Black Elvis

Black Elvis

1 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. B L ACK E LV IS 2 B L A C K E LV I S “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 B L A C K E LV I S 3 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...