“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.
“
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
Stan makes his exit from the washroom. The Elvises are encouraging.
“
this,
“Thanks,” says Stan.
“Try that in lower register.
amazing
“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
“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.
For each delivery he shows his identity card with the UR-ELF logo at Reception, passes through Security, and is escorted as far as the patient’s room door. There he makes a dramatic entrance, though not too dramatic: a noisy surprise might be fatal. Then he presents the flowers with a bow and a swirl of his cape, and just a suggestion of pelvic action.
After that he sits beside the hospital beds and holds the frail, trembling hands, and tells the patients that he loves them. They like to have this message delivered in the form of Elvis’s hit song titles – “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You,” or “I’m All Shook Up,” or “Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear” – but he doesn’t have to sing these songs, just whisper the titles. Some of the patients hardly know he’s there, but others, less feeble, get a kick out of him and think he’s a fine joke.
Yet others believe he’s real. “Oh Elvis, you’re here at last! I knew you would come,” one old woman exclaims, throwing her matchstick arms around his neck. “I love you! I always loved you! Kiss me!”
“I love you too, honey,” he growls in return, placing his rubbery lips on her wrinkled cheek. “I love you tender.”
“Oh, Elvis!”
When he first began he felt like a shit-for-brains fool, capering around like this in a phony get-up, pretending to be someone he isn’t; but the more he does it, the easier it becomes. After the fifth or sixth time he really does love these old biddies, at least for a moment. He brings such joy. When was the last time anyone was so truly happy to see him?
By now Stan knows the civvie names of UR-ELF Elvis team members. Rob, the tallest, is the founder and CEO; he handles the bookings and the PR, including the website, and keeps an eye on overall performance. Pete, the second-in-command, does the financials. Ted – a little on the plump side for an Elvis – is in charge of running the Elvisorium on a daily basis: the dry-cleaning of the Elvis outfits, the sheets and towels, the basic groceries. UR-ELF is making a profit, says Pete, but only because they keep the overheads low. It’s a close-to-the-bone operation: the champagne does not flow, the caviar is not spread. They’re always looking at schemes for making a little extra, though not all of these work out. Juggling Elvis was tried but wasn’t a success. The same went for Tightrope-Walking Elvis: the fans don’t want the Elvises to do things that the historical Elvis would never have done: it would be too much like making fun of the King, and they don’t appreciate that.
It’s a slow day, so the poker players aren’t “in character,” as Rob calls dressing up. They’re wearing shorts, Ts, and flipflops: the A/C isn’t working well, and outside the door it’s 104°F. Luckily Vegas is in a desert, so at least it’s not humid.
Stan now knows that not all the Elvises aren’t gay. Some are, and there are a couple of bis and one asexual, though who can tell any more where to draw the line?
“Let’s say it’s a continuum,” said Rob while explaining this to Stan the first day. “Nobody’s either/or, when it comes right down to it. Me, I’m between wives. Boring old vanilla.”
Stan doesn’t buy the continuum thing himself. But why should he worry about what other guys do in their spare time? “The way you were all talking when I got here, you could’ve fooled me,” he said.
“And we did,” said Pete. “But it’s acting. UR-ELF was founded by actors for when we aren’t working.
“Most of us are just here looking for a part in one of the shows,” said Rob.
“By the way, we give coaching in how to act gay,” said Ted. “For our new Elvises. Ten tips, that sort of thing. Stan, we might have to give you some help.”
“A straight guy playing a gay guy playing a straight guy, but in a way so that everyone assumes he’s gay – that takes skill. Think about the complexity. Though some of the guys overact. It’s a fine line,” said Rob.
Stan flashed back to his days with Jocelyn, when he was expected to play out whatever fantasy she’d ordered up that night. “Okay,” he said. “I get that about the acting, but why the gay thing? I may be dumb, but Elvis was definitely not gay, so …”
“It’s the clients,” said Rob. “And the relatives, the ones who book us for a treat. They prefer the Elvises to be gay.”
“I don’t get it.”
“They don’t want any uninvited hanky-panky,” said Rob. “Especially not at the hospitals. With the female patients, the ones in the private rooms. Historically, there have been incidents.”
Stan laughed. “Not really! Crap! Who’d want to …” Who’d want to fuck a hundred-year-old woman with tubes all over her and her insides leaking out? is what he’s thinking.
“This is Vegas,” said Rob. “You’d be surprised.”
“Beer?” says Pete, folding his hand and getting up.
Stan nods, broods over his cards. He’s within view of another stack of pancakes. He’s on a winning streak.
“I hear there’s a couple new productions scheduled,” says Ted. “It’s booming in showtime here, so much better than Broadway.”
“Dan just hit it out of the park,” says Rob. “They’re casting for an all-guy
Stan is way out of his depth – what is Tits Tania? – but once they get into the actor talk, better not to ask.
“At least it wasn’t fucking Cobweb,” says Ted. “With the fairy wings.”
“Or fucking Puck. You can imagine the puns. I hear they’re doing an all-guy
“Five pancakes,” says Rob, laying down his cards. “You can pay up on Sunday.”
“Go again?” says Ted. “Win ‘em back off you. I’m owed six anyway, from last time.”
“Someone else be dealer,” says Rob.
“Flip for it.”
“With Dan out, we’re short an Escort,” says Rob. “There’s a big convention coming up, it’s NAB. We’re going to have demand.”
“NAB?” says Stan. They’re always throwing around these short forms, stuff he’s never heard of.
“National Association of Broadcasters. TV, radio, all that. The see exhibits and listen to talks in the day, drink horrible coffee, the usual; then they hit the shows at night. Lot of single women, not always young. Stan, up for that?”
“Up for what?” says Stan cautiously.
“Escort Elvis. You’ve been doing great at the hospitals, nothing but stars and thumbs-up on the website Comments, so you should be fine. See a show, eat some food, drink some booze. They might hit on you, offer you extra to go up to their rooms. That’s where being gay can come in handy.”
“I can see that,” says Stan. “Maybe I need some of those gayness lessons.”
“But we need the client to have an overall positive experience. We’re all for gender equality. If the ladies want sex-for-cash, we provide it.”
“Wait a minute,” says Stan.
“Not you,” says Rob. “You’ll just give us a call on the cell, over at the UR-ELF Nightline, and we send one of the Elvis bots. Big markup on those! Like a super-dildo, only with a body attached. Vibrator built in, optional.”
“Wish I felt like that,” says Pete.
“Then you chat with them, pour them a drink, tell them you wish you were straight. When the Elvis arrives, you switch him on and he hums a little tune while you run over the instructions with the client: he responds to simple voice commands like
. Then you wait in the lobby. You’ll have an earpiece, so you can hear it’s unfolding as per plan.”
Oh great, thinks Stan. Parked in a hotel lobby and eavesdropping while some mildewed hen has an orgasm. He’s had enough of insatiable women. He remembers Charmaine, the way she was when they were first married: her quasi-virginal restraint. He didn’t appreciate it enough. “Why wait in the lobby?” he says.
“So you can supervise the re-delivery. Plus, in case there’s a malfunction,” says Rob.
“Right,” says Stan. “How will I know?”
“If you hear too much screaming, time to act. Get up there fast and flip the Off switch.”
“It’ll sound different,” says Rob. “The screaming. More terrified.”
“No one wants to be fucked to death,” says Pete.
Why Suffer?
Ed has still not returned to the office. All that’s happened is that three men with Positron logos on their jacket pockets arrive with a large crate. It’s a stand-up desk, they say, and they have orders to install it in the office of the big boss. Once the desk is in they go away, and Charmaine is left to her own devices, which consist of slipping off her shoes and stockings and painting her toenails, behind the desk in case anyone comes in.