TCB
“Thank you, Elvis,” the Midwestern tourist said, putting her camera away in a voluminous designer handbag. She was a redhead with high cheekbones, somewhere in her forties, and quite attractive; Elvis could tell that she’d been a stunner in her youth. Her cat’s eye sunglasses made him smile.
“It’s my pleasure, darlin’” he drawled. “That’ll be ten dollars.”
Her smile tightened just a fraction, as if The King was supposed to be standing there outside Grauman’s Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard and posing with the tourists just for fun. This was his livelihood, after all. He normally got the money up front, but something about this woman had dazed him in the moment that she drew out her camera. She was there by herself for one thing; visitors in the city of angels tended to travel in packs. Since she had no one to take the photo for her, she had to stretch her arm way out, and then squeeze tight against him so they would both be in the shot. Elvis could still smell the delicate perfume she wore.
“Here you go,” she said, passing him a crisp new ten, stiff as though it had been starched and ironed that morning. As he took it from her, her fingers brushed against his and lingered for a moment. “Say, today’s my birthday. Would you join me for a drink?”
“Seriously?” he said, nearly breaking character.
“Sure. We can just grab a beer somewhere nearby. Would that be okay?”
“I’d love to, ma’am, but my peak period’s comin’ up soon, and if I’m not here, White Elvis’ll take my spot.”
“White Elvis?”
“Yes, ma’am. Got a white jumpsuit, not ’cause he’s white. I’m white too, y’see.”
“So does that make you Black Elvis?”
“Naw. Black Elvis is a guy named Leroy. Young fella. Don’t know what that makes me.”
“Oh come on, it’s just one drink, and I’m buying. You’ll be back at your spot before White Elvis or Black Elvis or Green Elvis or Pink Elvis can nab it. What do you say?”
Elvis hesitated for a moment. There was no real harm in one drink, not now. His fourth wife Marilyn had walked out on him the month before, telling him quite calmly that their eight years of marriage had meant nothing, that she’d only settled for him, that she’d never loved him as much as he loved her and thank god they’d never had any kids together. He absently rubbed at the tan line on his ring finger and thought, Aw, fuck it.
“All right, ma’am. That’s right nice of you. There’s a place not far from here.”
“You lead the way. And no more of this ‘ma’am’ stuff. I’m only forty-eight. And my name is Kate.”
“Yes, ma’am. Kate.”
A quick five-minute walk later, and then they stepped into the dimness of a little hole-in-the-wall dive bar called Power House, still mostly empty at that afternoon hour but already reeking of cigarette smoke. Elvis ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap and Kate chose a bottle of Irish cider; she paid for both drinks, and then they took a booth in the corner. Something by Hank Williams, Jr. was playing on the jukebox. He felt abruptly nervous, as though he was a teenager going on his first date rather than a 56-year-old celebrity impersonator with four failed marriages and three children he hadn’t heard from in years.
“So,” Kate said, “how long have you been Elvis?”
“About five years now,” he said, dropping the drawl. “A casting agent said I’d be good at it; I already had the sideburns and the ’tude, all I needed was the jumpsuit.”
“You’re an actor?” she said, her eyebrows raising.
“Not a successful one,” he said. “Picked up a regional commercial here and there, but television and film don’t seem to want me. I figured character actors would be in demand, but no one gives a shit about washed-up nobodies like me. This town is maggoty with actors, pardon the phrase. Impersonating pays the bills for the most part. Better than waiting tables, that’s for damn sure.”
“Tell me something about yourself.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said with a smile. “Something you wouldn’t normally tell to a stranger who just picked you up off the street.”
“All right, then.”
And so he told her about flying as support crew with the Navy at only twenty years old, and helping to evacuate Americans and Europeans from Lebanon during the intense fighting there. He told her about being in Oklahoma City when the Murrah Building was bombed. He told her about being a scared eight-year-old in Los Angeles during the Watts Riots and how he’d left the heartless city right after high school, only returning after 30 years. He told her about being in Brooklyn on September 11, 2001, and how that event had convinced him to move back to the city of his birth, as far away as he could get from that moment of terror and still be in the USA.
“For a while,” he said “I thought it was me, all these disasters and upheavals happening because I was there. But then I started thinking how extremely lucky I was to have lived through all that shit and still come out of it in one piece. You ever watch The Discovery Channel?”
“Sure, sometimes.”
“On one of those science shows, they talked about alternate universes, and I got to thinking about the versions of me where I wasn’t so fortunate. Every second in a different reality, I’m dying, in an endless number of ways. Stabbed, shot, heart attack, terrorist bombing, alien death ray. Every single second I’m alive is a gift, a sacrifice from all those me’s who are out there suffering and dying. Sure, there’s also a me who’s rich and famous and happily married, but I try not to think about that guy too much. I’m sure he’s got his problems too.”
Kate placed her bottle of cider, now empty, down on the table. “That is a wonderful life philosophy,” she said. “I have to say, I pegged you for a kind man out there, but I never could have imagined that you were such an incredibly interesting person.”
Elvis smiled and tipped an imaginary hat. “Thank you kindly.”
“Look, I know you need to get back to work, but I’d really like to meet up with you later.” Kate reached into her handbag and produced a business card and a pen, and wrote a hotel room number on the back. “I’m staying at the Radisson nearby. Why don’t you come by later, call me at the front desk, and we go to dinner?”
“I think that sounds great, ma’am”
“Thank you, Elvis.”
“No, thank you, Kate,” he said, curling his lip. “Thank you very much.”
One Less
Click.
I replaced the phone in its cradle a little more forcefully than normal and fell back onto my side of the bed. Cory moaned softly and rolled over to face me. Sleep crusted the corners of her eyes, making her beautiful German-Chinese face that more real for me. She yawned and draped an arm over my chest. It was amazing, she never had bad breath in the morning.
“Who was that?” she mumbled into her pillow.
“Jack,” I said. “He said Ian called in sick, and he needs someone in Suits today.”
Cory opened her pale brown eyes and leaned up to look at me. “Did you remind him it’s your thirtieth birthday? And that you asked for today off two weeks ago?” I nodded and Cory said, “And did you tell him that I took the day off to be with you?”
“Yeah, honey, I mentioned all that. I could take today off, but I shouldn’t bother coming back tomorrow. He said that because of the recession I’m lucky to have a job at all right now.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s such an asshole.”
“Yeah.”
I kissed Cory on the tip of her small nose and rolled out of bed. She immediately shifted over to my side to snuggle into the warmth I had left behind.
After getting out of the shower, I stumbled over Plymouth lying on the bedroom floor, tipped over on his side. Plymouth was Cory’s most favorite stuffed animal, a brownish-orange triceratops she got as a present for her seventh birthday. We must have knocked him off the bed during what Cory called “my early birthday present” l
ast night. I picked up the stuffed triceratops and put him back on the headboard, ready to guard the room. His glass eyes stared at me.
Cory watched me get into my nicest suit—if I was going into work on my birthday, I was going to look amazing, dammit—then she reached up and grabbed the stuffed dinosaur from where I had placed him.
“Plymouth doesn’t want you to go either,” she said. “See?”
She squeezed his sides, and “Rrrroar,” he said in a tinny pre-recorded voice. “I’m a triceratops.”
I patted Plymouth on the head, then finished dressing and went into the kitchen for a bagel and some OJ. As I was choking back pulpy juice, Cory shuffled into the room wearing her green silk bathrobe. She slung her arms around my waist, buried her face in my chest, and hugged me tight.
“Are you sure you have to go?”
I smiled and hugged her back. “Yes, honey. But I’ll come over at lunch and we can eat together.” I kissed her full on the lips. “I have to go now, or I’ll be late.” I detached myself from Cory, pecked her on the tip of her nose, and left her apartment.
The beltline into Raleigh was crammed full of commuters at 8:15, and I sat absolutely still in the fast lane. Every once in a while, brake lights flickered and we moved a few inches.
At the Glenwood exit, a wave of nausea rolled over me too fast to feel it coming. I yanked the emergency brake, fumbled into neutral, opened the door and dry-heaved for several long moments. The seatbelt was still buckled, and I hung out of the car door at an odd angle, leaning out as far as I could to avoid splashing the car with vomit.
But none came. The nausea slowly abated, and I swallowed hard. My temples pounded and the sunlight suddenly seemed too bright, even through my sunglasses. I pulled myself back inside the car and stared at the steering wheel, taking deep breaths to calm myself. Then I realized that all I could hear was my ragged breathing; the sounds of other cars were absent, the rush of air each car displaced, the rattling of eighteen-wheelers, the honking of impatient motorists. All of it was gone. I looked out the windshield. All four lanes of traffic were empty, where they had been bumper-to-bumper mere moments before. My rear view and side mirrors confirmed what I saw. Sweat broke out on my forehead and under my arms.
I put the car into drive and eased down the road.
I arrived at Peppard’s Department Store forty-five minutes after I had left Cory’s apartment, gradually seeing more traffic as I got there. I expected Jack to be at the front door, fuming at my fifteen-minute tardiness, but he was nowhere to be seen. I took the escalator to the second floor and wound around early shoppers to the Men’s Suits section. Appliances and Homeware was there instead. Had I gotten turned around? I was about to retrace my steps when I passed Charlie, who normally worked exclusively in Ties, talking to a frumpy old man about a spatula. I walked up and attempted to meet his eyes, but he wouldn’t look at me. I waved my hand in front of his face and said, “Charlie.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
“Charlie. It’s me. What’s wrong with you?”
“Wrong?”
“Never mind. Where’s Jack?”
“If you mean Mr. Davis, he’s back there at the register.”
I turned and walked to the register where Jack was standing, near the refrigerators. His hair was shellacked to his skull as usual, and he wore a sharp black pinstripe suit that I didn’t recognize. As I approached, he flashed me his sharky smile and interlaced his fingers on top of the register.
“Yes, sir?” he said with enthusiasm. “Can I help you?”
“Jack, knock it off. I’m here. Where do you want me?”
The carnivorous smile remained on Jack’s face but his eyebrows rose in confusion. “Want you, sir? I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about. Do I know you?”
“Jack, goddammit, you called me in here on my day off—on my birthday—and I don’t have time for your jokes. Where you do you want me today? Accessories or Sportcoats?”
Jack’s smile faded, and his brow creased. His hands were out of sight under the register. “Sir, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you are implying that you somehow work here, you are mistaken. I’ve never seen you before in my life. Now if you don’t leave, I’ll have to have you escorted out.”
“What? Jack, what are you—”
“Sir, I’m afraid I have to insist.”
I turned around and could see Clive, the burly British security guard, making his way toward us. My face burned and I flashed a look at Jack, then tramped out of Appliances and Homeware. As I passed Clive, he crossed his arms and gave me the look I often saw him give to shoplifters. His eyes burned holes in my back as I took the escalator downstairs. I sat in a shabby wooden chair in Women’s Hosiery and looked at my shoes. My lungs felt sodden and heavy.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I looked up at the voice, but could see no one who would have spoken. My head lowered back down, but the voice repeated itself. I stood up and my heart skipped a beat. Plymouth, Cory’s plush triceratops, sat on top of the cash register and gazed in my direction.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, and I backed away. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
I ran out the door to my car, started it, and was halfway home before I turned around towards Cory’s apartment in Kildaire.
~
Cory lived in a subdivision where the streets were named after respectable Irish authors. It was a gated community, and I had to punch in an access code. The gates swung open and I pulled through onto Joyce Way.
I parked the car and ran up the stairs to her apartment. The wreath I had gotten her for Thanksgiving last year—the one she refused to take down because she loved how I could give her silly things like wreaths—was gone. The doormat was also different; instead of the Tasmanian Devil jumping up and down and yelling “GO AWAY!” the doormat was made of straw. Cory loved that Taz doormat; she’d never replace it with something so mundane.
My key fumbled and scraped around the lock, but wouldn’t slide in. I rang the doorbell and knocked hard three times. “Cor!” I yelled into the door. “Open up, baby, it’s me. Some weird shit has been happening to me today. I really want to talk to you about it.” I counted twenty seconds of silence and was about to ring the bell again when the door cracked open an inch. The combined scent of jasmine and vanilla drifted out, the scent of the woman I loved. Cory’s beautiful face peered through the crack at me, a look of fear in her eyes. The chain was on the door.
“What do you want?” she asked, an audible quiver in her voice. “I’ve called nine-one-one and I have pepper spray.”
“Cory, don’t you recognize me? Come on, honey, let me in.”
“Mister, I don’t know you. Please leave.”
“What the hell is going on? I don’t—” I stopped as a thought entered my mind. “You’re not planning a surprise party, are you? You know I hate surprises.”
“I’ve never seen you before! Go away!” Cory slammed the door in my face. The chain made scraping noises as it rattled against the door. I stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, knowing she could see me through the peephole. I couldn’t believe it. Of all the people, I thought Cory would be the one person who I could talk to about all this, and she didn’t know me either. I walked down the stairs to my car; the space I had parked in was now occupied by a rusty VW Beetle. On the hood, Plymouth stood on all stubby fours, a plush hood ornament.
“Why are you still here?” he asked.
The tips of my fingers and earlobes tingled. I shivered despite the heat as the hairs on the nape of my neck prickled.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“To find out why you weren’t erased with the others,” he said, matter-of-fact. “You should have disappeared in a blink, instead of this fading-away mess. What makes you so special?”
I grabbed Plymouth and he had time to yell “Hey!” before I threw him across the parking lot. Th
e Beetle wasn’t mine—it had been a Honda when I drove it here—but I had the feeling I could drive it. I tried my car key and it fit the lock. I got in and cranked the engine, then left.
I drove around for a while, my head spinning. At one point, I pulled over and fished out the cell phone in the glove compartment, which, to my surprise, was still there. I swore that I’d only use it for emergencies—I couldn’t stand when people drove and talked on the phone at the same time—but this definitely counted as an emergency. I dialed my parents’ number in Maryland. After two minutes of trying to convince my mother who I was, she hung up on me. I threw the phone back in the glove compartment and jammed the car into gear.
I ended up back at the Glenwood exit where I had had my nausea attack. I took the exit down to Crabtree Valley Mall and parked near the food court. It was 3:00 PM by this time, and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I walked inside and the multitude of different smells hit me all at once. Fried chicken, cheeseburgers, sweet and sour pork, bratwurst. I drifted over to the Chick-Fil-A and looked up at the menu.
Strange Mammals Page 14
