Mesopotamia (20 page)
My performance slot was second from the last; number nineteen of the twenty performers who had made it into the finals. All of us clones were ushered into the rear entrance, then led to a large rectangular dressing room that had two long benches in front of two lines of mirrors. Elvises sat in both directions as if it were the galley of a Las Vegas slave ship. With the two rows of mirrors facing each other, it looked like an endless room with hundreds of Elvises fading in the eternal distance. I seemed to be one of only two she-Elvises, though there were three other Asians and four African Americans (or perhaps they were just two who had been reflected). Most of them seemed to know each other. I listened as they talked, exchanging jokes, gossip, and other Elvis-related news. Some of them spoke with a kind of indelible Elvis twang that made me wonder if they had lost traces of themselves in their commitment to their role.
A short, red-faced man with a gin blossom nose let out an incredibly loud whistle, compelling everyone to listen up.
“Okay Elvises, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m the emcee and y’all’ll go in the order that you got picked.” This meant I was second from the last. “When all the patrons are seated and the judges are ready, I’ll come back here and call out your number and you’ll go onstage. You’ll do your three songs, take a bow, and come on back inside quickly. No dedications, no speeches, no shenanigans. We have to be quick about this as we’re figuring about four or so performances per hour in order to be done by eleven-thirty and ordain this year’s King by midnight.
“Now, the good news is, no one will go home empty-handed. So if you’ll just follow the rules, there are concession prizes for everyone based on how you place. And all of them are worth more than the entry fee, so you’re already all winners.”
Everyone clapped for the little Elvis wrangler. He exited and a few minutes later we could hear him saying, “The Elvises have entered the building,” then spectators wildly applauding. After some cursory remarks and a few jokes, the little man rushed back in and shouted out, “Number one, you’re on!”
A slightly overweight Elvis in a leather bodysuit arose elastically like a S-and-M Gumby doll and strode forward. The quivery rolls of his tightly corseted fat gently bounced as he strutted out the little doorway. He had the clear advantage of being the first in a room full of imitators. All of us listened through a small amplifier that was wired into the changing room as he sang an electrifying “Jailhouse Rock.” As soon as the applause tapered, he burst into “It’s Now or Never,” then wrapped it up with “Mystery Train.” To thunderous cheers, the leather Gumby came dashing back, sopped in sweat, closely tailed by the little emcee who shouted, “Number two, pronto!”
When Elvis number two, who was in the bathroom, didn’t respond, the man shouted, “I want the next fucking Elvis to be waiting for me here when I come out this door or you’ll lose your turn! You got to shit, piss, vomit, or jerk off, do it now!”
When number two dashed onto the stage and opened with “Mystery Train,” it was déjà vu all over again.
“This is going to be a long fucking night,” said the guy next to me. Some of the more experienced Elvises quickly took charge. They checked the songs of the younger imitators to make sure there were no more back-to-back performances of the same numbers.
Over the course of the next two and a half hours, watching that chain of Elvi slowly jump onto the dark cliff of the stage, I had some clue of what the real King must have had to go through trying to remain sober year after year in the face of so much pressure. Almost everyone smoked cigarettes and a single busboy kept shuttling back and forth bringing full trays of drinks as the slowly diminishing group of Elvises got liquored up. This sing-along was as competitive as any blood sport, and you had to pay your dues to move up the ranks.
“Did I see you at the Branson regionals?” a Native American performer who went under the moniker Big Chief Elvis asked me with a lascivious grin.
“Not unless it was a testicle-twisting contest,” I shot back.
“I don’t like the white man either,” he countered. Throughout the evening he kept looking over, catching me in the mirror and winking.
Finally, I decided to go out for some air. While outside, I canvassed the nearby parking lots to see if I could spot the dirty pink Caddy belonging to the enigmatic owner. Though I saw a couple of Cadillacs, I didn’t find the one with the decals. Turning on my cell phone and checking my messages, I discovered that I had received a call from my friend at the Boston PD, who said the fingerprints from the hand I had sent him belonged to one Rodney East, previously arrested for drunk-and-disorderly.
Holy shit! The man I was looking for—who I had gone through this entire charade to meet—was none other than the dead burglar. Then who the hell was John Carpenter? Was he the dead man? Before I could decide what to do next, my cell chimed. It was Vinetta.
“Most of the kids are asleep. Edwina, Floyd, and I are watching the contest here on TV,” she said excitedly. I could hear some of the kids screaming in the background. “You haven’t seen the East guy, have you?”
“Uh … no.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her all that remained of the man I was looking for was the shriveled hand in her fridge.
“Isn’t he one of the judges?”
“I guess, but I’m the second from the last to perform so I haven’t seen him yet.”
“Well,” she said nervously, “I just wanted you to know that we’re all rooting and praying for you.”
“Me too,” I said, and feeling demoralized I told her I had to go. For a moment I considered just walking to my car and driving north, all the way back to New York. Then it occurred to me that even if Rod East was dead, there was still someone else who previously went by the name of John Carpenter. I strolled over to the hill behind the tavern and began a slow ascent.
The key thing that really compelled me to stay there was all the time and effort I had already invested. I decided to press on in my search for the man pretending to be John Carpenter. And if he didn’t exist, there was still Snake. Feeling increasingly anxious, I dialed Angela Basall, my old New York neighbor.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Hi, Angela, how you doing?”
“My name’s Wanda,” she corrected. “Is this a telemarketer?”
“No, it’s me, your old neighbor Cassandra.”
“Do I have to get a restraining order?” Wanda asked before I could get the charm going.
“I was wondering if you have any updates on our building.”
“Yeah, they’re tearing it down,” she said. “Now will you please stop calling me?”
“Are they really tearing it down?”
“They declared the damage too extensive.” After pausing a moment she added, “Hey, it’s not so bad. The insurance company is paying a lump sum check to everyone, and Hell’s Kitchen is dead anyway. Brooklyn is the new Manhattan. I got a place on the fourth stop out on the L train and it’s actually kind of cute.”
“Well,
I’m
not going to be pushed out of Manhattan!” I shouted from a hilltop in Tennessee.
“Good for you,” she replied, “but do me a favor. In the future, tell someone who gives a damn.” She hung up, thus ending my relationship with the New York neighbor who I only really became acquainted with when I left the city.
I walked down the hillside, past the spot where Floyd had found the burglar’s body, setting my entire plight in motion. When I entered the side door of the Blue Suede, someone greeted me. It was the beautiful Thelma Presley, the other female Elvis.
“You still got a ways to go,” she said, seeing me check the posted roster. They were about three-quarters of the way down the list.
Even though she was older than me, she said she liked to think of herself as a younger Elvis when he was still androgynous looking. Since she had suddenly decided to be chatty, I asked her a variety of questions about the Blue Suede.
“This is honestly the first time I’ve had the confidence to go into competition here. If you want the voice of experience, ask Sir Elmo Presley,” she said, pointing to the dealer at a table full of poker-playing Elvises. “He been singing in sideburns since the beginning.”
By this point most of them were fairly boozed up and relaxed. Pulling up a chair, I watched their card game. Pictures of Elvis at different stages of his fame were imprinted on the face of different cards. A boyhood photo of Elvis was on the 2s, and the Vegas Elvis appeared on the kings.
“You did that wedding down in Knoxville, did you?” I heard Sir Elmo mutter to another.
“You mean in June?” answered another. Both men were clearly older than Elvis had been when he died.
“Yeah, the Gunthers.”
“The Gustlers,” Sir Elmo corrected. “They approached me first and I told them I wouldn’t do it for a penny less than five.”
“I told them four,” another Elvis said, issuing his asymmetrical grin. The man no longer even knew he was imitating Elvis—he had become the King.
“Well believe me, when I was done,” said the Elvis impersonator who got the Gustler job, “I wish I passed on it cause there was about a thousand guests and that bride was nothing but a bitch in satin. She didn’t like my ‘Hound Dog.’ Said I wasn’t moving my pelvis fast enough, and on and on.”
“I wouldn’t mind moving her pelvis,” joked Sir Elmo. In a moment, another younger Elvis dropped some chips in the pot and called. All showed—Sir Elmo won with a two pair, king high.
“Any of you fellas know this John Carpenter guy?” I spoke up as they were throwing in antes for the next hand.
“Carpenter? You mean the owner here?” asked one African American Elvis with a pencil-thin mustache.
“Yeah.”
“I knewed him,” a raspy voice grunted.
“Me too.” The others slowly nodded as the dealing began.
“Does he judge this shindig?”
“He’s one of the judges, I think,” said a decrepit-looking Elvis who probably most resembled the King in his grave. “Snake Major is the main judge. He was one of the original Memphis Mafia. Sits right in the middle.”
“What does this Carpenter guy look like anyhow?” I asked one and all.
“A nice, quiet, older gentleman,” said Sir.
“Does he have any identifying marks or features?” I asked.
“I don’t rightly remember. It’s been a few years since I saw him naked.” Everyone chuckled as he started replacing cards that had been cast away.
“Do any of you fellas remember seeing him?” I asked.
“I believe I once saw him when the place first opened,” said the lecherous chief Elvis. “He was all messed up, in a wheelchair—I think he was Elvis Knievel.” A couple others laughed. Sensing he was just trying to get into my jumpsuit, I ignored him.
“I thought he was the short, fat guy who looked like a mobster,” said one Italian Elvis puffing a cigar. In that room, Elvis almost seemed to be a recessive gene.
“No, that guy’s one of the locals who works here. I think he’s a manager.”
“Isn’t he that fella with the busty mermaid tattooed on his arm?” asked another.
“No, that was old Sylvester. He was the manager here back in the ’90s, but he died of lung cancer a few years ago.”
Though everyone was reluctant to say it, they were confirming my worst fears. No one knew of this phantom partner, let alone what had led him to turn this place into an Elvis-themed establishment. One by one, as the minutes ticked away, the remaining Elvi fell like grains of sand into that great hourglass of the stage.
Many rested or dozed before their big moment. Most were able to instantly get buzzed up when their numbers came up.
While tiredly watching the card game and listening over the speakers to some young tense Elvis screwing up the lyrics to “Viva Las Vegas,” I started getting queasy. That was when I felt a big hand grab my ass. Big Chief Elvis was standing behind me with a giant smile.
“You dumb … fucking … Elvis impersonator!!”
“What’d you say?” Everyone in the room went silent.
“You heard me!” I might as well have screamed out the N word at the Apollo Theater up in Harlem.
“Elvis was a great man!” he returned, and rose to his feet. “And I’m proud to honor that.”
“Elvis was a bloated, pill-popping hack, but at least he didn’t have to imitate anyone!”
“Lady,” warned Sir Elmo, “I don’t know who or where you think you are, but this is a hallowed shrine of worship, and you just took our Lord’s name in vain.” All veiny eyes were upon me.
“Number nineteen!” the Elvis wrangler dashed in and shouted. It was the number I had spent my entire night waiting for.
“Wish me luck,” I said to my colleagues, then dashed out.
T
he spotlights, the cameras, the petals of the audience faces—all sucked the air right out of my lungs.
Do it for Gustavo
, I thought. I took a deep breath and started singing “Viva Las Vegas,” which was actually a fun tune, even if it was a bit of a tongue twister. By the time the applause hit, I was winded but felt a lot calmer. I wiped my brow and began song number two. “Suspicious Minds” flowed from my lips quicker than I could ever remember practicing it. Though I thought I had done my best vocalization to date, I completely forgot to employ any of my well-practiced Elvis expressions.
Before singing the last song, I had the wherewithal to break the first rule of the contest by shouting out, “On behalf of all the Elvises here, I’d like to dedicate this song to the man that made this all possible, the owner of the establishment—Mr. John Carpenter. Please take a bow, sir.”
Since no one was supposed to do this, it seemed truly innovative and I earned a huge cheer from the audience. Shielding my eyes, I looked at the three noble figures seated at the judges’ table before me. None of them rose, let alone bowed.
“Well, I’d like to give Mr. Carpenter a big hand, even if it feels severed at the wrist,” I said and clapped. Even though the audience must’ve thought the remark strange, they cheered again, and I felt that if he was out there, I was sure as hell getting his attention. I quickly commenced my last song, “In the Ghetto.” Then I took my best little-girl curtsy, thanked everyone, and stepped back into the void.