Hound Dog

by Richard Blandford

  I catch myself in the rear-view mirror. She has a point. I look like something that should be hung on a butcher’s hook. My memory of the evening is a bit vague right now, but I have a feeling I might have been a bit naughty, and I don’t want to be anywhere the boys in blue can easily find me, certainly not with this amount of charlie in my system. ‘Look guys, I appreciate your concern, but unless you turn this car around, I’m jumping out the door right this second.’

  ‘Elvis, I’ve got central locking.’

  ‘Can you unlock it, please?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘I will see a doctor, I promise, but in a day or two, when the stuff’s out of my system. But right now I just want to lie low for a bit, so would you mind taking me home?’

  They’re quiet for a moment, and then Em says, ‘OK, this is what we’ll do. We’ll take you back to ours, and I’ll tidy you up a bit. You stay with us for twenty-four hours, then we take you to A & E.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that, just drop me off at my house and—’

  ‘Elvis, either you let us look after you or we’re driving you to the hospital right now.’

  ‘OK.’ I know when to admit defeat. Also, I find the idea of being nursed by Em and her enormous boobs quite appealing. You never know, maybe this is my chance to finally win her over.

  Half an hour later and I’m stripped to the waist in Buddy and Em’s flat. Turns out I’ve got a nasty gash on my forehead, so Em cleans it and covers it up. It needs stitches, but thankfully she didn’t offer to try her hand at that. My torso’s badly bruised, but it doesn’t seem like any of my ribs are broken. Just in case, Em bandages it so tightly that even if my ribs aren’t broken, they probably are now. For a while, Buddy sits by the record player, playing Stray Cats records in a vain effort to impress me. ‘Do you like them?’ he says.

  ‘They’re OK, but they’re no King Pleasure and the Biscuit Boys,’ I reply. Soon enough he goes to bed, as he has to be up in a few hours to do his postal route, leaving me alone with Em. We sit in silence for a bit, as she runs her hand through my thinning hair in a way that she no doubt intends to be calming, but naturally gets me quite aroused. Then finally she speaks.

  ‘Elvis, I think you may need some help.’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’

  ‘No, really, Elvis. I think you need to see someone about your drug use. It’s a bit out of hand.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Yeah… maybe you’re right.’

  She strokes my hair some more, and my manhood threatens to poke out through the hole again, but I feel so sore I can’t muster up the energy to do anything about it, let alone the audacity, and I find myself falling asleep.

  My sleep is very deep and very long. I dream about Eddie and Bridget again of course, but when I wake I don’t feel the way I usually do after it, like someone’s bitten a big chunk out of my brain, but instead I’d say I feel restful, quite contented in fact. It’s not that the dream itself was any different, Eddie was being Eddie, and me and Bridget had the same type of pointless conversation we always have, but the atmosphere had changed. Before, I’d always be left with the feeling that Bridg was pitying me, even though she was the one who’d hanged herself after years of Dad’s fiddling, but this time it was like we were more on the same level. Anyway, back here in the flat, Em’s laid me out on the sofa and covered me with a blanket. It must be late morning. On a coffee table next to me is a note. I stretch out for it and read it where I lie. In girly handwriting, with very round letters and circles where the dots should be, it says:

  Dear Elvis,

  Gone to work. Buddy will be back early afternoon. Make yourself at home. Help yourself to any food in the kitchen and any drink except the champagne. Please do not try to leave as we agreed that you should go to A & E this evening and I would be very hurt if you let me down.

  See you soon,

  Love

  Em x

  I can’t see me staying there the whole day, and as for going to A & E she must be having a laugh, but right now I’m starving. I go to the kitchen to look for something microwaveable. On the way I find some clothes that Em has left for me, which is good seeing as I can’t walk around dressed as Elvis all day. There’s a pair of trousers with an elasticated waist and a big smock-like top that are obviously hers, what with Buddy being about half the size of me. Also the smock is bright pink. I can just about get my big gut into the trousers, and although they’re women’s clothes, I don’t really care right now. Meanwhile, I find a beef curry and heat it up. It takes about fifteen minutes altogether, so I kill time by having a bit of an amble about the house. First I go into the spare bedroom which is Buddy’s shrine to Buddy Holly, as well as where he keeps most of his rock ’n’ roll memorabilia. Em doesn’t let him have it in the living room, which is all flat-pack storage units and candle holders. Em calls it Buddy’s Buddy room. It’s packed full of stuff, some of it very valuable. Old 78s, sheet music, autographs, replica guitars and clothes, all sorts of stuff. Pride of place is given to a signed photo of Buddy Holly, and in a frame, the handwritten letter by the man himself that Buddy paid five grand for. It’s about his income tax.

  Then I go into the bedroom. It’s a lovely thing in peach which Em is clearly in charge of, with so much pot-pourri you nearly overdose, and a queen-size double bed with no end of cushions, pillows, a menagerie of soft toys on top and in it. God knows how they get in the thing. I think about Em on it, naked, with her big fat arse in the air. I’m just contemplating lying there having a wank when the microwave pings. I go back to the kitchen, dish out the curry, take it to the living room and turn on the telly. Wouldn’t you know it, Buddy’s got Sky. I can’t even get Channel 5 at my place. I must be sat there for hours, flicking channels, looking for something worth watching. Unfortunately Buddy doesn’t subscribe to any porn channels, being a good boy, so I end up watching the home shopping. The presenter has a cheeky gleam in her eye, and what with my little daydream in the bedroom, makes it absolutely necessary to have a quick fiddle there on Buddy’s sofa. I’m just about to shoot my load into a handy tissue forty-five seconds into it when I hear the front door open. I manage to stuff it away just in time before Buddy walks in.

  ‘All right, big guy, how you feeling?’ chirps the singing postman.

  ‘Oh, not bad, yourself?’

  ‘Yeah, good, good. What are you watching?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, really. Just flicking channels.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s like that Bruce Springsteen song, “57 Channels and Nothin’ On”. I’ve got over two hundred channels, and there’s still nothing on!’ He chuckles at his own joke, and I do my very best to smile. ‘Do you like Bruce Springsteen at all?’

  ‘Not a big fan,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, he’s OK, but he’s not like a proper rock ’n’ roll singer. So other than Elvis, what music are you into, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  God, what a question, I think to myself. I haven’t bought any new music since Smell of Female by the Cramps, and I never listened to that much. I remember listening to pub rock quite a bit in the seventies, Ducks Deluxe, Dr Feelgood and all that, but really music isn’t a part of my life at all these days, other than the odd bit I hear on the radio, like Dido. ‘Shakin’ Stevens,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, he’s underrated.’

  We talk a bit more about music, mostly old rock ’n’ roll stuff that I suppose I know quite a bit about, until Buddy hits me with a startling confession. ‘You know what,’ he says, ‘sometimes, now and then like, I just think, I’m so fucking bored with Buddy Holly. After all these years listening to his music, learning his songs, going to conventions, talking about him for hours with other fans and stuff, I just sometimes think I might have had enough of him. I feel like I’ve got everything I’m ever going to get out of him, and I never need to hear a note of his music again, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see where you’re coming from there.’


  ‘But then, I’ll put one of his records on, and I’ll think, fucking hell, I really, really love him! I expect it’s a bit like that with you and Elvis.’

  ‘Um, something like that.’

  ‘I suppose,’ he continues, ‘in a way, Buddy’s the centre of my life. If I had a choice between Em and Buddy, I’m not sure who I’d choose. You don’t mind me telling you that, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘He’s just always been there for me, see. Ever since I was a lad – oh, hang on.’

  Buddy’s mobile phone is playing the opening bars of ‘Every Day’. Is there a single aspect of his life that Buddy Holly hasn’t wormed his way into?

  ‘Hello?’ he says. ‘Oh right, hello, just bear with me a minute.’ He takes the phone into the Buddy-shrine room with him, so I can’t hear what he’s saying, I suppose. Of course, I can hear perfectly, but mostly all he says is ‘oh, right,’ and ‘sure’ before telling the other party he’d get back to them after he’d talked to the missus.

  When he comes back in, he has a rather grave look on his face.

  ‘Elvis, that was the social club from last night.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Um, what they were phoning me about was, they’d like me to play there again in the near future, by myself like, on my own… that is, without you.’

  ‘Cheeky fuckers. I hope you told them where to go.’

  ‘Actually, I said I probably would, I just wanted to talk to Em about it before I confirmed for definite. That’s OK with you isn’t it? Me doing it by myself? Um, to be honest with you, I wasn’t really thinking of playing with you again, not until you sorted out your drug problem anyway.’

  ‘Nah, not bothered. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘So you’re OK with it, then?’

  ‘Yeah, course I am, mate. You can even borrow my gear if you like. Come on, let’s go to the pub and celebrate.’

  ‘Yeah, OK, sounds good.’

  I realise that I have no money, because my wallet is in the pocket of my trousers back in the dressing room of the social club. ‘Look, Bud, you couldn’t lend me twenty quid could you?’ I ask him.

  ‘Uh, yeah, sure,’ he says, as he goes to change out of his postman’s uniform.

  Chapter 16

  ‘The Beatles? Fuck the fucking Beatles. Took them fucking years to catch up with what Buddy was doing fucking ages before, then they just took loads of drugs and made bloody curry house music. “Strawberry Fields Forever”, what’s that fucking all about? It’s not exactly fucking rock ’n’ roll is it? If Buddy had lived he’d have kicked the fucking Beatles’ arses. He was way ahead of them, fucking way ahead. Tell you what, Elvis, the Beatles, bunch of cunts. Cheers.’ Buddy clinks my glass and spills beer down his sleeve in the process. He’s in a right state. I’m feeling pretty merry myself, but I’m far more composed seeing as I’ve had years of practice, while Buddy‘s just been sipping on tiny glasses of Baileys all his adult life. Mind you, right now, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  We’re sitting outside a rather quaint pub on the bank of the River Cam. It’s not my usual sort of place, it’s even got an eating area you can take children, for Christ’s sake! But still, I’m having a right merry old time, watching the river go by and Buddy getting wasted. It was a bit of an effort to persuade Buddy to drink pints instead of halves, but several rounds in and he’s a magnificent fucking embarrassment. He’s shouting everything at the top of his lungs, and swearing like a trooper, which is quite funny to listen to, seeing as normally the harshest word he can bring himself to say is ‘bum’. I have a feeling he’s going to get us chucked out pretty soon because we’re getting funny looks from the posh twats and the tourists who drink here, but I hope we can get at least one more round in. It’s not just Buddy’s shouting that’s drawing attention. My head’s still bandaged up, and some blood has soaked through. I’m also wearing Em’s pink smock and elasticated trousers and my Elvis boots, but then there’s no law against dressing like a tit. I finish my pint while Buddy’s still halfway through his, and most of that he’s spilt on himself. ‘It’s your round I think, Bud.’

  ‘Hang on! I’ve still got a bit to go.’

  ‘Well, drink up, then. I’m getting parched over here.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ he says, and downs his pint, with a load of it going down his shirt. He burps. Then he gags, puts his hand to his mouth, stands up quickly and runs off inside in the direction of the lavs, beer pouring out his mouth and between his fingers as he goes. I follow him, the barman shaking his head disapprovingly at me as I pass, and find him throwing up into the sink. It’s not a pretty sight. In fact I think he may be in need of more than one sink.

  ‘Are you OK, Bud?’ I say when he finally stops.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just needed to be a bit sick, that’s all. Oh, wait a minute.’ He retches and it starts up again, like someone’s turned on a mains tap. Some time later, it stops. The smell is rank, like the mattress I threw out the other day.

  ‘Hey Bud,’ I say, ‘let’s go and get some fresh air, eh? Do you good.’

  ‘Yeah, I like the sound of that.’

  ‘It’s your round, though, don’t forget.’

  ‘I don’t want to see you in here again,’ says the barman, as I navigate Buddy out of the pub front door. I point him in the direction of the riverbank.

  ‘Tell you what, Bud,’ I say, ‘why don’t we walk along there for a bit? It’ll be nice, and if you want to be sick again, you can just go in the river. What do you think?’

  ‘Yeah, be nice,’ he mumbles, before walking into someone’s parked car and setting off the alarm.

  ‘Come on, Bud, let’s go.’

  We walk along the riverbank, passing the odd houseboat moored at the side. Before long, we come to a lock, and beyond that, through the trees, we can just about make out something I didn’t even know was there, a swimming pool.

  ‘Christ, what’s this doing here?’ I say.

  ‘It’s a lido,’ says Buddy.

  ‘It’s a what?’

  ‘A lido. An outdoor swimming pool. I used to come here when I was a lad.’

  ‘Outdoor swimming pool? That’s a fucking stupid idea. What happens when it rains?’

  ‘You get wet.’

  ‘Don’t try to be clever, Bud, you’re not cut out for it.’

  By the pool there’s a grassy area, where lovely young lasses lounge about, sunbathing in their bikinis. ‘Look at those beauties, eh, Bud. Bet you’d like to get yourself some of that.’

  ‘Yeah, like they’d want anything to do with me. Until Em came along, women wouldn’t even give me the time of day. Not that I care, I wouldn’t want to touch dirty sluts like those. Lying about, showing their tits off. They’ll obviously spread their legs for anybody.’

  ‘Yeah, except you, Bud.’ We pass the lido, and carry on walking. Buddy has to stop to be sick on a bush and it’s not long before he’s asking if we can sit down on a bench near a bridge. We do, and he curls himself up into a tight little ball, moaning to himself. It’s pretty annoying, so I try to phase him out by thinking about the natural scenery around us, something I’ve never really been in the habit of doing, but I feel the urge to here for some reason. I suppose I’d have to say it’s quite restful here, listening to the water. The smell of sick blowing off Buddy spoils it a little bit, but I can live with it. Buddy just rocks backwards and forwards in his ball, looking ill. After a while, he seems to have fallen asleep, and I sit by him silently, watching the ducks float downriver. The trees droop over us here, I think they’re willows, although I might be wrong. Occasionally someone passes over the bridge, and at one point some posh twit brings his neighing children past us on the riverbank with their newt nets. He hurries them along when he sees the state of us, or when he smells it. The sun gets lower in the sky, and peeks between the branches of the trees. After a while, I’ve had enough of nature, and I’m getting hungry and bored. I want to go home, or at least for a curry. I wake Buddy up. �
�Buddy,’ I say, ‘time to get a move on.’

  ‘Ugggnugh – yeah, five more minutes.’

  ‘Come on, Bud, Em’ll be wondering where you’ve got to.’

  ‘Oh, right. Oh. Oh, Christ, Elvis, if Em sees me in this state, she’ll kill me.’

  ‘She’ll be more upset if you don’t turn up at all. Anyway, you’ve got to tell her your good news.’

  ‘What good news?’

  ‘That you’ve got a gig all by yourself. You’ve got to go home and tell her.’

  ‘Oh yeah, that news.’ He seems to drift off for a second, his eyes gazing out at nothing in particular. Then he says, ‘Elvis, I’m a total fucking cunt.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Bud?’

  ‘I mean I’m a total fucking arsehole. Em is a wonderful woman, a truly wonderful, wonderful woman, and I treat her really fucking badly, and I don’t fucking deserve her, and that’s why I’m a total fucking arsehole cunt.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true, I’m sure you treat her very well.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Listen Elvis, I may seem OK on the surface, but deep down I’m angry at the whole fucking world, angry at the way I got treated all these years by fucking everybody, and do you know what, I take it out on her. It’s not fair. She shouldn’t be with me, she should be with someone better who treats her right.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’ve nearly hit her loads of times, but it’s nothing to do with her, it’s me! I’m a total piece of shit.’

  He starts sobbing, and I put my hands on his shoulders. I hold him for a second while he cries. Meanwhile, I look to see if anyone can see us. There doesn’t appear to be anybody about.

  ‘Buddy,’ I tell him finally, ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are a piece of shit. A huge. total, stinking, disgusting, sticky, lump of steaming shit. You’re absolutely right, you don’t deserve Em at all. You’re a fucking disgrace, and I’m going to fix it that you never have a chance to go near her with your tiny little dick again.’