.

The old man stopped. His face darkened. “I was in the middle of a song.”

“I know,” the waiter said. “But have you spoken to her—”

“My daughter is my business,” the old man said. “Now, let me get back to my song.”

The waiter ran to the back office and when he returned he was grinning. Suddenly “Viva Las Vegas” blared through the mini-speakers perched in the high corners of the room.

Everyone laughed and applauded, but the old man kicked himself away from the table and hefted an empty pitcher. “Turn that goddamn shit off!” he bellowed. When no one moved, he threw the pitcher toward the bar and it crashed into a row of liquor, shattering the Budweiser mirror. The bartender ducked and cracked his head on the side of the bar, and Ben watched him slump to the floor, blood streaming down his forehead.

The waiter backed away, stammering, “I thought—”

“Turn off that fucking music or I’ll break your goddamn neck,” the old man yelled, and he kicked his chair. The muscle in his side seized again; he wished he could reach into his flesh and rip it out. Rip out everything that was failing him. Don’t need them anymore, he thought. Just get me to Nadine on two legs and I’ll take care of the rest. I’m a juggernaut. Old and creaky but still a goddamn juggernaut.

Ben was at his side as one of the waitresses cradled the bartender’s head. The manager screamed at everyone to leave. The old man kicked a table and it squawked across the floor. Darryl shoved the manager, “Viva Las Vegas” still blaring, and Ben tried to usher the old man to the door but he yelled and spat. Every time Ben grabbed his arm, the old man ripped it free. “Goddammit, I was singing and you go and put that shit on,” the old man shouted, and they exited into the night, where the parking lot blacktop was still warm, smelling of tar, their shoes making whispery scuffles.

Ben rested his head on the steering wheel. He heard the old man breathing hard next to him. The old man coughed.

“I can’t do this,” Ben said.

“Sure you can. Just start the car and drive away.”

“I think I should leave when we get to Fort Thomas,” Ben said. “You don’t have to pay for my ticket back. I want you to take the money and pay for those bottles you smashed—”

“They already have my money. I gave them a grand to keep the bar open.”

“What about the bartender?”

“What about him.”

“He’s fucked up and he didn’t do anything wrong. He was just standing there.”

The old man coughed again. “The world is full of fucked-up people who were just standing there. Colonel was slicker than a greased snake, but I’ll never forget the night after my momma died. I told him she sacrificed everything and what did she get in return, and Colonel said it isn’t about who deserves what, it’s about
timing.
”

In his side-view Ben saw the bikers pour out of Lil’ Rascals.
They stood in front of their bikes, yelling at the manager and his gang of waiters.

“Timing’s what got me into those terrible movies,” the old man said. “Every one of them names they gave me sounded like a gay porn star. Clint Reno. Lucky Jackson. Rick Richards. Don’t tell me the writers didn’t know what they were doing. My movies were a fucking joke. Turned me into a good ol’ boy with a stupid grin. That wasn’t what I was about.
That wasn’t why I came into this world.
”

Someone banged on the passenger window. Myra. Her black hair rested on her shoulders and her teeth shone white.

The old man rolled down the window. Myra adjusted the bag slung over her arm. She raked her hair back, turning her head to let its thickness shine in the parking lot light.

“We’re rambling,” the old man said. “Be a darling and thank Darryl for all his hospitality.”

“Take me with you,” she said.

The old man smiled kindly and pulled the gold lightning-bolt ring off his finger. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

He placed the ring in Myra’s hand and closed her fingers over it. “I need you to give this to the bartender. Will you do that?”

Myra nodded, her eyes rimmed with tears. “Can I go with you? Please?”

The old man touched Myra’s face. She closed her eyes.

“Darling, one hundred years ago you’d break my heart,” he said, then he gestured to Ben, who started the car and pulled away. In his rearview he watched Myra fade from red to black, standing in the parking lot with her weekend bag as the old man began to sing again.

* * *

It stormed all night into the next day, cedar trees swaying against the dark flashing sky. They’d driven past Fort Thomas, along narrow Kentucky roads bounded by stone walls and plank fences. The Caddy’s wipers weren’t fast enough and the water fell in sheets but Ben still drove. His right eye was blacked and swollen; the knuckles of his right hand were cut in the shape of someone’s teeth.

The old man kept quiet. His green-tinted aviators sat crooked on his face, one arm missing, the crinkled map spread across his lap with doughnut crumbs collected in the center crease.

“Everyone has a lost love.” The old man stared out the window at the raindrops shuddering across the glass. “I lost mine in Tupelo. Emma Grant. Wasn’t the prettiest I’d been with, but man, she was the sweetest. Told me she’d take care of me until the end of my days. I still remember what she looked like when no one was watching.”

He turned to Ben. “That’s when you see right into someone’s soul. How they look in their private moments. First thing in the morning she’d think I was asleep, and she’d sit by the bedroom window. Way the sunlight touched her face, you’d think it had to ask permission. Long golden hair and the whitest skin I ever seen. Like fresh cream. One green eye and one blue. And her hands …”

He held up one bruised hand.

“Fingers like a china doll. Soft skin put me to sleep every time it touched my face. Couldn’t even make love to her because it would’ve been obscene, until one night she begged and begged and so I obliged. And now it’s her granddaughter I’m going to save.”

The old man took off his aviators.

“Emma had a daughter named Gladys. Named after my mother. I was at Gladys’s christening, in a small church on the banks of
Otter Creek. Eighteen years ago Gladys had herself a daughter. Nadine Emma Brown. I used to send money but I stopped, and if you held a gun to my head, I couldn’t tell you why. But I blame myself for Nadine’s fall from grace.”

Ben swerved around a fallen branch thick as an elephant’s leg. The old man put his aviators back on.

“Priscilla told me I’d be the ruin of everyone I love. Told me everything I’d gained would be their loss. God only gives so much before He takes, you understand. God isn’t about good versus evil. He’s about balance. Give a penny, take a penny. The blind can hear a fly taking a shit; the deaf can stand in the clubhouse and see a blade of grass on the eighteenth hole. And if you believe that, let me tell you about a hooker in Duluth who sucks dick so goddamn good, she gives one out of three men heart attacks.”

The old man laughed to himself, fist held to his mouth with his head down as if he were listening to the laughter of his previous life. Then sadness washed over his face, and once again he leaned his head against the window.

“But I’m being serious now,” he said. “Without balance the whole thing falls apart because the sun always melts the wings of motherfuckers flying too high. September 1976 I dreamt of a grinning beast walking through the desert with a six-shooter and a bottle of whiskey. I’m sitting in the shadow of a giant red rock eating at a big table, a big old feast all for me. Then I hear its spurs jangling and the cylinder on its six-shooter is clicking round and round, and it kicks over a cactus and takes a swig of whiskey, pointing the six-shooter between my eyes. It throws its head back and howls and says,
Boom.
” The old man shuddered. Rain spat against the windshield. “That’s why I left. When I left God turned away. But now that I’m alive again, God’s taken notice.
The beast howling thirty years ago slouches toward Memphis, waiting to be born.”