T. Boyle - T. C. Boyle Stories

Finally the mike came to life, the emcee vanished, and Joey breathed “Testing, testing,” through the PA system. “Ah’m sorry ‘bout the de-lay, folks,” he murmured in his deepest, backwoodsiest basso, “but we’re ‘bout ready to give it another shot. A-one, two, three!” he shouted, and “Heartbreak Hotel,” take two, thumped lamely through the speakers:

Well, since my baby left me ,

I found a new place to dwell ,

It’s down at the end of Lonely Street ,

That’s Heartbreak Hotel.

Something was wrong, that much was clear from the start. It wasn’t just that he was bad, that he looked nervous and maybe a bit effeminate and out of control, or that he forgot the words to the third verse and went flat on the choruses, or that the half-assed pickup band couldn’t have played together if they’d rehearsed eight hours a day since Elvis was laid in his grave — no, it went deeper than that. The key to the whole thing was in creating an illusion — Joey had to convince his audience, for even an instant, that the real flesh-and-blood Elvis, the boy who dared to rock, stood before them. Unfortunately, he just couldn’t cut it. Musically or visually. No matter if you stopped your ears and squinted till the lights blurred, this awkward, greasy-haired kid in the green eye shadow didn’t come close, not even for a second. And the audience let him know it.

Hoots and catcalls drowned out the last chord of “Heartbreak Hotel,” as Joey segued into one of those trembly, heavy-breathing ballads that were the bane of the King’s middle years. I don’t remember the tune or the lyrics — but it was sappy and out of key. Joey was sweating now, and the hair hung down in his eyes. He leaned into the microphone, picked a woman out of the audience, and attempted a seductive leer that wound up looking more like indigestion than passion. Midway through the song a female voice shouted “Faggot!” from the back of the room, and two guys in fraternity jackets began to howl like hound dogs in heat.

Joey faltered, missed his entrance after the guitar break, and had to stand there strumming over nothing for a whole verse and chorus till it came round again. People were openly derisive now, and the fraternity guys, encouraged, began to intersperse their howls with yips and yodels. Joey bowed his head, as if in defeat, and let the guitar dangle loose as the band closed out the number. He picked up the tempo a bit on the next one—“Teddy Bear,” I think it was — but he never got anywhere with the audience. I watched Cindy out of the corner of my eye. Her face was white. She sat through the first four numbers wordlessly, then leaned across the table and took hold of my arm. “Take me home,” she said.

We sat in the driveway awhile, listening to the radio. It was warm, and with the windows rolled down we could hear the crickets and whatnot going at it in the bushes. Cindy hadn’t said much on the way back — the scene at the club had been pretty devastating — and I’d tried to distract her with a line of happy chatter. Now she reached forward and snapped off the radio. “He really stinks, doesn’t he?” she said.

I wasn’t biting. I wanted her, yes, but I wasn’t about to run anybody down to get her. “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, with that band Elvis himself would’ve stunk.”

She considered this a moment, then fished around in her purse for a cigarette, lit it, and expelled the smoke with a sigh. The sigh seemed to say: “Okay, and what now?” We both knew that the babysitter was hunkered down obliviously in front of the TV next door and that Joey still had another set to get through. We had hours. If we wanted them.

The light from her place fell across the lawn and caught in her hair; her face was in shadow. “You want to go inside a minute?” I said, remembering the way she’d moved against me on the couch. “Have a drink or something?”

When she said “Sure,” I felt my knees go weak. This was it: counselor, counsel thyself. I followed her into the house and led her up the dark stairs to the bedroom. We didn’t bother with the drink. Or lights. She felt good, and a little strange: she wasn’t Judy.

I got us a drink afterward, and then another. Then I brought the bottle to bed with me and we made love again — a slow, easeful, rhythmic love, the crickets keeping time from beyond the windows. I was ecstatic. I was. drunk. I was in love. We moved together and I was tonguing her ear and serenading her in a passionate whisper, mimicking Elvis, mimicking Joey. “Well-a bless-a my soul, what’s-a wrong with me,” I murmured, “I’m itchin’ like a ma-han on a fuzzy tree … oh-oh-oh, oh, oh yeah.” She laughed, and then she got serious. We shared a cigarette and a shot of sticky liqueur afterward; then I must have drifted off.

I don’t know what time it was when I heard the van pull in next door. Downstairs the door slammed and I went to the window to watch Cindy’s dark form hurrying across the lawn. Then I saw Joey standing in the doorway, the babysitter behind him. There was a curse, a shout, the sound of a blow, and then Joey and the babysitter were in the van, the brake lights flashed, and they were gone.

I felt bad. I felt like a dog, a sinner, a homewrecker, and a Lothario. I felt like Fred must have felt. Naked, in the dark, I poured myself another drink and watched Cindy’s house for movement. There was none. A minute later I was asleep.

I woke early. My throat was dry and my head throbbed. I slipped into a pair of running shorts I found in the clutter on the floor, brushed my teeth, rinsed my face, and contemplated the toilet for a long while, trying to gauge whether or not I was going to vomit.

Half a dozen aspirin and three glasses of water later, I stepped gingerly down the stairs. I was thinking poached eggs and dry toast — and maybe, if I could take it, half a cup of coffee — when I drifted into the living room and saw her huddled there on the couch. Her eyes were red, her makeup smeared, and she was wearing the same clothes she’d had on the night before. Beside her, wrapped in a pink blanket the size of a bath towel, was the baby.

“Cindy?”

She shoved the hair back from her face and narrowed her eyes, studying me. “I didn’t know where else to go,” she murmured.

“You mean, he—?”

I should have held her, I guess, should have probed deep in my counselor’s lexicon for words of comfort and assurance, but I couldn’t. Conflicting thoughts were running through my head, acid rose in my throat, and the baby, conscious for the first time since I’d laid eyes on it, was fixing me with a steady, unblinking gaze of accusation. This wasn’t what I’d wanted, not at all.

“Listen,” I said, “can I get you anything — a cup of coffee or some cereal or something? Milk for the baby?”

She shook her head and began to make small sounds of grief and anguish. She bit her lip and averted her face.

I felt like a criminal. “God,” I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t—” I started for her, hoping she’d raise her tear-stained face to me, tell me it wasn’t my fault, rise bravely from the couch, and trudge off across the lawn and out of my life.

At that moment there was a knock at the door. We both froze. It came again, louder, booming, the sound of rage and impatience. I crossed the room, swung open the door, and found Joey on the doorstep. He was pale, and his hair was in disarray. When the door pulled back, his eyes locked on mine with a look of hatred and contempt. I made no move to open the storm door that separated us.

“You want her?” he said, and he ground the toe of his boot into the welcome mat like a ram pawing the earth before it charges.

I had six inches and forty pounds on him; I could have shoved through the door and drowned my guilt in blood. But it wasn’t Joey I wanted to hurt, it was Fred. Or, no, deep down, at the root of it all, it was Judy I wanted to hurt. I glanced into his eyes through the flimsy mesh of the screen and then looked away.