The Heart Goes Last - Страница 49

“Thanks,” he mumbles. His lips are numb. He starts toward the washroom. His legs wobbly; he pauses, leaning against a desk. “Where’s Veron … where’s the Marilyn I came with?” Better not to mention Veronica’s name until he can figure out what’s going on. How do these gay Elvises fit into Jocelyn’s plan? Or are they just a way station? Maybe Veronica was supposed to collect him but didn’t make it, so he got delivered here by mistake.

Maybe he could lie low for a while with the Elvises, then head for the coast, blend in with the local population. Say he’s doing a tech startup. Get a job as a waiter. After that, figure out how to reconnect with Charmaine, supposing that’s possible.

“That Marilyn? She’s with the Marilyns,” says the chief Elvis. “They don’t live here.”

“It’s quite a different clientele. It’s all men, with the Marilyns. Help yourself to the bronzer in there, touch yourself up. Stick your mouth back on. Oh, and there’s a box of sideburns.”

Stan wants to ask about the clientele for the Elvises, but that can wait. He totters into the washroom, shuts the door. He peels himself out of his damp, whiffy white pants, dumps them into what he assumes is a laundry hamper, sponges himself off with one of the towels. He changes his jacket and cape as well, but he keeps the belt he came with, along with its buckle. He runs his fingers over it, back and front – if it has a document dump inside, there must be some way of opening it – but he can’t find any button or catch.

He does the belt up – after his time in transit, at least he’s thinner – then checks his face in the mirror. What a wreck. Dangling sideburn, smeared tan. He repairs his mouth as best he can – there’s some Insta-glue in with the spare ‘burns – and adds bronzer. He lifts his top lip, tries for a signature sneer. Grotesque.

Outside the door they’re discussing him. “What do you think? Is he UR-ELF material?”

“Can he sing?”

“Let’s find out. He’d have to do the full bump and grind, it doesn’t work without that.”

“You’re telling me!”

“Oh stop it for once, try to be helpful.”

Stan makes his exit from the washroom. The Elvises are encouraging.

“Much better!”

“A new man!”

“I love a new man!”

“Here, have a coffee. Sugar?”

The Elvises sit Stan in a desk chair, watch him while he takes a few sips of coffee. He dribbles: the fake lips are hard to manipulate. “You have to go like this,” says one of the Elvises, pushing his mouth out into a kind of snout. “You’ll get used to it after a while.”

“Thanks,” says Stan.

“Try that in lower register. Thu-hanks. Project from the solar plexus. More like a growl … Elvis had an amazing range.”

“Now,” says the chief Elvis, “what position do you see for yourself? Here at UR-ELF we have a wide choice. We’ve got Singing Elvis – dances, parties, anything that needs a little showtime; we charge the highest fees for them. Wedding Elvis, you’d need to get certified so it’s legal, but that’s not hard around here. Escort Elvis – that’s for going to events, taking them out to dinner and maybe a show.”

“And Chauffeur Elvis, if that’s what they want,” says one of the others. “Sightseeing around town and like that; they might want you to take them shopping. I like that the best. And Bodyguard Elvis, for the heavy gamblers, so no one tries to snatch their purse. Oh, and Retirement Home Elvis; we do the hospitals too. It can get depressing though, I warn you.”

“Singing Elvis is the most fun,” says a third Elvis. “You can really express yourself!”

“I can’t sing,” says Stan. “So that’s out.” Expressing himself is the last thing he wants right now. He’d only howl. “Which is the least demanding? To begin with?”

“I think maybe the retirement homes,” says the chief Elvis. “In there, they won’t know the difference.”

Do they think I’m gay too? Stan wonders. Shit. Where the fuck is Veronica, and why didn’t Budge prepare him for this part? Nobody ever said he would have to perform in this Elvis racket? Are they laughing at him? They don’t seem at all curious about why he was in a packing case, so that’s one good thing.

Maybe he can take this opportunity to run away. But run away to where? For starters, he doesn’t have any money.

Ruby Slippers

The Elvises have prepared a space for him in the Elvisorium, which is what they call the fifties split-level bungalow shared by several of them. He sleeps on a fold-out cot in the laundry room, a tacit admission that he won’t be staying forever. “Just until your Catcher in the Rye shows up,” says the chief Elvis. “That Marilyn of yours should be along soon.”

“Meanwhile we get to take care of you,” a second one chimes in. “Lucky us!”

“We’re doing it for Budge,” says the chief Elvis. “Not that he doesn’t pay well. Full room and board.”

Stan asks how long he’s supposed to wait, but the Elvises don’t seem to know. “We’re just your cover, Waldo,” says the chief Elvis. “Keep you fed, blend you in, give you some bookings, make you look real. We get to play the Seven Dwarves to your Snow White!” They think this is funny.

They give him a few days of leisure while they decide how to book him. They tell him he should explore the street life, see the strip, so worth it! Though they insist he has to wear the full costume every time he goes outside. He’ll be less conspicuous that way: Elvises are a dime a dozen in this town. If anyone comes up to him and wants their picture taken with him, all he has to do is pose and smile, and accept the crumpled bill they might offer. He must resist all invitations to sing. He should nod at any other Elvis he might meet– a courtesy – but avoid conversation: not all the Elvises he might see are from their agency, UR-ElvisLiveForever, and it wouldn’t be good if those other, inferior Elvises started asking him questions.

These Elvises – his own Elvises – know he’s hiding from something, or that someone might be looking for him; shady business, anyway. But they’re discreet and don’t ask him for any details anything. Not even where he came from. Not even his last name.

He wanders the streets an hour at a time, taking in the sights, posing for the odd photo. He can’t stay out any longer: everything’s too hot, too bright, too gaudy, too supersaturated. Many jovial tourists stroll here and there, making the most of their absences from reality, shopping and bar-hopping and taking selfies with the impersonators. On the main drag there’s at least one of those per corner: white-gloved mice, Mickey or Minnie; Donald Ducks; Godzillas; pirates; Darth Vaders; Greek warriors. There’s a fake Roman Forum, a miniature Eiffel Tower, a Venetian canal complete with gondolas. There are other replicas, though Stan can’t make out what they’re imitating. The place swarms with vendors: balloon animals, street food, carnival masks, souvenirs of every kind. Several old women dressed as gypsies shove postcards at him, showing barely dressed young girls, with phone numbers.

Back at the Elvisorium, he takes frequent showers and dozes a lot. At first he has trouble sleeping in the daytime because the singing Elvises like to practise their acts, accompanied by backup tracks turned up way too high. But he’s soon acclimatized.

Nobody comes to collect his belt buckle, with its precious, scandalous data. He sleeps with it under his pillow.

He’s chewing on a a hot dog at a street café, sheltering from the sun as best he can, when a Marilyn slides onto the seat beside him. “It’s Veronica,” she whispers. “Everything okay? Guys treating you right? Still got that buckle?”

“Yeah, but I need to know –”

“Holy shit, look, both of them together! That is so fabulous! Can we get a picture?” Red-faced dude in an I Heart Vegas T, his grinning wife, two bored-looking teens.

“Okay, just one,” says Venonica. She throws back her head, does the Marilyn smile, links her arm with Stan’s; they pose. But several other camera-wielding couples closing in on them. This could be a mob scene.

“Catch you later,” she smiles. “Gotta dash!” She kisses Stan on the forehead, leaving – he supposes – a big red mouth. She doesn’t forget the almost-limping Marilyn ass wiggle as she moves away. She’s got a new red carry bag; he can only suppose her gigolo of a teddy bear is inside it.

His first official postings are to the terminal care wing of Ruby Slippers; it’s the same chain that Charmaine used to work for before they both lost their jobs, so it has a familiar feel to it. He doesn’t allow himself to think too much about what went wrong with them, or where Charmaine is now. He can’t afford to brood. Day by day is how he has to play it.

The job isn’t hard. Once he’s been ordered up by a friend or a relative, all he has to do is get himself into costume and then into the role. Then he delivers bouquets of flowers to elderly patients – elderly female patients, since the Marilyns do the men. The palliative care nurses welcome him: he’s a spot of brightness, they claim: he keeps the patients interested in life. “We don’t think of the clients here as dying,” one of them said to him on his first visit. “After all, everyone’s dying, just some of us more slowly.” Some days he believes this; other days he feels like the Grim Reaper. The Angel of Death as Elvis. It kind of fits.