Losing Graceland

ALSO BY MICAH NATHAN

Gods of Aberdeen

en Fish stood on the front porch of the old man’s house and squinted in the morning sun. It was a small brick ranch, three windows with miniblinds and crooked flower boxes set along the front. Across the street children ran and screamed through a sprinkler shaped like a fire hydrant. Ben pushed the doorbell. He took a deep breath. He looked back over his shoulder, at a towheaded child in orange shorts sitting on the neighbor’s lawn. The child held his knee and cried while pulsating water soaked his hair and dripped down his arms.

The old man rapped on the inside of his window and spread the miniblinds apart. Ben saw the faint outline of a mouth, and the pads of his fingers pressed to the dusty glass.

“You Ben?” The glass fogged as he spoke.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me what happened to that boy.”

“Pardon?”

“The crying boy. Sitting in the sprinkler. What happened to him.”

“I don’t know,” Ben said. “I think he hurt his knee.”

“His knee, huh.”

Ben heard the clack of a dead bolt and the door creaked open. He saw the sliver of a dim living room, books stacked waist high. Pools of scattered papers. A brown plaid couch. The edge of a black robe. The man’s face stayed hidden behind the door, but his voice was clear and strong, with a whisper of Southern accent. Every word ended softly.

“How’s the boy now?”

Ben glanced across the street. The towheaded child laughed, arms held straight overhead, back arched. He screamed with pleasure as he splashed through puddles on the sidewalk.

“He looks okay,” Ben said.

“Tough kid. You tough?”

“I guess.”

“You guess. Well, that’s a big and fast car in my garage. I need someone who can handle big and fast.” The old man poked his head around the edge of the door. Half his face stayed hidden in shadow. He narrowed his eye.

Ben fumbled in his creased leather bag and took out a sheet of paper with a photocopy of his license paper-clipped to the corner.

“Driving record?” the man said.

“Yes, sir. I should explain the stop sign—”

A wrinkled hand snatched it from Ben, and he saw the flash of a ring, a wide gold band with a lightning bolt. The door clicked shut. Seconds later it creaked open again. The eye returned.

“Says here you ran a stop sign four years ago.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you. I was seventeen.”

“That an excuse?”

“Yes.”

“Good excuse,” the old man said. “Meet me in the garage.”

Ben stood by the old man’s car. It was a long, low car from the fifties, and it looked like it hadn’t been driven since—dull white-walls, flat tires, pitted chrome runners, and yellowed headlights with glass thick as Coke bottles. Ben peered through the passenger window. He saw cobwebs running from black leather steering wheel to black leather driver’s seat. A set of golf clubs sat in the back, dusty irons and woods packed into a leather bag that looked like it would break apart at the first touch.

A push broom leaned against the garage wall, under the light switch, next to a bag of mulch and a garden spade with dried dirt pasted to its blade. The old man ran his hands along the car’s hood. Thick dust piled against his fingers. He wore sweatpants and a black terry-cloth robe, brown leather belt cinched around the waist. His shoes were brown leather loafers with tassels. He tossed a key to Ben without looking at him and clapped his hands clean.

“Nineteen fifty-eight Ford Fairlane Skyliner,” the old man said. “They don’t make this color red anymore.”

He had to be an Elvis impersonator, Ben figured. His hair, his mannerisms, the way he talked; it added up to a decrepit version of Elvis, a copy of a copy of a copy, faded and creased, but its source material was unmistakable. And he even looked a little like Elvis, as much as an old, fat Elvis impersonator looks like anything other than an old, fat Elvis impersonator. Puffy cheeks, thick wide nose, jowled chin dusted with baby powder. Thinning hair dyed black as tire rubber, greased into a high wedge, a
line of dye ringing his high forehead. He had the hint of an involuntary sneer, a wrinkled curl to his upper lip. Or maybe, Ben thought, he just saw it that way because the sneer was synonymous with Elvis. You couldn’t see one without thinking of the other, and you couldn’t think of one without seeing the other.

“Colors are made from formulas,” the old man continued. “And this cherry red was a secret some sonofabitch scientist took to his grave.”

“It’s impressive,” Ben said.

“Goddamn right it is. Now start her up.”

He slid in through the passenger door, smelling old cigarettes and dry leather. The seat creaked. A napped layer of dust blanketed the dashboard. Ketchup packets lay beneath the brake pedal, next to paper cups, fast-food wrappers, and crumpled receipts.

Ben turned the key and nothing happened. He turned it again and looked at the old man through the windshield, shrugging.

The old man pulled his robe closer. “Pop the hood.”

He lifted it with a grunt, then stepped back and put his hands on his hips.

“Sonofabitch,” the old man said. “I can’t remember who I loaned the engine to.”

They took Ben’s car, a little Honda hatchback that the old man cursed at while he squeezed himself into the seat.

“How much did you pay for this piece of shit?” the old man said.

“Two grand,” Ben said.

“In 1962 I paid five for that Fairlane. Take a right on Porter.”

The morning sun ricocheted off the Honda’s hood and Ben put on his sunglasses, but the old man stared straight into the glare, tapping his fingers on one knee. He’d changed into red sweatpants and a matching red sweatshirt. He still wore his brown loafers. His gold lightning bolt ring glowed.

“You know Sal’s?” the old man said.

“I’m not that familiar with this area—”

“Five miles down. Can’t miss it. Big old sign says ‘Sal’s.’ ”

“What’s at Sal’s?”

“Something to replace my Fairlane. We got a lot of driving ahead.”

Ben saw the ad two days ago, buried in the classifieds under telemarketing jobs and offers for home massages:

He called the number on a Tuesday night after he’d had a few beers. The old man told him to show up at his address at eight
A.M
. sharp, and when Ben asked if he should bring anything, the old man said a driving record. How about my résumé, Ben said, and the old man said a man’s face is his résumé, then he hung up and left Ben wondering if he should bother.

But he bothered because for the first time in his life he had no other plans. His final semester was over, Jessica had still dumped him, and his options—going back home, or staying in town and working another summer at the Palisade Mall folding ties at Harold’s—would lead to an existential crisis. A genuine existential crisis, not like the trust-fund kids who wander Europe, searching for authenticity in hostels. He wouldn’t emerge from his
summer mall job a better person; he’d emerge defeated, having thrown up his hands at the age of twenty-one. An office job by twenty-three, married with one child by thirty, living in his hometown, feigning interest in lawn mowers and gutter guards, and forever lamenting the missed opportunities of his youth. His midlife crisis would come early, the outcome preordained.

He knew he couldn’t live with his mom back home, because remnants of his dead father lay all over the house. His dad’s winter wool jacket still hung in the garage. His old sneakers were buried in the front closet, his razor sat in the medicine cabinet, his stained sweatshirt waited on the washing machine, collecting lint and dark globs of spilled laundry detergent. His ghost sat at the kitchen table and listened in on Ben’s conversations with his mom. His ghost opened the door to Ben’s old room and peered in, before disappearing into shadow and dust.