Atwood Margaret - The Heart Goes Last

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?

Stan’s at the Elvisorium, drinking beer and playing Texas hold’em with three of the other Elvises. They don’t play for money, they know better than that; they’ve seen too many despairing punters lose their last dollar at the tables. They play for pancakes – the Baby Stacks Cafe ones, though you can trade your chits for bacon or peanut butter sandwiches – and there isn’t any rule that you have to eat the stuff: too many pancakes and those belts with the silver buckles will fail to make it around the ballooning waists. The core concept is Elvis in his slim-hipped glory days, not Elvis in his blimpy decrepitude. No one wants to remember the tragic decline.

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 Midsummer Night’s Scream , and he got Tits Tania. That’s why he hasn’t been around.”

“Let’s hope his voice holds up. It’s not what you’d call singing,” says Pete with a touch of rancour. “I wouldn’t want to be in that pile of crap myself.”

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 Annie next year,” says Pete. “Only I’m going for what’s her name, the bitch who runs the evil orphanage. I did it once, in Philly. I could ace it.”

“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.