Losing Graceland (20 page)

The old man didn’t know and so he slept, refusing to wake himself from his nightmares. Instead he let them pass over, angels of death with black beating wings and open beaks that stretched back to the beginning of it all. When wriggling things wriggled in the muck and lightning shut the eyes of leviathans. When he drove a truck, bought his first guitar, and ate sandwiches of bread and salt.

Ben drove. Yellow bars pulled themselves under the car, the hum of the tires vibrating the edges of his teeth. He was beyond exhausted, beyond complaint. Just get to Memphis, he thought. Ditch this world and get back to what’s real. This old man isn’t real. Ginger wasn’t real. Alina wasn’t real. You know what’s real. You remember the papasan in your apartment. Patrick being an asshole, Samantha’s short hair; those are the things that fit.

Ben remembered his first anthro class, second semester freshman year. Professor Mitchell showed them a film on the Yanomamo, “The Fierce People.” Yanomamo men wore a string tied around their waists and the women wore nothing. They all had saggy tits shaped like gourds, every one of them. It never made sense, Ben thought. How come naked women in the jungle never have good bodies? It’s always flat asses, gourd-shaped breasts, and little potbellies.

Ben rubbed his eyes and slapped his face while the road dipped and curved. The old man mumbled in his sleep.

Professor Mitchell had told them that more than a third of Yanomamo males die from violence. Then they watched old footage of a Yanomamo war, a raid against a neighboring village. Professor Mitchell warned them it was about to get bloody and a few of the girls turned away. He sat and watched as the warriors hacked away with machete blades lashed to the end of long reeds. It looked like a mosh pit where everyone was naked.

All it would take is Elvis, Ben thought. Pull a 9mm and make sure it didn’t get bloody. Sing for the tribal elders and they’d make him honorary shaman. Shoot yopo up his nose and go on one of those vision quests where you find your spirit animal. Then continue the world tour; next stop, Kung San, the Bushmen of the Kalahari. How do you say Elvis in click?

Suddenly weeds clawed at the underside of their Caddy and the hood dipped. Metal squealed. Ben’s seat belt ripped into his shoulder. The car stopped and his head slammed against the driver’s-side window.

He smelled antifreeze; the engine ticked. The old man turned to him and there was blood streaming down his face, blood dotting the new white jumpsuit he’d taken from Hank’s. Red and green garnets were sewn into the back in the shape of an Aztec
thunderbird, its plumage running down the side of the leg. The old man’s lion’s head buckle shone dull in the moonlight.

“Are we dead?” the old man asked.

Ben stared out the windshield. Steam rose from the engine, soft yellow from the headlights shining against the grass. “I don’t think so.”

“How do you know?”

“Because my shoulder hurts.” Ben unlatched the seat belt and opened the door. Its edge dug into the soft dirt, tearing up a clump of weeds. They were in a ditch, the forest ahead and the road behind. Ben heard crickets. He looked to the distance, blue hills bathed in moonlight like the backs of giant whales sleeping in the ocean.

The old man shoved his door open and stumbled out.

“Hey,” Ben said. “You shouldn’t be walking around.”

The old man made his way to the front of the Caddy. He pinched his bleeding nose and shook his head. “Goddammit. God-fucking-
dammit
.”

“I’ll get us a tow. Let me just make a few calls.”

“Man, you said you had a clean driving record.”

“I just nodded off. We’ve been going pretty hard and—”

The old man spit a ropy string of blood. “Boy, you don’t know the meaning of going hard. Fifteen cities in ten days. That’s going hard. Press conference at seven, karate at nine, cut an album from midnight until the sun shows its tits. That’s going hard.”

“Shut up,” Ben said. “For once, just shut up, and let me think this through.”

The old man took his hand off his nose. “What’s that?”

“I’m sick of your stories. The touring, the anguish … it’s all bullshit.”

“Bullshit?”

“You don’t even look like Elvis. The real Elvis wouldn’t throw it all away. For what? A life in the burbs? Because you were burned out? Give me a break. My dad got pinned to a fucking hot dog stand by some woman gabbing on her cell phone. You don’t see me whining. Well, maybe a little. But not all the time. Not like you.”

“Hot dog stand. You never told me that.”

“You never asked.”

“What’d they do to that woman?”

“Nothing.”

“You know where she is now?”

Ben shrugged.

“You find out and I’ll make some calls. I still got connections in dark places.”

Ben laughed.

“Man, I’m serious.”

“Of course you are. That’ll be our next mission. Revenge against the woman who killed my dad.” Ben looked to the sky and shook his head. “What the hell are we doing?”

“We’re going for Nadine.”

“You’re going for Nadine. I’m done.”

“Can’t be done. Not until I say. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked. Rest of the world quits when it gets rough—not me, and not you.”

“I should be selling ties. Instead I’m standing in a ditch in the middle of Tennessee, and I don’t even know who you really are.”

“Nobody did.” The old man spit blood again. “Nobody bothered asking.”

Ben started to speak but stopped himself. It was all useless, he realized. They could talk forever in that ditch until the worms ate
their bones. He marched up the side of the ditch and started to walk down the shoulder.

“Hey!” the old man shouted. He clawed his way up the hill, a muscle pulsing in his side that felt like a hot spear every time he breathed. He tasted his own blood and spit it out. He knew his nose was broken. Maybe even his ribs.

“You can’t leave,” the old man said. “What about Nadine?”

Ben kept walking. “Fuck Nadine.”

“Fuck Nadine?”

Ben stopped and turned. “You heard me.
Fuck Nadine.
”

The old man roared and charged. He threw a kick; Ben stepped back and the old man felt something give in his hamstring. All the strength went out from under him. He stumbled to one knee. The old man tried to stand but lost his balance and fell onto the side of the road. Gravel bit his cheek. He pushed himself up and lunged for Ben, but the boy was too far away and he fell again. He felt skin tear from his palms. Road dust stung his eyes.

The old man rolled onto his back, coughing. He gazed at the moon. One nostril was plugged with blood; as he breathed through the other, it made a faint whistling sound like a teakettle. “I’m coming apart,” he said. “Help me up, son. Jesus Christ, I’m in sorry shape. Come on now. Help me up. Where are you going?”

Ben looked over his shoulder. “Home.”

Ben walked all night, past forests and mats of kudzu, his steps marked by the crunch of gravel and cicada chants. He felt like a post-apocalyptic drifter haunting the back roads of Tennessee, only this version of a post-apocalyptic world wasn’t filled with
armored dune buggies and crossbows. This version was how it would really be: empty roads and overgrown forests, a few survivors among the mutants like that movie he remembered seeing when he was seven, the one with Charlton Heston, the pretty lady with the Afro, and all those pale-faced vampires with severely chapped lips.

Maybe I’m dead, Ben thought. Maybe I died in that ditch, my chest crushed against the steering wheel. Maybe this is hell and Satan is dressed like Elvis.

The night slinked past. Birds awoke and the cicadas stopped. He watched dawn begin with a light blue line creeping over the mountaintops, and he began to jog. He felt good, surprisingly good, running faster until the wind shooshed in his ears. It seemed perfectly reasonable that he could run all the way back to Cheektowaga. The forest sharpened as if coming into focus, from dark blue mounds to pale green clumps to individual leaves. Ben passed a town sign and the forest tapered into mowed grass and suddenly there were buildings ahead, brick storefronts and modest clapboard homes. A church stood proudly apart with a bench on its sidewalk, church sign stuck into the lawn. Morning light washed over everything. The air smelled like dew.

Trinity Baptist Church. Howard E. Hipp, Pastor
.

Ben had never seen such a perfect bench with its curled wrought-iron armrests and pristine white wooden slats. He sat down, closed his eyes, and raised his face to the strengthening sun.

He sat there for what felt like a long time. Wind stirred. Somewhere far away a dog barked. Then he heard voices. Women. Old women talking excitedly. He opened his eyes and saw a group of them walking down the sidewalk toward him, only they didn’t seem to notice him. They wore housedresses, hats, and poofy white
blouses, giant purses dangling from their forearms. Some walked in sneakers, others in orthopedic shoes with thick heels. They stopped a few feet from Ben and kept talking. Ben couldn’t pick up on one thread of conversation. It seemed like all they said was
Oh
and
My
and
Mmm-hmm
, laughing with one hand pressed to their chess.

One of the women looked down at Ben. She wore a white blouse buttoned all the way up, with draping sleeves like a flying squirrel. Her long baby-blue skirt matched her shoes and stockings. A plastic daisy sat tucked into the band of her white hat.

She smiled. “Are you waiting for the bus?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, then, what are you doing?”

“Resting.”

“Resting?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m resting for my trip.”

“Where are you going?”

“Cheektowaga. It’s near Buffalo.”

“Hmm … No buses leave for Buffalo from here.”

“I’m walking.”

“Walking? To
Buffalo
?”

“That’s right. It’s only nine hundred miles. Give or take.”

The old lady held her hand to her chest and tugged on the sleeve of a woman standing next to her. “Florence, this young man—what did you say your name was? Ben? Florence, this young man is Ben and he says he’s walking nine hundred miles to Buffalo.”

Florence glanced at Ben with a frown. Her mouth was tight. She wore a red wide-brimmed hat and a red dress, the mottled skin on the back of her hands bubbled with blue veins.

“What happened to your eyes?” Florence asked.

“A biker punched me in the right, my ex-girlfriend punched me in the left.”

“You probably deserved it,” Florence said, and she turned back to her conversation.

The sun climbed. Their shadows shrank. The group of chattering old women fanned themselves with folded pieces of paper. In the distance Ben saw a figure lurching down the road. He knew it was the old man because the old man said he never quits. The old man would outlast them all, walking forever until his feet ground to stumps. Nadine his oasis, Nadine the salvation for all old men. He should be pushing the hot dog stand my dad got smashed against, Ben thought. He should be pushing it and shouting to me that my dad is still alive somewhere, that we can find him if we only believe.

As he moved closer, Ben could see his new jumpsuit was gray with sweat, a mat of chest hair in a dark jumble spilling out from the unzipped neck. Dust covered the red and green garnets. White gunk collected in the corners of his mouth and his eyes were half-lidded. He dragged his right leg, carrying his dossier, edges of papers sticking out from the manila folder. The old man looked like he was melting, finally devolving back to the impossible lump he’d grown from. An alchemist’s creation, a homunculus forged from phoenix feathers, hair dye, and paper bags soaked with french fry grease.

The old man sat on the bench next to Ben and dropped his chin to his chest. A scabbed gash lay across the bridge of his nose. His voice sounded like he’d smoked a box of cigarettes.

“Hot goddamn morning.”

“Sure is,” Ben said.

“Man, I could sure use some water. Big old glass filled with crushed ice.”

“Water would be nice.”

“You want me to get you some?”

“With what money?”

“I’ll sing one of them Native rain dances. You can hold the cup.”

Ben folded his arms.

The old man closed his eyes. “Thought I’d lost you. Thought you got picked up and murdered. Left in a ditch somewhere.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know. Thing is …” The old man shook his head. Sweat dripped off the tip of his nose. “Thing is, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not. You been nothing but loyal. I shouldn’t have kicked you.”

“You were too slow anyway.”

“Lucky for you,” the old man said. “Hit you so hard your firstborn come out with a birthmark on his stomach the shape of my boot. Tell him, ‘Son, that’s a gift from the baddest man there ever was.’ ”

They laughed a little. The old lady with the plastic daisy in her hat looked at the two of them. “There’s a vending machine in the church,” she said. “Do you need a dollar?”

Ben smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

She reached into her purse and carefully plucked a dollar from its depths. Ben walked to the church. The lobby was cool and quiet and his sneakers squeaked on the polished floor. A photo of Pastor Howard E. Hipp hung on the wall, a man in his fifties with a
seersucker suit and giant glasses. Ben bought a bottle of water, holding it to his forehead as he walked back into the sun. A silver bus parked at the curb in front of the bench. The old women slowly formed a queue.

The old man licked his cracked lips. The bus engine idled. Waves of heat shimmered off the pavement.

The lady with the plastic daisy in her hat stopped on the bus steps and smiled. “Are you coming?”

“Where?” Ben said.

“Graceland,” she said. “Our church group visits every year.”

“Of course you do,” Ben said. He passed the water bottle to the old man, who gulped it dry and wiped his mouth.

“Last charge of the righteous,” the old man said. “You ready?”

You will question my judgment
, Ben remembered him saying.
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
.