Elvis in the Attic
by Catherine M. Morrison
by Catherine M. Morrison
We had an Elvis in the attic. Again.
Echoing in the ducts, his voice woke me around 2:00 A.M. I hopped from bed and headed for the attic—they always liked it up there. A Vegas Elvis stood by a rack of old clothes singing "Blue Christmas" to them.
As I edged in the door, he segued to "Jingle Bell Rock." He waved me down to the front of his meager audience, conferring a special favor. I settled cross-legged on the floor and enjoyed his tunes.
For months there has been an Elvis infestation all over town, but this was the first Vegas Elvis we'd got. He worked the room hard, sweat dripping down the side of his forehead. He was dressed in his trademark white jumpsuit with the spangles and beads and the big white cape he flourished dramatically. The acoustics up here sucked, but even a big fat Elvis could rock the house.
I grooved on the music until around four-thirty, when I heard Mom flush the toilet. That's when I remembered school tomorrow, or rather today. Elvis wrinkled his brow in disappointment when I ducked out. I scurried back down to bed and was asleep in two minutes. It seemed like two minutes after that when Mom shook me awake.
"I don't feel well," I murmured from under the covers, straining to make my voice hoarse. Mom pressed her hand against my forehead for a second. Then she grabbed the blankets and tossed them on the floor.
"Time to get up, Kenny. I'm taking you to school in ten minutes."
"But, Mom …" I grabbed for the covers and curled into a ball underneath.
"I mean it. Ten minutes. So MOVE!" She yanked the blankets off again and dragged them out of reach. "I'll take you bare-assed, if I have to," she said. I rolled on my back and sat up, rubbing my hair flat—she probably meant it. She was all ready for work, and after the last time I cut she won't let me take the bus.
Crap. I had planned to talk her into letting this Elvis stay for a while, but not in this mood. We'd been de-Elvised twice already, but I liked having one around. It shouldn't be much longer before the spores keeping him alive drifted elsewhere and he crumbled to dust.
I really liked this Elvis—he'd be up in the attic singing "Heartbreak Hotel" and all his hits at all hours of the night and day, and I'd sneak up to listen. There was always a show going on, no matter how small the audience. "No requests," he told me when I asked him to sing "Jailhouse Rock," but then he sang it about two songs later, just long enough to make me think he might not, but I could tell he liked me when he said to call him "El."
Mom didn't notice him for maybe three days—she worked two jobs, but by the weekend she was onto him. I was eating breakfast and reading the comics when she stormed in the kitchen and picked up the phone. "I can't believe we got another one of those rats. I'm calling the exterminator." She trailed off into swears.
"Mom, please don't. He's a good guy. What's the harm?"
She turned toward me, a pink spot on each cheek, "Did you have anything to do with this?"
"N-no. Of course not." I shoveled in another mouthful of cereal and chewed too hard.
"Better not have," she muttered under her breath.
"I know you sold the last one off to Japan—made a bundle too, I bet. The exterminator told me all about what they do. You made him a fuckin' slave!"
"Watch your mouth, Ken."
"They make the Memphis Elvii slaves, and that's just wrong."
"Ken, they like to perform—it makes them happy. I only did what was best for him."
Yeah. Right. It's best for him when he didn't even get a say in it. "So that's why you asked him nicely and he agreed to go?" Mom crossed her arms and her look dared me to go on. I did anyway.
"But that's nothing compared to what they do to the Vegas." Waving my spoon for emphasis, I splashed Mom with a bit of milk. "They stick them in a box and don't let 'em get any spores until they starve to death. How come you don't care about El's desire to perform? Don't you want to find him a nice home too?"
"That's enough, Kenny." She took a deep breath and tried another tack. "Honey, they're pests, they need to be put down …" She rubbed her shirt, spreading the wet spot around.
"They're people. PEOPLE." I banged the table. "You don't kill people for no reason."
"Ken, if they were people, they wouldn't crumble to dust when the spores blow to some other town." The edge crept back into her voice.
"Maybe not people then, but they are just like people. They don't die in Memphis, do they?" I paused and then tried again. "Mom, come on, just let him stay. The infestation can't last more than a week or two longer anyway. And it's Christmas. Please?" I gave her my best "It's my Christmas wish" look.
Mom slammed the phone down and walked off to change her shirt. "You better keep the damn thing quiet," she called from her bedroom.
That night I sat cross-legged on the attic floor, watching Elvis perform while Mom worked late. I brought my dinner up to eat during the show, and a little something for Elvis too.
He took his break a bit early and came out to sit with me during the intermission. I handed him a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Elvii might not need to eat, but this one sure did like to. "So, where did you come from?" I couldn't help myself, I always had to ask.
"Well, you see, son, it was back in '58. I'd been drafted not long before, and the army told me to make movies for them. I told them I wasn't gonna go, but they sent me off to Hollywood anyway. But there weren't no movies; just tests." He took a big bite of the sandwich and paused to chew. "Gee-ne-tic testing, the doc told me. They wanted to market me, take me all over the world."
He leaned in and whispered, all conspiratorial-like "They said they was gonna make me a clone." I nodded, and suppressed a smile.
"Colonel said there was no harm in letting them try." He took another bite and continued with his mouth full. "Who woulda thought they'd do it?"
I sat back to watch him eat. I'd brought him three more sandwiches and some pudding. Maybe that was how the infestations started. Made a bit more sense than the nonsense the first Elvis had said about alien abductions—well, he might have just been yanking my chain.
The second Elvis wasn't much of a talker—he always seemed a bit melancholy to only have an audience of one. He'd do scheduled shows every night, but his heart never was in it. Mom got rid of him right quick.
The next few days went by in a happy blur. Mom pretended he didn't exist, and I made sure Elvis didn't irritate her. I convinced Elvis to take a long break right when Mom watched the evening news.
Tuesday was the day it all went to hell.
What happened was this: all Elvii are curious as a two-year-old child, and let me add, with the same level of judgment. This one was no exception. I never thought I'd see a grown man get his head stuck between the spindles of a staircase railing.
On Tuesday, he stumbled into my room bawling his eyes out, covered from head to toe with soot and leaving a trail behind him. He must have climbed inside the chimney and now the world was ending because his perfect white outfit had gotten dirty. Mom was gonna flip if she saw this. Damn, I liked him, but what a pain in the … Didn't he understand how close he was to being given to the exterminator?
I gave him some of Dad's old jogging clothes and promised to take his outfit to the 24-hour cleaner's right away. I shoved him into the shower and started cleaning the mess up.
I was wiping down the attic stairs when I heard the scream. I tore back down to find Mom clutching a bathrobe and Elvis cowering behind the shower curtain. Water dripped down his face from his hair, but he didn't dare spare a hand to wipe it away.
"Ma'am, if you could just hand me that there towel, I'll be getting out of your way," he said. The words had the air of something repeated, and he sounded baffled at her screams.
I pushed past her and gave him a towel. Mom slowly backed away as he climbed from the tub. I hustled him up the stairs to get dressed and then ran back to Mom.
She was already on the phone. "Is that the soonest you can come? … Well, I know that; it's been going on for months now … fine. Fine. My son will be home to let you in two days from now." She hung up the phone without saying good-bye.
"I won't let him in," I said.
"You will if you know what's good for you, Kenneth. This has gone on long enough.
"I made two grand off of last Memphis Elvis, but this fat one is gonna cost me three hundred to get him put down. But it's worth it—that bastard saw me naked." She slammed the door in my face and I knew the subject was closed.
But I'd be damned if I was going to let that happen.
· · · · ·
Getting El out the door the next morning wasn't a problem—I tied a piece of string around his wrist and he'd go anywhere I wanted. All the Elvii loved string. Give one a piece of string and he would play contentedly for hours. You could lead an Elvis anywhere with string—that's how the exterminators usually caught them. But he'd come right back if you didn't take him somewhere he liked.
I'd told El we were going to a new gig, but we needed to go incognito. He'd asked, "Because of the fans?" And I nodded, glad I wouldn't have to explain why we were sneaking out.
Well, he must have spent half the night getting ready. Not a bad thing because Mom would have flipped if there had been a show. He still wore the sweats I gave him yesterday, but he'd found a furry black vest thicker than a plush rug, a cowboy hat, and a lasso. And God only knows where he found that wig. That's what made me lose it, the blond wig in sort of a mullet cut perched on the top of his head, tucked under the hat. Mom used to wear that?
Trouble started when he didn't see his jumpsuit. "How am I supposed to perform," El asked. "Aren't you taking me to a gig? A more popular location, I hope."
I caved and picked it up, fours hours of whining and fussing I did not need—good thing I'd really dropped it off last night just to get it out of the house.
After the cleaners, I pulled onto the 55 and we were on our way south to Memphis. I'd heard the Elvii could live like regular people there, and just as long, too.
My cell rang about two miles out of town. Mom. Time for work, and me and her car both missing. She was no fool. I hoped she hadn't noticed the credit card yet. Oh, and I didn't have my license yet. But hey, I had my permit and Mom had taken me out driving a bunch of times. We'd be fine.
I shut the phone off and floored it. Even El wouldn't want to talk to her pissed, and he loved everyone.
El giggled as the trees flew by. He stuck his hand out the window and let it play in the wind. At least until I made him close it; it was freezing cold outside and the heater hadn't worked in years.
Still, Mom had a sweet car—a turquoise Chevy Bel Air with the fins and all. It was Gramps' car before he died. Mom loved it, and so did I. It had a big wide seat that could fit three or four easy, and an old-fashioned push-button radio.
I tuned it to the oldies station and Elvis crooned along. I sang with him, but mostly I tried to figure out how to get Elvis into Memphis. It was a free Elvis city, but they didn't allow the importing of Elvii into the city limits. Homegrowns only. No worries, I had four hours to think of something. If everything went well, I'd be back long before dinner, and Mom would only be mostly pissed.
But things never go well, do they? The 55 is a crack ride, lots of long rolling hills, and that was the problem. The engine temperature crept higher and higher. Then it shot into the red zone and the engine shut down.
I pulled over to the side of the road. Elvis wanted to go out and explore but luckily couldn't figure out the car lock. Last exit was for Benton, so I got us towed there. We ended up over near Reeve's Boomland. I figured I'd take El over to McDonald's while they did whatever to the car, then maybe to look at fireworks.
El sat and played with his lasso, while I talked with the mechanic. Apparently he loved rope as much as string.
The mechanic said it was the water pump or something like that, but it would be done by closing, no problem. Maybe I could be back by first thing in the morning—dump El at Graceland and drive home through the night. That would work. I turned around to leave, but El was gone. "Hey, mister, you see where my friend went?"
"I think he wandered off around ten minutes ago. He was waving that lasso around," the mechanic said.
Crap. I ran over to Reeve's first. I figured the fireworks would be a natural draw. Nothing. Not at any of the fast food restaurants either.
Two hours later, I'd looked pretty much everywhere. Dammit. I sat down on the curb to think. He couldn't have gone too far walking. It was colder than a penguin's butt, and there wasn't anyplace to go.
I'd failed. I was gonna save him, and I couldn't even drive all the way to Memphis without screwing it up. I sat there moping, trying to think of something to do other than waiting until the car was fixed and driving back home to face the music.
A couple walked towards Reeve's from town. The guy was obviously drunk, and the woman was nagging him like crazy. He tried to get in the driver's side of the car, but the woman dangled keys in his face. He almost fell over grabbing for them. That's about when he wilted like a puppy and got in the passenger side.
The show almost took my mind off El. Maybe he went to a bar. Heck, the original Elvis died from booze and drugs and all that stupid shit. I hopped up from the curb and walked toward downtown. I hit pay dirt on the third place I tried.
"Hey. No kids in here," the bartender called as I stepped into the dimly lit place. "You can't stay."
"I heard my uncle was in here. He's not quite right, and he shouldn't be drinking. Dressed like a cowboy, blond hair?"
The bartender laughed. "Oh, that one. I bet he needs a keeper. He's by the juke, playing all the Elvis songs. Get him and take him home to sleep off the drunk. He's a real lightweight."
I ran to the back, my eyes barely adjusted to the gloom. A crowd of folks listened to El sing. I thought they really were enjoying his music the way I always had until I got close.
One had taken his lasso and was waving it in front of his face. Elvis looked like he might cry. I grabbed the lasso out of the guy's hand and then took Elvis's arm. I led him towards the door.
"Hey kid, what do you think you're doing? We're going to keep the Elvis," a nasty-looking guy with a shaved head and goatee said. "He'll make a nice pet."
I swallowed hard. "What's wrong with you? He's not a pet, he's a person." The guy I'd grabbed the lasso from looked like he was going to hit me. I thought I'd puke if he did, but the bartender told them all to knock it off and let us go.
"Come on, we're going to be late for your gig, El." Elvis brightened up when I gave him back his lasso. He waved a farewell to his fans as we left, oblivious to their jeers. El staggered, wig askew over one ear, as we walked back along the side of the highway. He told me a long and rambling story about the first time he got laid on the way.
Luckily, the car was ready when we got to the garage. I paid the mechanic, but I was sweating bullets in case Mom had called in the credit card stolen. I straightened up Elvis's wig and threw him in the backseat to sleep it off.
What a mess. There was no way I could just drop him off in front of Graceland like I'd planned; he'd be screwed in no time at all. Those jerks in the bar sure taught me that. I needed to find him a place to live, and a steady gig. I didn't even know where to start. And Mom would kill me if I didn't get the car back today. More dead than she was already going to kill me.
My head was spinning so fast trying to figure it all out that I drove straight into the roadblock. I turned the radio up loud and tapped the dash in time to the music as we crept up. Finally, a cop asked for my license, and I pulled out my permit.
"Who's that in the back of the car, son?" the trooper asked. "He's supposed to be sitting beside you.
I flushed. "It's my uncle; he had a bit too much to drink."
"Well, we got to genetic test him. You too. Folks are always dropping off their Elvii—it isn't a kindness to leave a dog to starve in the woods." That's when I noticed his badge and buckle said "Officer Elvis Corps."
"I'm going to need some hair from you and your uncle."
"Me? Why do you need my hair?" I asked. So close, and we weren't going to make it.
"It's the law. Besides, some of those rats can be tricky." I winced when he called El a rat. "If you unlock the door, I'll grab a couple hairs from your uncle's head without waking him up." I watched in the rearview mirror as the cop leaned into the car to pull El's hair.
Holy shit. Maybe he wouldn't notice how bad the stupid wig fit. Maybe the wig was human hair. Maybe we were almost not screwed.
Maybe.
"Ouch!" The trooper grinned, holding up a few hairs from my head. He dropped them in a small jar half-filled with a clear liquid and shook it. My mouth was dry, and I rubbed my palms against the steering wheel. If I tried too hard not to look nervous, I was sure I'd look nervous.
When both vials still looked like water after a minute, he tossed them in a bin next to him. "I'm going to cut you a break—I know it's not your fault your uncle is drunk. Drive straight to his house and don't let it happen again."
I stepped on the gas, forgetting it was in park. I laughed nervously and put the car in gear. The steering wheel was slick with sweat.
It was late, maybe ten, eleven o'clock at night, and I hadn't eaten all day. Dinner, and then I'd find El a place to stay. I parked in front of a place called the Tupelo Diner. It was more than a few blocks from Graceland, but like everything else had been contaminated by its touch.
We went inside, and I was mesmerized by the Elvis memorabilia plastered on every wall. The man behind the counter shook his hips, grooving in time to early Elvis. He even had that fifties pompadour, only it was salt-and-pepper gray.
Elvis insisted on barbecue pizza and then ate most of it while I called around looking for a cheap place to stay. But the town was pretty well full-up. Elvis's birthday was this week and it was practically a holy day among the Elvis fans.
I called and called, but no luck. We were going to have to sleep in the car tonight, and it was going to suck.
"Hey, son, are y'all looking for a place to stay?" the counter man asked. "My sister Debbie runs a rooming house, and I think she got a cancellation. You want me to call her?"
I opened my mouth to answer when the waiter dropped a tray full of dishes. Broken china scattered over the floor, a few pieces ending near our feet. The counterman yelled at the waiter as he cleaned up the debris. Elvis leaned over to finger a sharp edge.
The man snapped, "Leave that alone. It's not your job to clean it up." I scooped the shard out El's reach.
"Hi. I'm Ken, and I sure would appreciate the help. I'd planned to drop my friend off and head straight home, but we had car trouble."
"I'm Davis." He came over and shook my hand. "Debbie's place is right around back; I'll see if she's home." He was back with a grin and a thumbs-up a few minutes later. Finally something was going right.
· · · · ·
If you've never been to Graceland, you are really missing out. It's all glitz, inside and out, but what I'm talking about was the spectacle out front. Preachers, warriors, saints and sinners, and that was just the Elvii.
The largest crowd of Elvii was led by a silver-haired Elvis. I'd never heard of one so old. He must be from the early days—Memphis was home to the first infestation, and it's never ended. He claimed to be the original Elvis and the other Elvii were created in his image to aid in overthrowing the government.
El joined the old prophet's crowd of onlookers before I could stop him. The prophet's Elvii, dressed more shabbily than most, sang background music. The tourists stopped to take a picture or two, but most preferred the official Elvis Brigade.
No way I'd leave Elvis here; I ran right after him.
"Kenny!" El hugged me and lifted me off the ground like he hadn't seen me in a month. "I've got a gig. Where's my concert clothes?"
"No way. Those guys look homeless." I took some string from my pocket, tied it around his wrist and led him back to the car.
"There's a good audience here," he said.
"Wouldn't you rather have a solo gig? There must be lots of places for an Elvis to play in Memphis."
He thought about it for a minute. "Yeah. Maybe my friends can help."
"Just you and me—we can find you a place to sing. And then I'll go home."
· · · · ·
Well, finding a place for Elvis was a lot harder than I thought it would be. The Elvis Brigade controlled all the official venues. He'd never get an E card, the performance card that proved he was native.
We went from bar to bar. Half the time they told us to leave as soon as they saw he was a Vegas. And the other half they threw us out as soon as we couldn't produce a card.
Finally, we went to a rundown-looking place called Elvis Only. The crowd was thin and the Elvii looked almost as bad as the prophet's cult. But the woman running it had Mom's smile; maybe she'd help me.
"What about off-the-book work? You know, unofficial places. Do you know anything like that?"
She snapped her gum and looked like she wanted to spit on me. "Are you trying to lose my license? You shut your trap and get the hell out of here. It's bad enough without me breaking the law." She stalked off, heels clicking on the linoleum.
Damn. Maybe Davis could help me.
"Hey, you with the Elvis. C'mere." It was the piano player, on a break and downing a shot of something brown.
I told El to wait and just to be sure tied him to the exit door handle with my string. I hurried over. "What do you want? I'm trying to find my buddy some work."
He blew a curl of smoke in my face. "You look like a nice kid, so here's some advice. Don't go looking for blackmarket work. They'll use him up and throw him away. You might as well give him to the exterminators. Get him a straight job or take him home."
Great. How was I ever going to find a straight job that would make El happy?
We tried a few more places after that, but everywhere was closing. My head ached, pounding in time with the music of the last place we'd been. No one wanted to hire a broken down old Elvis. El was bored with the whole thing and wanted to go back to Graceland to hang with his new buddies.
So, I distracted him with more food—I had a donut, and Elvis was working on his third slice of blueberry pie. If he kept eating like this he was going to get sick. Well, maybe not, if what I'd heard about the original Elvis's eating habits was true. I watched El eat, not quite ready to chivvy him out the door. I figured one day, maybe two before Mom drug me home, and then I'd lose El to the cultists. Or worse.
There had to be a way to make it work out. Mom was wrong; helping El was the right thing to do. He was a person, no matter what anyone said. If only I could get him to take the pianist's advice.
"I don't see what was wrong with a job at the grocery store. Or maybe a bank," I said, though I really couldn't see El counting money. I wanted to cry or scream or both with frustration.
"You said I had a gig." His face turned red, and he started taking short, wheezy breaths. Luckily, the crash of dishes distracted him from the pout.
"Get out! Go on! I don't need any more broken dishes here," Davis shouted to that same clumsy waiter. "Your last check will be ready on Friday."
That's when I knew what to do.
· · · · ·
I sat in the same booth as last night; harsh morning sun stung my eyes. It was almost time for me to start home, but for a few more minutes I watched Elvis crooning softly as he served folks their breakfasts. Davis promised to keep an eye on him, and he didn't mind if El sang so long as he didn't drop any plates. And as long as he got to make music, El was happy, even if he was only a singing waiter.
He paused to flirt with a tired-looking woman with streaks of gray in her hair. She looked as if no one had made her feel pretty for a very long time. El warbled "Love Me Tender" to her, smiling contentedly. Several Elvii diners hummed a quiet accompaniment.
She blushed. After all, it was Elvis.
Echoing in the ducts, his voice woke me around 2:00 A.M. I hopped from bed and headed for the attic—they always liked it up there. A Vegas Elvis stood by a rack of old clothes singing "Blue Christmas" to them.
As I edged in the door, he segued to "Jingle Bell Rock." He waved me down to the front of his meager audience, conferring a special favor. I settled cross-legged on the floor and enjoyed his tunes.
For months there has been an Elvis infestation all over town, but this was the first Vegas Elvis we'd got. He worked the room hard, sweat dripping down the side of his forehead. He was dressed in his trademark white jumpsuit with the spangles and beads and the big white cape he flourished dramatically. The acoustics up here sucked, but even a big fat Elvis could rock the house.
I grooved on the music until around four-thirty, when I heard Mom flush the toilet. That's when I remembered school tomorrow, or rather today. Elvis wrinkled his brow in disappointment when I ducked out. I scurried back down to bed and was asleep in two minutes. It seemed like two minutes after that when Mom shook me awake.
"I don't feel well," I murmured from under the covers, straining to make my voice hoarse. Mom pressed her hand against my forehead for a second. Then she grabbed the blankets and tossed them on the floor.
"Time to get up, Kenny. I'm taking you to school in ten minutes."
"But, Mom …" I grabbed for the covers and curled into a ball underneath.
"I mean it. Ten minutes. So MOVE!" She yanked the blankets off again and dragged them out of reach. "I'll take you bare-assed, if I have to," she said. I rolled on my back and sat up, rubbing my hair flat—she probably meant it. She was all ready for work, and after the last time I cut she won't let me take the bus.
Crap. I had planned to talk her into letting this Elvis stay for a while, but not in this mood. We'd been de-Elvised twice already, but I liked having one around. It shouldn't be much longer before the spores keeping him alive drifted elsewhere and he crumbled to dust.
I really liked this Elvis—he'd be up in the attic singing "Heartbreak Hotel" and all his hits at all hours of the night and day, and I'd sneak up to listen. There was always a show going on, no matter how small the audience. "No requests," he told me when I asked him to sing "Jailhouse Rock," but then he sang it about two songs later, just long enough to make me think he might not, but I could tell he liked me when he said to call him "El."
Mom didn't notice him for maybe three days—she worked two jobs, but by the weekend she was onto him. I was eating breakfast and reading the comics when she stormed in the kitchen and picked up the phone. "I can't believe we got another one of those rats. I'm calling the exterminator." She trailed off into swears.
"Mom, please don't. He's a good guy. What's the harm?"
She turned toward me, a pink spot on each cheek, "Did you have anything to do with this?"
"N-no. Of course not." I shoveled in another mouthful of cereal and chewed too hard.
"Better not have," she muttered under her breath.
"I know you sold the last one off to Japan—made a bundle too, I bet. The exterminator told me all about what they do. You made him a fuckin' slave!"
"Watch your mouth, Ken."
"They make the Memphis Elvii slaves, and that's just wrong."
"Ken, they like to perform—it makes them happy. I only did what was best for him."
Yeah. Right. It's best for him when he didn't even get a say in it. "So that's why you asked him nicely and he agreed to go?" Mom crossed her arms and her look dared me to go on. I did anyway.
"But that's nothing compared to what they do to the Vegas." Waving my spoon for emphasis, I splashed Mom with a bit of milk. "They stick them in a box and don't let 'em get any spores until they starve to death. How come you don't care about El's desire to perform? Don't you want to find him a nice home too?"
"That's enough, Kenny." She took a deep breath and tried another tack. "Honey, they're pests, they need to be put down …" She rubbed her shirt, spreading the wet spot around.
"They're people. PEOPLE." I banged the table. "You don't kill people for no reason."
"Ken, if they were people, they wouldn't crumble to dust when the spores blow to some other town." The edge crept back into her voice.
"Maybe not people then, but they are just like people. They don't die in Memphis, do they?" I paused and then tried again. "Mom, come on, just let him stay. The infestation can't last more than a week or two longer anyway. And it's Christmas. Please?" I gave her my best "It's my Christmas wish" look.
Mom slammed the phone down and walked off to change her shirt. "You better keep the damn thing quiet," she called from her bedroom.
That night I sat cross-legged on the attic floor, watching Elvis perform while Mom worked late. I brought my dinner up to eat during the show, and a little something for Elvis too.
He took his break a bit early and came out to sit with me during the intermission. I handed him a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Elvii might not need to eat, but this one sure did like to. "So, where did you come from?" I couldn't help myself, I always had to ask.
"Well, you see, son, it was back in '58. I'd been drafted not long before, and the army told me to make movies for them. I told them I wasn't gonna go, but they sent me off to Hollywood anyway. But there weren't no movies; just tests." He took a big bite of the sandwich and paused to chew. "Gee-ne-tic testing, the doc told me. They wanted to market me, take me all over the world."
He leaned in and whispered, all conspiratorial-like "They said they was gonna make me a clone." I nodded, and suppressed a smile.
"Colonel said there was no harm in letting them try." He took another bite and continued with his mouth full. "Who woulda thought they'd do it?"
I sat back to watch him eat. I'd brought him three more sandwiches and some pudding. Maybe that was how the infestations started. Made a bit more sense than the nonsense the first Elvis had said about alien abductions—well, he might have just been yanking my chain.
The second Elvis wasn't much of a talker—he always seemed a bit melancholy to only have an audience of one. He'd do scheduled shows every night, but his heart never was in it. Mom got rid of him right quick.
The next few days went by in a happy blur. Mom pretended he didn't exist, and I made sure Elvis didn't irritate her. I convinced Elvis to take a long break right when Mom watched the evening news.
Tuesday was the day it all went to hell.
What happened was this: all Elvii are curious as a two-year-old child, and let me add, with the same level of judgment. This one was no exception. I never thought I'd see a grown man get his head stuck between the spindles of a staircase railing.
On Tuesday, he stumbled into my room bawling his eyes out, covered from head to toe with soot and leaving a trail behind him. He must have climbed inside the chimney and now the world was ending because his perfect white outfit had gotten dirty. Mom was gonna flip if she saw this. Damn, I liked him, but what a pain in the … Didn't he understand how close he was to being given to the exterminator?
I gave him some of Dad's old jogging clothes and promised to take his outfit to the 24-hour cleaner's right away. I shoved him into the shower and started cleaning the mess up.
I was wiping down the attic stairs when I heard the scream. I tore back down to find Mom clutching a bathrobe and Elvis cowering behind the shower curtain. Water dripped down his face from his hair, but he didn't dare spare a hand to wipe it away.
"Ma'am, if you could just hand me that there towel, I'll be getting out of your way," he said. The words had the air of something repeated, and he sounded baffled at her screams.
I pushed past her and gave him a towel. Mom slowly backed away as he climbed from the tub. I hustled him up the stairs to get dressed and then ran back to Mom.
She was already on the phone. "Is that the soonest you can come? … Well, I know that; it's been going on for months now … fine. Fine. My son will be home to let you in two days from now." She hung up the phone without saying good-bye.
"I won't let him in," I said.
"You will if you know what's good for you, Kenneth. This has gone on long enough.
"I made two grand off of last Memphis Elvis, but this fat one is gonna cost me three hundred to get him put down. But it's worth it—that bastard saw me naked." She slammed the door in my face and I knew the subject was closed.
But I'd be damned if I was going to let that happen.
· · · · ·
Getting El out the door the next morning wasn't a problem—I tied a piece of string around his wrist and he'd go anywhere I wanted. All the Elvii loved string. Give one a piece of string and he would play contentedly for hours. You could lead an Elvis anywhere with string—that's how the exterminators usually caught them. But he'd come right back if you didn't take him somewhere he liked.
I'd told El we were going to a new gig, but we needed to go incognito. He'd asked, "Because of the fans?" And I nodded, glad I wouldn't have to explain why we were sneaking out.
Well, he must have spent half the night getting ready. Not a bad thing because Mom would have flipped if there had been a show. He still wore the sweats I gave him yesterday, but he'd found a furry black vest thicker than a plush rug, a cowboy hat, and a lasso. And God only knows where he found that wig. That's what made me lose it, the blond wig in sort of a mullet cut perched on the top of his head, tucked under the hat. Mom used to wear that?
Trouble started when he didn't see his jumpsuit. "How am I supposed to perform," El asked. "Aren't you taking me to a gig? A more popular location, I hope."
I caved and picked it up, fours hours of whining and fussing I did not need—good thing I'd really dropped it off last night just to get it out of the house.
After the cleaners, I pulled onto the 55 and we were on our way south to Memphis. I'd heard the Elvii could live like regular people there, and just as long, too.
My cell rang about two miles out of town. Mom. Time for work, and me and her car both missing. She was no fool. I hoped she hadn't noticed the credit card yet. Oh, and I didn't have my license yet. But hey, I had my permit and Mom had taken me out driving a bunch of times. We'd be fine.
I shut the phone off and floored it. Even El wouldn't want to talk to her pissed, and he loved everyone.
El giggled as the trees flew by. He stuck his hand out the window and let it play in the wind. At least until I made him close it; it was freezing cold outside and the heater hadn't worked in years.
Still, Mom had a sweet car—a turquoise Chevy Bel Air with the fins and all. It was Gramps' car before he died. Mom loved it, and so did I. It had a big wide seat that could fit three or four easy, and an old-fashioned push-button radio.
I tuned it to the oldies station and Elvis crooned along. I sang with him, but mostly I tried to figure out how to get Elvis into Memphis. It was a free Elvis city, but they didn't allow the importing of Elvii into the city limits. Homegrowns only. No worries, I had four hours to think of something. If everything went well, I'd be back long before dinner, and Mom would only be mostly pissed.
But things never go well, do they? The 55 is a crack ride, lots of long rolling hills, and that was the problem. The engine temperature crept higher and higher. Then it shot into the red zone and the engine shut down.
I pulled over to the side of the road. Elvis wanted to go out and explore but luckily couldn't figure out the car lock. Last exit was for Benton, so I got us towed there. We ended up over near Reeve's Boomland. I figured I'd take El over to McDonald's while they did whatever to the car, then maybe to look at fireworks.
El sat and played with his lasso, while I talked with the mechanic. Apparently he loved rope as much as string.
The mechanic said it was the water pump or something like that, but it would be done by closing, no problem. Maybe I could be back by first thing in the morning—dump El at Graceland and drive home through the night. That would work. I turned around to leave, but El was gone. "Hey, mister, you see where my friend went?"
"I think he wandered off around ten minutes ago. He was waving that lasso around," the mechanic said.
Crap. I ran over to Reeve's first. I figured the fireworks would be a natural draw. Nothing. Not at any of the fast food restaurants either.
Two hours later, I'd looked pretty much everywhere. Dammit. I sat down on the curb to think. He couldn't have gone too far walking. It was colder than a penguin's butt, and there wasn't anyplace to go.
I'd failed. I was gonna save him, and I couldn't even drive all the way to Memphis without screwing it up. I sat there moping, trying to think of something to do other than waiting until the car was fixed and driving back home to face the music.
A couple walked towards Reeve's from town. The guy was obviously drunk, and the woman was nagging him like crazy. He tried to get in the driver's side of the car, but the woman dangled keys in his face. He almost fell over grabbing for them. That's about when he wilted like a puppy and got in the passenger side.
The show almost took my mind off El. Maybe he went to a bar. Heck, the original Elvis died from booze and drugs and all that stupid shit. I hopped up from the curb and walked toward downtown. I hit pay dirt on the third place I tried.
"Hey. No kids in here," the bartender called as I stepped into the dimly lit place. "You can't stay."
"I heard my uncle was in here. He's not quite right, and he shouldn't be drinking. Dressed like a cowboy, blond hair?"
The bartender laughed. "Oh, that one. I bet he needs a keeper. He's by the juke, playing all the Elvis songs. Get him and take him home to sleep off the drunk. He's a real lightweight."
I ran to the back, my eyes barely adjusted to the gloom. A crowd of folks listened to El sing. I thought they really were enjoying his music the way I always had until I got close.
One had taken his lasso and was waving it in front of his face. Elvis looked like he might cry. I grabbed the lasso out of the guy's hand and then took Elvis's arm. I led him towards the door.
"Hey kid, what do you think you're doing? We're going to keep the Elvis," a nasty-looking guy with a shaved head and goatee said. "He'll make a nice pet."
I swallowed hard. "What's wrong with you? He's not a pet, he's a person." The guy I'd grabbed the lasso from looked like he was going to hit me. I thought I'd puke if he did, but the bartender told them all to knock it off and let us go.
"Come on, we're going to be late for your gig, El." Elvis brightened up when I gave him back his lasso. He waved a farewell to his fans as we left, oblivious to their jeers. El staggered, wig askew over one ear, as we walked back along the side of the highway. He told me a long and rambling story about the first time he got laid on the way.
Luckily, the car was ready when we got to the garage. I paid the mechanic, but I was sweating bullets in case Mom had called in the credit card stolen. I straightened up Elvis's wig and threw him in the backseat to sleep it off.
What a mess. There was no way I could just drop him off in front of Graceland like I'd planned; he'd be screwed in no time at all. Those jerks in the bar sure taught me that. I needed to find him a place to live, and a steady gig. I didn't even know where to start. And Mom would kill me if I didn't get the car back today. More dead than she was already going to kill me.
My head was spinning so fast trying to figure it all out that I drove straight into the roadblock. I turned the radio up loud and tapped the dash in time to the music as we crept up. Finally, a cop asked for my license, and I pulled out my permit.
"Who's that in the back of the car, son?" the trooper asked. "He's supposed to be sitting beside you.
I flushed. "It's my uncle; he had a bit too much to drink."
"Well, we got to genetic test him. You too. Folks are always dropping off their Elvii—it isn't a kindness to leave a dog to starve in the woods." That's when I noticed his badge and buckle said "Officer Elvis Corps."
"I'm going to need some hair from you and your uncle."
"Me? Why do you need my hair?" I asked. So close, and we weren't going to make it.
"It's the law. Besides, some of those rats can be tricky." I winced when he called El a rat. "If you unlock the door, I'll grab a couple hairs from your uncle's head without waking him up." I watched in the rearview mirror as the cop leaned into the car to pull El's hair.
Holy shit. Maybe he wouldn't notice how bad the stupid wig fit. Maybe the wig was human hair. Maybe we were almost not screwed.
Maybe.
"Ouch!" The trooper grinned, holding up a few hairs from my head. He dropped them in a small jar half-filled with a clear liquid and shook it. My mouth was dry, and I rubbed my palms against the steering wheel. If I tried too hard not to look nervous, I was sure I'd look nervous.
When both vials still looked like water after a minute, he tossed them in a bin next to him. "I'm going to cut you a break—I know it's not your fault your uncle is drunk. Drive straight to his house and don't let it happen again."
I stepped on the gas, forgetting it was in park. I laughed nervously and put the car in gear. The steering wheel was slick with sweat.
It was late, maybe ten, eleven o'clock at night, and I hadn't eaten all day. Dinner, and then I'd find El a place to stay. I parked in front of a place called the Tupelo Diner. It was more than a few blocks from Graceland, but like everything else had been contaminated by its touch.
We went inside, and I was mesmerized by the Elvis memorabilia plastered on every wall. The man behind the counter shook his hips, grooving in time to early Elvis. He even had that fifties pompadour, only it was salt-and-pepper gray.
Elvis insisted on barbecue pizza and then ate most of it while I called around looking for a cheap place to stay. But the town was pretty well full-up. Elvis's birthday was this week and it was practically a holy day among the Elvis fans.
I called and called, but no luck. We were going to have to sleep in the car tonight, and it was going to suck.
"Hey, son, are y'all looking for a place to stay?" the counter man asked. "My sister Debbie runs a rooming house, and I think she got a cancellation. You want me to call her?"
I opened my mouth to answer when the waiter dropped a tray full of dishes. Broken china scattered over the floor, a few pieces ending near our feet. The counterman yelled at the waiter as he cleaned up the debris. Elvis leaned over to finger a sharp edge.
The man snapped, "Leave that alone. It's not your job to clean it up." I scooped the shard out El's reach.
"Hi. I'm Ken, and I sure would appreciate the help. I'd planned to drop my friend off and head straight home, but we had car trouble."
"I'm Davis." He came over and shook my hand. "Debbie's place is right around back; I'll see if she's home." He was back with a grin and a thumbs-up a few minutes later. Finally something was going right.
· · · · ·
If you've never been to Graceland, you are really missing out. It's all glitz, inside and out, but what I'm talking about was the spectacle out front. Preachers, warriors, saints and sinners, and that was just the Elvii.
The largest crowd of Elvii was led by a silver-haired Elvis. I'd never heard of one so old. He must be from the early days—Memphis was home to the first infestation, and it's never ended. He claimed to be the original Elvis and the other Elvii were created in his image to aid in overthrowing the government.
El joined the old prophet's crowd of onlookers before I could stop him. The prophet's Elvii, dressed more shabbily than most, sang background music. The tourists stopped to take a picture or two, but most preferred the official Elvis Brigade.
No way I'd leave Elvis here; I ran right after him.
"Kenny!" El hugged me and lifted me off the ground like he hadn't seen me in a month. "I've got a gig. Where's my concert clothes?"
"No way. Those guys look homeless." I took some string from my pocket, tied it around his wrist and led him back to the car.
"There's a good audience here," he said.
"Wouldn't you rather have a solo gig? There must be lots of places for an Elvis to play in Memphis."
He thought about it for a minute. "Yeah. Maybe my friends can help."
"Just you and me—we can find you a place to sing. And then I'll go home."
· · · · ·
Well, finding a place for Elvis was a lot harder than I thought it would be. The Elvis Brigade controlled all the official venues. He'd never get an E card, the performance card that proved he was native.
We went from bar to bar. Half the time they told us to leave as soon as they saw he was a Vegas. And the other half they threw us out as soon as we couldn't produce a card.
Finally, we went to a rundown-looking place called Elvis Only. The crowd was thin and the Elvii looked almost as bad as the prophet's cult. But the woman running it had Mom's smile; maybe she'd help me.
"What about off-the-book work? You know, unofficial places. Do you know anything like that?"
She snapped her gum and looked like she wanted to spit on me. "Are you trying to lose my license? You shut your trap and get the hell out of here. It's bad enough without me breaking the law." She stalked off, heels clicking on the linoleum.
Damn. Maybe Davis could help me.
"Hey, you with the Elvis. C'mere." It was the piano player, on a break and downing a shot of something brown.
I told El to wait and just to be sure tied him to the exit door handle with my string. I hurried over. "What do you want? I'm trying to find my buddy some work."
He blew a curl of smoke in my face. "You look like a nice kid, so here's some advice. Don't go looking for blackmarket work. They'll use him up and throw him away. You might as well give him to the exterminators. Get him a straight job or take him home."
Great. How was I ever going to find a straight job that would make El happy?
We tried a few more places after that, but everywhere was closing. My head ached, pounding in time with the music of the last place we'd been. No one wanted to hire a broken down old Elvis. El was bored with the whole thing and wanted to go back to Graceland to hang with his new buddies.
So, I distracted him with more food—I had a donut, and Elvis was working on his third slice of blueberry pie. If he kept eating like this he was going to get sick. Well, maybe not, if what I'd heard about the original Elvis's eating habits was true. I watched El eat, not quite ready to chivvy him out the door. I figured one day, maybe two before Mom drug me home, and then I'd lose El to the cultists. Or worse.
There had to be a way to make it work out. Mom was wrong; helping El was the right thing to do. He was a person, no matter what anyone said. If only I could get him to take the pianist's advice.
"I don't see what was wrong with a job at the grocery store. Or maybe a bank," I said, though I really couldn't see El counting money. I wanted to cry or scream or both with frustration.
"You said I had a gig." His face turned red, and he started taking short, wheezy breaths. Luckily, the crash of dishes distracted him from the pout.
"Get out! Go on! I don't need any more broken dishes here," Davis shouted to that same clumsy waiter. "Your last check will be ready on Friday."
That's when I knew what to do.
· · · · ·
I sat in the same booth as last night; harsh morning sun stung my eyes. It was almost time for me to start home, but for a few more minutes I watched Elvis crooning softly as he served folks their breakfasts. Davis promised to keep an eye on him, and he didn't mind if El sang so long as he didn't drop any plates. And as long as he got to make music, El was happy, even if he was only a singing waiter.
He paused to flirt with a tired-looking woman with streaks of gray in her hair. She looked as if no one had made her feel pretty for a very long time. El warbled "Love Me Tender" to her, smiling contentedly. Several Elvii diners hummed a quiet accompaniment.
She blushed. After all, it was Elvis.
The End
© 2004 Catherine M. Morrison and SCIFI.COM.
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