Ryan Kelly earned a B.A. in Literature in 2009 from John Carroll University in Cleveland, Ohio. While there, he was published six times in the university’s biannual literary magazine, The Carroll Review. Ryan is the only student to ever receive both the university’s writing awards in the same year (2009): The Joseph Cotter Poetry Award and The David LaGuardia Fiction Award. He is currently working on his M.A. at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio.
Coming Down From Graceland (November 20, 2010. Issue 22.)
What a lot of folks don’t understand is that in the world of impersonators, there are fat Elvises and skinny Elvises. I was a fat Elvis.
At his heftiest, his majesty was around 225 pounds. Being 6’1” myself, I matched his height quite nicely, so I
didn’t have to wear any of those padded boots the other guys wear -- but sometimes when I got a little too active, I dropped down to 220 or 215. It was no big deal, but it really showed in my face. One of my ex-girlfriends used to say I was “losing my jowls.”
“Sir, would you like our chicken or fish for tonight’s meal?”
It was one of those stewardesses, a pretty young blonde thing. She was pushing the drink cart as dainty as possible. She was giving me funny looks each time she did her rounds, trying to keep all the passengers happy as they sat waiting for the plane to take off again. We had had to land prematurely, the pilot said, in Denver, due to a problem with the fuel.
My gut reaction was to go for the chicken, but this old lady next to me in the middle seat caught my eye. She was praying on a quaint little rosary, real beautiful and charming. I remembered it was Friday.
“I’ll have the fish, that sounds about right,” I told the stewardess. The old lady was peering over to me every now and then, but I was pretending not to notice her all that much.
“Care for a drink, sir?” the stewardess asked.
“I’ll have a Pepsi, please,” I replied, “with lots of ice, sugar.” Pepsi was The King’s third favorite soft drink, right behind Nesbitt's Orange and Shasta Black Cherry, but I knew she didn’t have either of those.
“Regular or diet?” she asked.
“Regular.”
I cracked open the can of Pepsi and started removing the little plastic cover from my meal.
“It’s good to see some people are still following some of the Lord’s traditions,” the old lady said. I turned and looked at her with as much earnest as I could muster.
“Well, ma’am, I believe that all good things come from God. I don't believe I'd sing the way I do if God hadn't wanted me to,” I replied. She seemed impressed.
“Oh, are you some kind of a preacher? Or a musician?”
“I think I’m a little bit of both, ma’am.” She smiled and went back to her rosary, moving from bead to bead with her frail hands. I imagined she was praying for a safe flight home, wherever she was headed.
I pulled out my cell phone and thought for a few seconds. I hit “1” on my speed dial and almost chuckled to myself. It was kind of peculiar that I never changed it from “1.”
“Hello?” said the other end.
I didn’t say anything.
“Hello?”
I couldn’t do it.
“Hello? Hello?” Click. I flipped my phone shut and closed my eyes.
I hated talking to my ex-wife, Catherine. She had left me five years ago. She told me I was crazy, saying “my little hobby” became an “intolerable obsession.” She always had a way with words that I didn’t.
She didn’t mind my “hobby” when I was still working at the dealership, but she never understood why I drug her all over the country for gigs, and she never let me call her Priscilla when I was in character.
The last girl I slept with was actually named Priscilla. She told me she went and got it legally changed when she was 22 years old. I met her at a convention in Hollywood. She wasn’t as good looking as the King’s honey-bon, but she did dress all cute and 50s like, the way I like it, with the poodle skirts and lots of hair spray. I couldn’t get enough of that. It was actually kind of a trip, role playing and all in the bedroom. It wasn’t nearly as awkward as sex with my wife for all those years.
Anyway, I was upset with myself that I didn’t stay on the line with Catherine, at least to tell her about the plane and how I’d probably miss the reunion. I wondered if she’d mind anyway, seeing as what happened at her family’s last shindig. I got a little too cocktailed up and hogged the karaoke machine. I guess people got a little tired of hearing The King’s tunes, because Catherine’s youngest cousin, Clint, who always wears The Clash and Sex Pistols t-shirts, called me a fat freak who “needed to get a life.”
Don't criticize what you don't understand. You never walked in that man's shoes.
The King’s own words – that’s what I should have said to Clint. Instead, I tried to pull Catherine onto the stage with me, hoping to do a little duet to “Jailhouse Rock.” She was a little hesitant, seeing as she wasn’t my wife anymore or cocktailed herself. She leaned away in the front of the stage, and I slipped off the stage and twisted my ankle. She told me not to come to reunions anymore if I was going to ignore the children. Truth is, I was hoping one of them would have answered the phone instead of her.
When I opened my eyes, I noticed a woman eyeing me strangely as she walked back to her seat from the bathroom. I looked down and picked at my fish, and she passed a few steps passed me, but stopped. She turned back and tapped me on the shoulder. She was a pretty thing for sure, middle-aged, probably quite the stunner in her earlier days.
“Excuse me, sorry to bother you,” she said, “this is going to sound crazy, but are you an Elvis impersonator?”
I did a quick wardrobe check. I was just wearing jeans and a t-shirt. My jumpsuit was packed in my suitcase in the overhead. I didn’t know what tipped her off.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, “I was up at Graceland for the convention this week.” I smiled and pointed at my sideburns. “How did you know? Was it the chops?”
“Actually, it was your lips. They’re so full like his. God really gave you a face like Elvis.”
The truth is God didn’t give me these lips. A surgeon named Dr. Andrews in Vegas did. I was going through a rough time, and I was having some problems getting gigs, so I decided to get a bit of a tune-up. Turns out that tune-up was the straw that broke the camel’s back for Catherine. She filed for divorce right around the same time.
“Well, thank you, it has always seemed like a bit of a destiny, or maybe a calling if you will.” She smiled. I could tell she was all shook up by me.
“Did you like the convention?” she asked.
“Yeah, I actually thought it was the best one I’ve ever been to,” I replied.
“Oh my gosh, me too,” she said, “my husband is obsessed.” She pointed to the row behind and diagonal to my own, and I spotted him. He smiled and nodded his head. He was a skinny Elvis – he was a little too tan and his hair had a bit too much volume, but he definitely wasn’t the worst I’d seen.
“That so?” I asked her. I nodded back at him.
“Yeah, he was so excited to perform in the ‘jungle room,’ she replied, “but he didn’t even rank in any of the competitions.”
“Well,” I told her, “the closest to the real thing is that Darren Lee. His “Hound Dog” captures the King about as well as a human can.” It was true, Darren Lee had finished 52 places ahead of me in the rankings, but he played big shows back home in Vegas that sold out constantly.
“Yeah,” she said, “I can’t imagine what it’s like to be so successful doing impersonations. My husband just said he was honored to play close to the graves of The King’s parents.”
“Amen to that,” I said, “may Gladys and Vernon rest in piece.”
“Can you believe it’s been thirty whole years?” she asked.
“August 16th, 1977,” I replied.
“My husband was so excited,” she said, “sometimes he is so cute with his little phases.”
My ex-wife used to tell people that I was just going through a phase, and I probably helped to convince her of that. When she used to ask me how long I was going to “keep doing this,” I’d just shrug and say: “I'll never make it, it will never happen, because they're never going to hear me 'cause they're screaming all the time.” The King’s words were never ones of too strong a conviction, and they sounded weaker coming from another mouth. I guess I can’t blame her too much for not buying ‘em.
“You think there’s anyway he’s still alive?” the woman asked me. This is the kind of question the beginners always ask you, but true fans never really know what to say.
“Well,” I said, “I saw thousands of Elvises this week alone. Hard to say he’s really gone anywhere at all.”
“You think the craze around him will ever die down?” she asked.
“Well, I can only speak for myself, ma’am, but the truth is, people only have one life to live, and I’m just fortunate enough to have figured out the one I want.” She smiled faintly and then looked back at her husband. She had a worried look in her eyes, I thought.
“Well, I better get back to my seat,” she said.
“Sure,” I said, “been a pleasure.”
“Let’s hope the plane takes off soon!” she said as she walked back to her seat.
I pulled out my cell phone after she had walked away and looked at it for a few seconds. The plane had been on the ground for a while. I hit “1” on the speed dial again, figuring I better get the call out of the way before we got in the air. The phone rang a few more times than it did before – I hoped Catherine had gone out.
“Hello?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. It was my 15 year old daughter, Lisa Marie. But she had everyone call her Marie. She hated the idea of being named after someone who was famous for kissing Michael Jackson. Sometimes I worried she hated me.
“Hey, Lisa Marie. It’s Dad.”
“Oh, hi.”
I looked around the plane and noticed that the stewardesses were doing another round, passing out little earphones in plastic bags.
“Mom’s not home, if you’re looking to talk to her,” she said. “You want to talk to Tommy?”
“No. I mean, yeah I do, but not yet,” I said.
The stewardess arrived at my row and handed me a pair of earphones.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” I said to the stewardess. I regretted it right after I said it.
“Oh my god,” Lisa Marie said, “are you doing impersonations on the plane?”
“No, no, I’m not, I swear,” I said, “I’m not even in my jumpsuit or anything.”
“Good, how does it feel to look like a normal person for a few hours?”
“Actually, not too different at all. I met a couple people from the convention and they recognized me as an Elvis right away.”
The little televisions on the plane all lit up for the movie they decided to show while they finished repairing the plane.
“So, tell me something new,” I said, “what’s going on in my little girl’s life?”
“Listen,” she said, “I can’t really talk right now, I have to go. My friends just pulled in. I’ll get Tommy.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, but all I heard was the phone hitting the counter.
“Hey, Dad.”
That was one thing I loved about Tom; he always called me Dad.
“Hey there, Colonel.”
Tom got his name from Colonel Tom Parker, The King’s manager who helped him break into the business; Tom was the only one who wasn’t bothered by the nickname. Catherine only agreed on the name because it happened to be her father’s name as well.
“How was the convention?”
“It was the best one I can remember in a while. I got to see Darren Lee, you know, the one I’m always telling you about. And I performed in the jungle room.”
“Dad, are you really coming to visit this week?”
“Yeah, I’m gonna drive to Reno after I do my gig this weekend. Listen, how’s your summer going? You excited to start high school?”
“Yeah, it’s fine, Dad. Listen, a bunch of the family is going here off and on, so try not to get in fights with Mom this time.”
I checked my watch. I always made me nervous to talk to my kids about their mother.
“I never expected to be anybody important. I'd just like to be treated like a regular customer.”
“Dad, you know I get a kick out of your bits, but Marie and Mom don’t, so when you come home, just be yourself.”
I didn’t know what to say. Truth is, it’s hard to know what to say when you’re 13 year old tells you to “just be yourself.”
“Well, the plane’s going to take off soon, so I need to go,” I said. I hated lying to him.
“Okay, Dad, good luck with your gig. See you in a few days.”
“Thanks, Colonel.”
I figured I had a while before the plane took off, so I used the ear buds to listen to a tape I made of some of the performances from two days ago. After a few songs, I got to Darren Lee’s “Hound Dog,” and I closed my eyes to take it all in.
“Please store your tray tables up and put your seats in the upright position. At this time we’d ask you folks to turn off all electronic equipment you may have with you on today’s flight and store it away. Flight attendants prepare for landing.”
The pilot’s voice over the intercom woke me up from my nap. I somehow had slept through the whole takeoff. The tape player had stopped and rewound itself. I had drooled on my shirtsleeve a bit, but everything else was the same. The old lady still had her rosary, and the woman from the convention was still sitting a few rows back with her skinny Elvis husband. I rubbed my eyes, put my seat up, and threw my tape player in my bag. I yawned widely and the old woman looked up from her prayers at me.
“Did you have a nice sleep?” she asked.
“Yes, I did ma’am, but I woke up in the middle of my dream.”
“Oh, really? Do you remember any of it?”
The truth is, it was the same dream I always had: being famous for doing what I love – taking Catherine, Lisa Mare, and the Colonel on the road with me, doing shows, signing autographs, pretending, you know, living the dream.
“No, ma’am, can’t say I do.”
“Well, sometimes dreams are like that. You run and try to catch up with them, but then they go and leave your brain. I wonder if those doctors will ever figure out what they mean.”
“I suppose they will someday, ma’am.” I smiled at her. The plane was landing now, officially coming down from Graceland for the second time. It always pained me a bit to leave; I always imagined The King himself, looking out the window of the Lisa Marie at the setting sun on the plush, green tulip poplars that covered the endless rolling hills.
While I waited at baggage claim for my suitcase with the jumpsuit, I called a cab to take me back to my apartment outside of Vegas. I got in the back of the cab and gave the driver my address. I looked in his rear view mirror and examined my face. I needed to get a haircut before the show this weekend. I was losing my jowls a bit, too. I’d order a pizza when I got home.
Status Updates (September 20, 2010. Issue 21.)
Josh
Username: jrigny10@lfc.edu
Password: **************
Josh Rigny couldn’t even focus on his Management project with Brittany running through his head all the time. Logging onto Facebook was his first choice for distraction, but it sometimes had the opposite effect. The homepage’s “mini-feed” displayed all the pertinent news regarding his thousands of college “friends.” Brittany, unfortunately, had updated her status for the rest of the world to see, including Josh:
“Brittany Varga is debating whether to go tanning or to do her homework. Decisions, decisions.”
Brittany Varga. Josh used to like her name, even her last name, but now every time he logged on and saw it, it reminded him of larva, or vomit, or some combination of the two. It had been three months since she broke it off, and the stupidest things still reminded him of her all the time, like this meaningless status, which caused him to reminisce about tanning on the beach with her in Florida.
Or like the other day, while driving back to school from Columbus, he heard “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” by Meatloaf and almost veered into a ditch. Brittany liked 70s music more than anything else. Josh always wanted to have sex to that song, but Brittany would get cuddly and sentimental when it came on. It was fine to Josh then; he’d put his arm around her and let her settle between his chin and chest.
Whatever.
But now, he was genuinely pissed; how come “their” song had to be eight minutes long? Brittany couldn’t even appreciate the baseball reference in the song. It was Phil Rizzuto!
But of course she wouldn’t, a spoiled Pittsburgh fan could appreciate sports greatness. Josh had stomached the Steelers winning the Super Bowl two years back because Brittany was so happy for the night; she had looked so cute in her extra-small Troy Polamalu jersey. Now, he was burning her old “Terrible Towels” right in the middle of the school’s football field.
Brittany would have liked the 70s better, Josh thought, because then the $6,000 dollars she sucked out of him would have been worth about $12,000 -- Josh came from a wealthy family and was willing to dish out to those he loved, but he was now realizing that the two diamond rings, Yorkie puppy, Bermuda trip, and the dinners at all those trendy vegan restaurants were just not worth it. He was eating those tiny portions of rabbit food at Simply Spinach when he could have been feasting with his friends at Outback Steakhouse for half the price. His friends had been right all along, Brittany did just want his money.
“Brittany Varga and Adam Miller are now in a relationship.”
“What the fuck?” Josh said aloud to no one.
Suddenly, his AOL Instant Messenger window lit up. It was his friend, Toby.
UltraMagnus77: what’s going on?
GridIronGod458: checking ESPN
Josh couldn’t let any of his friends know he was still hung up on Brittany – they would have some kind of intervention. He went back to the mini-feed and clicked on the “Adam Miller” link to reveal a profile with the picture of Tim Curry from Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Josh took a deep breath out; thank God, another gay guy. Brittany had started hanging out with a lot of them after breaking it off with Josh, as if his weightlifting and his football games were some kind of masculine burden she was free of now. She could now go and enjoy the Rocky Horror showings at the local theater, complete with her toast and newspaper. Now, she had the ultimate accessory, too: an actual gay guy to go dress drag and go with her, something Josh told her he’d die before ever doing.
This was a close call. What if her next handbag was a straight guy like himself? Josh had to get rid of Facebook; he couldn’t keep seeing her name on the mini-feed or her picture in albums with bizarre names like “Elbow Sex” or “Leather Studded Kisses.”
GridIronGod458: is there anyway to like block someone on facebook?
UltraMagnus77: why?
GridIronGod458: omg, it’s not Brittany man. i swear. it’s this Ellie girl from back home in Cbus. she won’t stop leaving me alone with messages and stupid graffiti pictures on my wall
Josh thanked God for Ellie McMann’s high school obsession with him – it was finally convenient.
UltraMagnus77: really? is she hot?
GridIronGod458: no and she won’t stop it with these stupid things. i don’t want people to do think we’re together, especially people from back home
UltraMagnus77: okay man, fine, it’s pretty easy… oh my god, i’m on right now - woof, she is bad
Toby proceeded to give Josh step-by-step instructions, and Josh blocked both Ellie and Brittany simultaneously to cover his tracks. Poor Ellie. Josh bet she didn’t see this coming.
Josh knew now that Meatloaf was right in that song. During his relationship with Brittany, Josh had just been trying to score like Phil Rizzuto – but, after becoming involved, he really had just been “waiting for the end of time.”
With the click of a button, Josh took one step forward in his attempt to forget about Brittany for good.
But the persistent “mini-feed” drew his attention to another name from his past:
“Erica Schafer is not surprised the devil finally found her way into choir practice.”
Josh had no idea what that meant, but he wondered if it had anything to do with that idiot boyfriend of hers, David Pearson. Erica, unfortunately, was one of Brittany’s coolest friends. Josh had always liked her and never understood why she had fallen for a choir nancy like David.
Of course, Erica became off limits to talk to after Brittany had broken up with him. Josh sat at his desk, staring at the screen and scrolling the mouse up and down, thinking.
He clicked the link that read “Send Erica a message.” He typed out a short message that looked like this:
hey erica, how's it going? look, i know
we haven't talked in a while, but i
think its kind of stupid to stop being
friends with sum1 just cause theyre ur
ex-gf’s friend. i saw that u and dave
arent in a relationship anymore (sorry,
i promise im not a facebook creeper).
what happened to you 2? to be honest,
i always thought he was way too hokey
for u and not nearly fun enough. ne
way, just let me know if u wanna catch
up sometime.
~ josh
After reading it a few times to himself, Josh quickly deleted it all and went back to Erica’s profile. Too soon to risk anything, he thought.
He scrolled down, and underneath Erica’s “wall,” he saw that she had recently added the “Honesty Box” application that allowed people to leave her anonymous messages to let her know “how they really felt.”
@~~)~~)~~~ @~~)~~)~~~ @~~)~~)~~~
Erica
Wrapped in her burrito of fleece blankets, Erica Schafer mustered enough energy to manage a complete body roll. She felt like she had been asleep for days, but her digital clock only read 5:30. Her eyes were crusty from having cried herself to sleep, and she remembered collapsing onto her bed right after her dinner fight with her boyfriend, David. Well, ex-boyfriend now… she assumed. Who knows what they were now.
David had felt that the week before Christmas break was a good time to tell her about Abigail Anderson, one of those Bible-touting sluts that surrounded David during his choir practices… they are all smitten by his oversized acoustic guitar and baritone version of “Eagles Wings.” Abby and David had apparently been “hanging out” for months, dating back to their time in July as counselors for the same Young Life camp. It was all freaky, Coombaya, kool-aid drinking nonsense to Erica, but if David was called to be religious, that had been okay with her because she thought he loved her. And that was enough.
Now, Erica wished she could go Biblical on Abby: the stones, the crown of thorns, the crucifixion – the whole suffering and death without the resurrection. God, what a bitch Abby turned out to be, and she had been so nice when David had introduced her to Erica. “It’s so nice to meet you finally; David has told me so much about you.” When? While you were giving him handjobs in the confessionals? David said they hadn’t had sex, and one certainly couldn’t say much with a dick in your mouth. Tuggers for sure.
So, after disclosing this information, David added that he was “confused” about his current feelings for Erica, saying that he was falling more and more for Abby. She made him “happy” and everything seemed so “new” with her. Write me a fairytale, Erica thought, this kind of shit belongs on a Hallmark card. All Erica knew was that she had devoted a year and a half to David – she had been about 90 percent sure she loved him, and she knew 100 percent that she was attached. It had been tough to sleep alone today; she was used to being the small spoon in the bed – now, she had to create warm, self-made blanket burritos to get by. It hadn’t even been 12 hours since the split…
But she didn’t let David know that she felt alone and rejected. She controlled herself over dinner, only throwing her bowl of yogurt at him before storming out of the dining hall. “Good luck finding someone as good as me, you fucking asshole” were her exact words. That’s right, she was a real independent woman.
Who was she kidding? She was no Joan Jett, no Madonna, no Aretha, she wasn’t even one of the Destiny’s Children… she was more like Kate Beckinsale in Pearl Harbor – her Ben Affleck was gone and she was lonely; she would find a Josh Harnett to replace him soon enough, she needed to find some comfort.
With a sudden renewed vigor, she hopped off her bed and almost toppled over trying to avoid the cold tile floor. Once she landed safely on the carpeting, she shuffled over to her computer, still wrapped in her blanket cocoon. With a wiggle of her cordless mouse, her laptop screen illuminated the room, causing her to squint for several seconds while her pupils painfully dilated. She changed her away message:
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
It was perfect – not too cheesy, but not too deep – very Erica. Besides using carefully selected away messages, she sought therapy during times of crisis through Facebook. While opening her web browser, she recalled the weekend when her dad finally moved out of her family’s house. It had been a long time coming, but she still spent much of the weekend gloomy, finding herself crying without even noticing. The brightest part of those couple days was when a “SuperPoke” came from Josh Rigny, who was still with Brittany and therefore still speaking with Erica. Erica remembered reading “Josh Rigny has hugged Erica” and smiling to herself despite three packs of used tissues. Erica thought it was bizarre now, but at the time that electronic embrace was exactly what she needed – she wasn’t in the mood to see anyone, but it was nice to know she hadn’t been forgotten.
Username: eschafer10@lfc.edu
Password: ******
The first things she noticed were the new statuses. She had almost forgotten to update her own in a fit of rage after the fight with David. She scrolled down and noticed Josh had recently updated his as well:
“Josh Rigney is done waiting for the end of time.”
Erica was sort of taken aback by this, thinking to herself how all these updates seem like inside, private jokes. But who is the joke on?
Erica noticed that she had two new messages in her inbox. The first one was from David and appeared as such:
David Pearson <no subject> “Erica, you’re being unreasonable…
Unreasonable? Erica had to hand it to David: he certainly knew how to get her to open up his messages. She clicked the “no subject” link, but she knew what this was about. Erica took a breath and began to read it.
Erica, you’re being unreasonable.
look, i made a mistake, i know that and
i’m sorry, but you didn’t have to make
a scene in the dining hall. i don’t
understand how you can blame me for
being unhappy, you can’t help falling
in or out of love. we were never right
for each other, and i think i need to
be with someone with the same set of
values and interests as me. i want to
let you know that abby and i are on the
verge of being together, and we’re
leading an immersion trip to ecuador
over christmas break. it’s too bad
things had to end this way. i’d say
i’m sorry but i know you wouldn’t
believe me.
Erica was crying by the time she read “we were never right for each other.” They were the kind of tears you get when you just don’t know what to be upset about. The kind of tears a youngest child gets when they’re excluded from the big kids’ game. The kind you get when someone tells you your sister died. The kind you get when you trip and are so embarrassed you run off the stage. The kind that says “life isn’t fair, “why me?” and “I’ll never trust a guy ever again” all rolled into one. She couldn’t stop.
Someone with the “same values as me?” Like what, Erica thought, cheating? Lying? And what’s all this about “falling out of love?” Is that from one of his lame songs?
She had made a “scene?” She wished she could go back to that moment in the dining hall and make him as embarrassed as she was now. She wished the yogurt she threw on him was the lumpy kind with all the fruit in it; she wished she had mixed it with granola. That would really have made a mess. Erica thought about what to send back; she had to send something back. She thought for a second, then typed her reply, which appeared like this:
fuck ecuador
She was emptying the tissue box at this point, but through her saline film, Erica clicked her mouse in defeat, moving back to her profile.
She noticed that someone had finally written in her “Honesty Box.” It was an application she had added to her profile a few weeks ago on a whim, and until now, it had sat unnoticed and unused as she expected. The box allowed her friends to write anonymous posts, letting her know “how they really felt.” Her one and only post now read:
You are one of those rare girls who are
as beautiful on the inside as you are
on the outside. Forget Dave, he is too
hokey for you and not nearly fun enough.
Erica didn’t know whether she felt lucky or regretful about adding the Honesty Box to her profile. She updated her status.
“Erica Schafer is confused.”