Collaboration 1, part 8

[MP]
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Gerald hated Elvis. And yet, for business trips, Elvis was invaluable. Elvis was everything. If Elvis were okay, all was well. Even Presley’s untimely demise in the fall of 1977 played its role. Gerald’s work had been made infinitely easier by the King of Rock & Roll. Still, Gerald hated him, in spite of, or perhaps even because of, his encyclopedic knowledge of the most minute detail of Presley’s life. And every time he had met him after the fall of ’77, even as he had appreciated the information Elvis’s existence gave him, he was still glad the man was supposed to be dead. 

Gerald strode north along 3^rd street, approaching Beale. The sights and sounds were familiar to him, but it was the smells that played havoc with him. Cigarette smoke – as often unfiltered as not, barbecued meat with the scent of cayenne pepper and paprika from the famed Memphis dry rib rubs, automobile exhaust saturated with carbon monoxide and lead; all of these catapulted memories into his conscious mind: Johnny Dicks, gunned down outside of the then-Beale Avenue Auditorium; Mabel Douglass and her sister strutting along Union Street, ermine hats and full-length coats in stark contrast to the pristine clouds of their breath against the crisp December evening; and of course, the music…B.B., Ray, Bo…the best of the best of the best.
However, none of these memories or the scents that triggered them could cover up the rank, fetid odor of mountains of garbage piled along every street and on every corner. 

He hitched up his pants again. One of the first things he had done was to find a new set of clothes. With what he was wearing, he had been far too conspicuous. Unfortunately, the transient he had sold his clothes to had been a bit larger than Gerald was now, although if he was still wearing these when – if, he supposed – he made it home, they would probably fit just fine. The .38 he had tucked into the waistband did nothing to help the sagging of his trousers either. 

His cane trailed behind him, remembered only because he was carrying it with him. He hated to lose the damn things, but more often than not, they got lost in the hustle and hurry of his trips. He should have left it at home, but then again, he hadn’t expected to leave the house today.
Speaking of home, he wouldn’t make it back to finish that damn crossword if he didn’t get about the business of business. 

He started with Elvis. If the King were good, he was good. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he called to a trio of young white men waiting for a trolley. “Can you tell me when the Elvis picture is playing at the Orpheum?” 

The men had the tight close-cropped hair of the military. They looked at him askance and puffed up a bit, trying to decide whether or not to harass him. They saw the cane sagging in his fist and it seemed to confuse them enough that they decided to just answer his question. He wondered what he looked like to them. 

“What Elvis picture?” said the shortest of the three. 

“Whichever one they’re showing this week,” he replied. “I can’t really keep track of them, but I try not to miss any of them if I can help it.” 

“Boy, you must be drunk. There haven’t been any Elvis pictures since before the war. How is he supposed to make anymore movies?” 

“What do you mean?” 

The trolley arrived and passengers poured out of its sides. Two of the boys climbed onto a bench in the back, pushing each other a bit and jockeying for position on the inside. Before he climbed on, the final boy looked at him, almost with a look of pity. 

“I don’t know where you’ve been, but Elvis died 10 years ago. Friendly-fire during a training exercise.” 

Shit. Something was up. He grabbed the newspaper. April 1, 1968. It was his birthday. He was 35.