Black Elvis

For Nora and Bruno

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following publications, in which some of these stories first appeared in slightly different form:
The Cincinnati Review
("This Is Not a Bar");
Crazyhorse
("Another Coyote Story");
The Gettysburg Review
("The Naked Man");
New England Review
("Black Days");
Ploughshares
("Black Elvis," "Iowa Winter," "Cowboy Honeymoon");
Prairie Schooner
("Jimi Hendrix, Bluegrass Star": reprinted from the
Prairie Schooner
78, no. 1 [spring 2004] by permission of the University of Nebraska Press; copyright © 2004 by the University of Nebraska Press);
The Roanoke Review
("Santorini");
Shenandoah
("Imaginary Tucson");
Sonora Review
("Know Your Saints");
Third Coast
("Man Under"). "Black Elvis" also appeared in
The Best American Short Stories 2000
(Mariner Books).

Thanks to the following people, who lent their own creative talents by providing editorial advice on one or more stories: Madison Smartt Bell, Jessica Anya Blau, Stephen Donadio, Michael Kimball, Steve Rinehart, Nora Sturges, and Ron Tanner. Big thanks, as well, to my copyeditor, Dorine Jennette, Series Editor Nancy Zafris, and to the excellent staff at the University of Georgia Press.

Copyright Information

Dedication and Acknowledgments

Black Elvis

Know Your Saints

Cowboy Honeymoon

This Is Not a Bar

Iowa Winter

Imaginary Tucson

Man Under

Another Coyote Story

Jimi Hendrix, Bluegrass Star

Santorini

The Naked Man

Black Days

More titles in the Flannery O'Connor Award For Short Fiction

At 5:00
P.M.
precisely, Black Elvis began to get ready. First, he laid out his clothes: the dark suit, the white dress shirt, the two-tone oxfords. In the bathroom, he used a depilatory powder to remove the stubble from his face, then carefully brushed his teeth and gargled with Lavoris. He applied a light coating of foundation, used a liner to deepen the effect of his eyes. They were big eyes, the color of old ivory, and examining them in the mirror, he had to remind himself once again whose they were.

At the bus stop, his guitar precariously stowed in a chipboard case held together by a bungee cord, he was watched by two shirtless boys on a stoop, drinking sodas. Their young, dark torsos emerged out of enormous dungarees like shoots sprouting.

"Yo," one of them called. "Let me see that."

Black Elvis stayed where he was but tightened his grip on the case. The boys stood and walked over to him. The sun hung low in the sky, turning the fronts of the row houses golden red.

"Are you a Muslim, brother?" asked the smaller of the two. His hair was cornrowed, and one eye peered unnaturally to the side.

Black Elvis shook his head. He wondered how hot it still was. Eighty, at least.

"He's a preacher," said the other one. "Look at him." This boy, though larger, gave the impression of being less sure of himself. His sneakers were untied and looked expensive and new.

"Singing for Jesus, is that right?"

"No," said Black Elvis

"For who, then?" said the smaller one.

"For an audience, my man. I have a gig." He knew this boy. Sometimes he drew pictures on the sidewalk with colored chalk.

"Yeah?" The boy trained his one useful eye on the guitar case, the other apparently examining something three feet to the left. "Go on and play something then."

"I'm a professional. No professional going to play songs at no bus stop."

"When the bus come?"

Black Elvis examined his watch. "Any time now."

"You got time. Play us something."

"Was I talking to this here lamppost? Black Elvis don't play no bus stops."

"Black what?" said the bigger of the two boys.

"Elvis."

"Dude is tripping out."

"Yo, Black Elvis. Why don't you help us out with a couple of dollars? Me and my boy here, we need to get some things at the store."

He considered. He had bus fare and another eight dollars on top of that which he intended to use for beer at Slab's. In case of emergency, there was the ten-dollar bill in his shoe, under the Air-Pillo insole. He dug into his pocket and pulled out two ones.

"All right, then," he said, and handed them the money.

The smaller one leaned very close as he took it. He was about the same size as Black Elvis, and he smelled strongly of underarm.

"You crazier than shit, ain't you?"

"You take that two dollars," Black Elvis said calmly as the bus pulled in. "Go on over to Kroger's and get yourself some Right Guard."

At Slab's, the smell of grilled meat permeated the walls and the painted windows that advertised ribs, beer, and live music, and extended well out into the parking lot. The dinner rush had already started and there was a good-sized line of people waiting to place orders. A. J. was working the register, his grizzled white beard stubble standing out against his skin, grease flames shooting up from the grill behind him as slabs and half slabs were tossed onto the fire. If hell had a front desk, he looked like he was manning it.

Butch, who ran the blues jam, was at his usual front table, near the stage, finishing a plate of ribs, beans, and slaw. "Black Elvis," he said, with enthusiasm. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then smoothed his goatee. His pink face glistened with a thin layer of sweat. "What is up?"

"Oh, you know, same old, same old. You got me?"

"I got you, man, don't worry." He tapped a legal pad with one thick finger. "Wouldn't be the blues jam without Black Elvis."

"I know that's right."

"You heard about Juanita?"

"No."

"Oh, man. She died last night. In her sleep. Put in her regular shift, just sassing people like she always did, you know. Didn't seem like anything was wrong with her at all. But I guess she had a bad ticker. She was a little overweight."

"She was, at that." He thought about Juanita's huge butt and breasts, how she more waddled than walked. But dead? How could that be?

"Yeah, it's a sad thing," said Butch. "Kind of makes you realize how fragile it all is, for all of us."

He watched as the drummer hauled the house snare drum out from the women's bathroom, where it was stored, up next to the stage. The wall behind the stage was painted to look like Stone Mountain, but instead of Confederate generals, the faces looking down at the crowd were those of B. B. King, Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson, and someone else who Black Elvis could never be quite sure about. Whoever had done the painting wasn't much of an artist.

"Hey, you want a beer?" Butch poured the remainder of the pitcher on the table into what looked like a used glass. "Go on man, on the house."

Black Elvis picked up a napkin and ran it carefully around the rim of the glass. "Thanks," he said.

He found himself a seat next to a table of rich white folks who had been to some movie and were arguing about whether the actress in it had had her breasts enlarged. It had been a long time since Black Elvis had been to the movies, although he sometimes watched the ones they had running back in the video department of the Kroger's where he cut meat. They mostly looked the same to him, flickering postage stamps of color. They ought never to have gone to color, he thought. A picture ought to be in black and white. He remembered going to a picture with his father years ago that had pirates in it and Errol Flynn. His father wouldn't buy him popcorn, said it was a waste of money. He must have been about eight. The war was over. There were ships and sword fighting and men with long hair, and suddenly his daddy was pressing a hard-boiled egg into his hand and saying, "Go on, boy, take it." He ate the egg, shucking it carefully into his hand and placing the shells into the pocket of his shirt, while all around him he smelled the popcorn he really wanted.

He looked up. They'd asked him something, but he could not be sure what.

"Napkins?"

He pushed the dispenser toward them. He'd drifted someplace, it seemed. He took a swallow of beer. He needed something inside him, that was all—some weight to keep him from floating away. He was Black Elvis. He had a show to put on.

He'd been doing the jam now for four years. Everyone knew him. They relied on him. Sometimes he changed his repertoire around a little bit, threw in "I Can't Help Falling in Love" or something else unusual—he had a version of "You Were Always on My Mind," but it just never sounded right to him—but for the most part he was a Sun Sessions man. "That's All Right," for an opener. "Good Rockin' Tonight." "Mystery Train." "Milkcow Blues." If there was a band, he was happy to play with them, but it didn't matter, he could do his songs by himself, too. He twisted his lip, stuck out his hip, winked at the ladies. Two years ago,
Creative Loafing
had done an article on Slab's and his picture appeared next to it, almost as if his face were an addition to the mural, and he kept this taped to the wall next to his bed.

There were moments he'd tucked away in his mind the way people keep photos in their wallets, ones that stood out from the succession of nights of cigarette and pork grease smell, of cold beers and loud music. The time he'd explained to a fine young blonde whose boyfriend had come down to show off his rock and roll guitar playing, that it was Elvis who had said "I'd rather see you dead little girl, than to be with another man," in "Baby, Let's Play House," and not The Beatles, and the way she'd looked at him then and said, "You mean they
stole
it?" and he smiled and said, "That's exactly what I mean." Or the time a young white man in a suit gave him a fifty-dollar tip and said "You're the best dang thing I've seen in this whole dang town, and I been here one year exactly come Friday."

He should have been the first one called. That was usual. That was the way things went on blues jam night. But that wasn't what happened. Instead, Butch played a few songs to open—"Let the Good Times Roll" and "Messin' with the Kid"—then stepped to the microphone and looked right past Black Elvis.

"We got a real treat here tonight," he said. "Let's all give it up for Mr. Robert Johnson. I'm serious, now, that's his real name. Give him a nice hand."

From somewhere in the back, a person in an old-fashioned looking suit and fedora worked his way up through the crowded restaurant, holding a black guitar case up high in front of him. Trailing out from the back of the hat was a straight black ponytail. When he reached the stage he opened the case and took out an antique guitar. He turned around and settled into a chair, pulling the boom mike down and into place for himself to sing, while Butch arranged another mike for the instrument. Black Elvis just stared.

The man was Chinese.

"Glad to be here," said Robert Johnson. "I only been in Atlanta a week, but I can tell already I'm going to like it a lot." He grinned a big, friendly grin. His voice sounded southern. "Just moved here from Memphis," he said. "First thing I did, I said, 'Man, where am I gonna get me some decent ribs in this town?'" He plucked at the guitar, made a kind of waterfall of notes tumble out of it. "I can tell I'm going to be putting on some weight around here." There was laughter from the crowd.

Black Elvis drank some more beer and listened carefully as Robert Johnson began to play the Delta blues. He was good, this boy. Probably spent years listening to the original recordings, working them out note for note. Either that, or he had a book. Some of those books had it like that, exact translations. But that wasn't important. What was important was on the inside. You had to feel the music. That just didn't seem likely with a Chinese man, even one that came from Memphis.

He did "Terraplane Blues." He did "Sweet Home Chicago," and "Stones in My Pathway." He played "Love in Vain." Black Elvis felt something dark and opiate creeping through his blood, turning harder and colder as it did so. It should have been him up there, making the crowd love him. But the more he watched, the more he was convinced that he simply could not go on after Robert Johnson. With his pawnshop guitar and clumsy playing, he'd just look like a fool.