Harvey Huddleston
Learning to Tell Time with Elvis
I
Walking down the hall, I thought of my last time there when I’d found a lovely Christmas wreath with silver bells and pine cones hanging on her door. Feeling behind it for the doorbell, I’d jarred it loose and sent it crashing to the floor. I went to rehang it but then, thinking how odd it might be for her to hear noises at her door that sounded like scratching or clawing, I decided to knock and when she came, explain away my clumsiness and rehang the wreath at her instruction.
I knocked but all was quiet. I knocked again but still no answer so I turned the knob and cracked open the door. No one. And no one from book club either. Then it all made sense. She’d taken Theo out for a walk before book club and had left the door unlocked in case any of us came early. But was I early? I hadn’t thought so but since a few minutes more or less didn’t matter that had to be it. After standing the wreath up against the wall, I went in and sat on the couch, hoping to avoid any more mishaps.
There was some commotion in the hall when Theo came bursting through the door. As he bounded over me I heard her discovering the wreath, “Theo, look what you’ve done.” It was only after I’d begun confessing that I realized I’d had the perfect scapegoat in Theo if I’d only kept my mouth shut. But I hadn’t so I explained about the wreath and doorbell but then she was smiling, seemingly unconcerned with it one way or another.
So here I was five months later for our next book club with a bottle of wine that held promise if you could believe that guy behind the counter. I knocked on her door – now wreathless – while gathering my thoughts on our latest book. She opened the door with Theo next to her doing handsprings like St. John Bosco had performed to become the patron saint of actors. Then, bending down to calm Theo, she looked up at me and said, “I am so sorry about Herman.”
Herman, I thought, now where did that come from?
I’d had to put Herman to sleep about four months earlier. I hadn’t been away from my apartment overnight for a while but it was the Christmas season so I’d decided on a short trip to see friends. Before leaving, I’d noticed Herman having trouble getting up to his place on the couch so I’d placed a wooden box in front to give him a step-up.
But then coming back the next morning, I’d found him hanging from the couch by his front claws. He’d fallen off the box while trying to get up on the couch and his claws had stuck. He was weak but still alive so, freeing him, I let him lie there while trying to figure out how to help him regain his strength. He wasn’t able to move his lower body so I lifted him up to his water bowl on the coffee table and was encouraged that he took some sips. But then I saw he still couldn’t move and as time passed, it became clear that he never would again. What I’d been dreading was now upon us.
I’d tried to prepare so I made the call and put him in his carrier and took him out into the fresh air which he’d always loved. The car came and we went. And when I got back it seemed impossible that he wasn’t with me. I cleaned the apartment as it had begun to smell from his many bowel and bladder leaks that I hadn’t been able to keep up with. But when it came to his things, I couldn’t get rid of them. Even now, his litter scoop still lies on the floor of the closet, halfway visible.
When someone close dies, there’s usually others to share in our grief but with Herman there was only me. He’d spent his first two years in an alley and, even though he liked humans, his way of playing was to lure them in with his good looks and then lash out with his claws. And no matter how hard they tried to make friends with him and despite all my warnings, they always came away needing at least a bandaid. Herman wanted human contact but something inside him just wouldn’t allow for it so I knew how much he depended on me. I didn’t realize though how much I depended on him.
I still see him in the corner of my eye walking in after the dinner he just ate. Or he’s there in the dim light across the living room, playing our game and peeking at me from around the corner. It’s like he’s there but not really so I’ve tried to get on with it like everyone else has had to do since the beginning of time.
But then our host, while bending down to calm Theo, looked up at me and said she was sorry about Herman. And she said it with such concern and like it happened only yesterday that I almost fell over. A wave of joy came over me, not the kind that makes you stop to take it in but the kind that drives you forward into the simple act of living. I thanked her and we opened the bottle of wine, which turned out to be pretty good by the way. Then the other book club members arrived and for the rest of that evening it felt like Herman was there with us.
I wondered where that joy had come from and why it had come over me at the mere mention of his name? I wondered what might sustain it or if it could be sustained. Then a theory began forming in my mind. It seemed that time itself had dissolved in that moment. That is, the distance between now and then contracted to the point where it vanished, leaving only what is and always will be.
2
It was confusing how people would look at a clock and make a pronouncement like I have to be there by eight. And they’d say it with such authority that I couldn’t help but be impressed. Even my sister who was only two years older than me had this power. I’d ask when Howdy Doody was coming on and she’d give me the answer by just glancing at the clock. It seemed so natural that I assumed she’d been born with this power and that some like her had it while others like me did not. That was bothersome but what really had me worried was the thought that it might be a permanent condition and that I’d forever be at the mercy of my sister and others like her. It went on like this until one day I asked her about it.
So how did you know it was fifteen minutes after two?
Because that’s what the clock said.
But how did you know what the clock said?
I looked.
No, I mean how did you know what it said?
At that she just looked at me. Oh, you mean how do I tell time?
Yeah.
Now might come the answer I’d been dreading but instead she asked a question.
You want to learn?
… I think so.
So come on.
I followed her over to the clock and she said that there were two hands. The short hand tells the hour and the long hand tells the minute so all you have to do is see how many minutes it is before or after the hour that the short hand is pointing to. Then she told me to tell her what time it was so I did.
See? It’s easy.
What’s the skinny red hand for?
It’s for seconds but you don’t have to worry about that.
What does it do?
Now she was annoyed. Okay, sixty seconds make a minute and sixty minutes make an hour. Believe me, that’s all you need to know.
Then she was gone, leaving me counting the marks around the clock. But then I realized I didn’t have to count them because the numbers already said what they were. It amazed me that not only did we have clocks to tell time but, from then on, I’d never be confused by them again.
I also thought my sister must be a pretty good teacher to explain it so easily. I wondered if that’s how it was with everything, if all those things I didn’t understand were only mysteries because no one had explained them. Then I had the idea that maybe we were supposed to figure things out for ourselves and the more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed because that was exactly how I’d found out about music.
I knew that music was supposed to make you feel good but what was it supposed to sound like and what kind of good feeling was it supposed to give you? There was Lawrence Welk on TV with his “champagne music-makers,” and bubbles floating around. I figured his music was supposed to make you happy by the way he kept smiling but it never did that for me. My friend down the block told me his father said the woman on Lawrence Welk was so pretty that he wanted to run out in the street and kiss her. That seemed like a strange thing for his father to say but, even if he did, that didn’t mean he was any happier and it sure didn’t explain anything about music. So it remained a mystery until that night on the back porch.
I’d sit out there after dark when they’d let me and on this night I was watching and listening to the teenagers next door. The teenager who lived there didn’t pay any attention to me but I liked him anyway because of the time he’d walked around on his hands in our front yard with his feet waving up in the air.
I sat there watching the reds and blues and yellows reflect off their faces. Their faces were all I could see because the hedge between our yards cut off everything else below their necks. And even though I couldn’t see it I knew there was a jukebox there because of how the colored lights kept shifting and the songs kept changing.
Then it happened.
Don’t be cruel, ooh, ooh, ooh,
To a heart that’s true.
I don’t want no other love,
Baby, it’s you I’m thinking of.
And I said, this must be music. It had revealed itself without me doing anything. And that was Elvis singing. I knew about him because he was from Memphis and had made a big splash on TV. He’s telling this girl to not be cruel to him and I wondered what she’d done that was so cruel but he never says and then I realized he didn’t have to because no matter how cruel she was, all that matters is how much he loves her.
Then it felt like I’d gone somewhere else and whenever after that on a hot summer day with the fan on high and my mother ironing while Elvis or Patsy sang on the radio, I knew exactly what I was hearing.
3
After first grade we moved to a bigger house in the suburbs and right after that Elvis moved out there too. He was getting more famous and had enough money to buy anything he wanted so I guess that house on Audubon was it. We drove by to see it and it didn’t look much bigger than ours but only Elvis lived there while our house was for the whole family. You could tell which one it was by the music notes stuck on the fence around the front yard.
It had a swimming pool in the backyard which we only knew about because of my sister. Her friend in third grade had invited her over and it turned out she lived right next door to Elvis. This friend showed her how she spied on him through the backyard fence. I imagined Elvis in his pool with all these girls swimming around but my sister said he just laid out there all day and it was kind of boring.
Pretty soon so many people were driving down Audubon that his neighbors complained. So Elvis moved away to a new house called Graceland and I wondered what kind of house had its own name. A picture showed it with columns out front and a front yard like a city park with a driveway that curved around up to the house. There were still music notes in front but these were big ones on a fancy gate that closed the driveway off from the street.
Then I don’t remember much until he got drafted. There wasn’t a war going on so he didn’t have to worry about getting killed. All he had to do was get it over with and hope that when he got back people hadn’t forgotten him. There was also so much new music coming out. One day I’m walking past Elvis’s old house and this song called “The Locomotion” was running through my head. It was like a freight train with this female singer who sounded black and sexy.
Everyone is doing a brand new dance now,
Come on baby, do the Locomotion.
Chugga chugga motion now, let’s make a chain now,
Come on baby, do the Locomotion.
Then we heard Elvis was out of the army and had brought back to Memphis with him a young girl he wasn’t married to. The paper said she’d come with her father’s blessing and that she’d been enrolled in a private school. It was all pretty weird but Memphians chose to believe the best. Then I found out this private school was the same Catholic girls school where my sister went. My sister said she was nice but didn’t hang out with them much. A chauffeur dropped her off in the morning and then picked her up in the afternoon but that changed one day when she drove up to school in a brand new Mustang.
So with Elvis collecting young girls and no one thinking about him much, he starts popping up in the movies. What? I mean I knew he could sing but who said he could act. You didn’t just start acting and I figured that had to be especially true for this guy from Humes High but that’s what Elvis did because then he was starring in more and more movies. He mostly sang and danced but he had to be doing something right for Hollywood to keep making them.
Then the movies stopped and he disappeared again around when the Beatles came out. It was a pretty long time before he showed up again but then he did what they called his “comeback concert.” His hair wasn’t slicked back anymore and he had these thick sideburns like a motorcycle greaser back in the fifties. But his comeback was a success and then his music came back on the radio but that was different now too, slower and more old fashioned. All I knew for sure was that it wasn’t for me. It seemed like he’d crossed over to a more adult image and not a very cool one at that.
One time we were driving down Bellevue and Elvis was out at his gate talking to his fans. None of us had ever seen him up close so we decided to stop but by the time we got over there, the crowd was a lot bigger. We stood at the back but then the gates opened up and the crowd began moving inside towards one of the stone walls that surrounded the grounds.
I thought of the time in New Orleans when I’d told this guy I was from Memphis and he said, “Like Elvis.” Then he asked what I thought of him and I’d answered, “Just a Memphis hick who made it big,” and I’d felt bad about that ever since. Who knows what he’d be like if you talked to him up close. Then I thought I might find out if I could get up to the front of this crowd. A friend motioned to where two more friends were climbing up onto the stone wall. I climbed up too and followed them along the top to where Elvis was sitting. We all sat down on the wall cross-legged, just a few feet above his head.
He had on a shiny gold shirt and white pants as he sat there talking to his fans. Maybe it was the way his hair puffed out but his head seemed twice as big as any I’d ever seen before. He didn’t know we were up there and I thought how easy it would be to just smack him. Then I wondered if anyone else was worried about that when I saw a bodyguard type in the crowd watching us. Someone was taking pictures and I thought what a great shot with the crowd down below and us up above and that’s why they were letting us sit there. I guess the bodyguard tipped him off because then Elvis twisted his head around to look up at us and said, “Hey up there, how you fellas doin’?”
I answered, “pretty good,” and that’s all we said. He then turned back to his fans and we walked back around the wall and climbed down. His voice had been that same one we all knew but there’d been something different about it too. Along with that deep hollow sound there was a Mississippi twang to it I’d never heard before. I was glad he felt comfortable enough out there to not worry about how he sounded. It was like there was something inside him that made it hard for him to relax and you felt that from him too. It came off as a sensitivity that made you like him.
He sang everything, love songs, work songs, ballads, Gospel, folk, blues, anthems, jazz, rock and roll. But as his success grew so did his drug problem. During one of his stays at Baptist Hospital with the tin foil in the windows, a girlfriend and I were driving down Union when she said her aunt was his nurse up there and all he did was brush his teeth. He’d brush them and then ten minutes later brush them again. It went on like that all night and the only other thing her aunt said was that it was sad.
I was turning onto a ramp on I-240 when it came on the radio that Elvis was dead. I figured it was what they were hinting at, an overdose and/or the problems that came with addiction. They said he had a pill doctor who got him anything he wanted and that made sense as I knew plenty of those doctors in Memphis.
It was normal for Memphians to mourn him but what didn’t seem normal was so many people coming from other places to mourn too. I moved away the next year and watched from a distance as his celebrity grew. It surprised me at first and then I was shocked by how many traveled there to be where the magic had happened. But then for me too, whenever I went back, I took a trip to Graceland to buy the Elvis junk that I then gave out back in New York. It seemed like you just couldn’t go wrong with Elvis.
So after dozens of movies and documentaries, a new biopic on him recently came out that’s been nominated for several awards. His widow, Priscilla, the same girl my sister went to high school with, and their daughter helped to publicize it and they spoke so highly of the actor playing Elvis that I made a point of seeing it. That was during the week before our next book club, the one I’d just arrived at.
4
As usual some of us liked the book while others didn’t. This latter group, of whom I was one, kept our reservations mostly to ourselves so as not to upset the convivial atmosphere created by our host. By that same token though, there’s no reason why I can’t say now what I thought. I hated The Prince and reading it was just as excruciating as my first time through fifty years earlier. I should have said, “tried” reading because I chucked it aside again just like in the good old days, convinced once and for all that the only reason for reading Machiavelli was in its proof that, unlike the cheese our host had laid out, he didn’t get better with age.
After some disagreement, book club ended in a consensus – which I have to admit Machiavelli had no small part in – that people haven’t changed much in the last four centuries. Then the talk turned to other things. Some disconcerting news was that one of our members hadn’t completely recovered from being hit by a car while jogging. But she then explained that her prognosis was good and, though she still had some headaches, her doctors expected a full recovery.
I was asked about my own medical condition and said “better,” which was true enough. About a year earlier, I’d spent eleven days in an ICU as they rebuilt my aorta and it still had me a bit rattled. I’d also found out that near death experiences have a short shelf life so now I just say that I’m trying to get on with it.
Other books, plays and movies came up and the new biopic on Elvis was mentioned. Not all of us had seen it but one who had spoke of how effective it was when Elvis as a young boy heard Gospel music for the first time and began vibrating with it. I began telling how real footage of Elvis from his last concert had been used at the end. “Elvis is at the piano singing, his face extremely bloated and his eyes so glazed you think he might collapse when –”
But then I realized I was about to commit my usual “spoiler” blunder and stopped. The talk then moved on to other things but even as I joined in with it, I wanted to finish what I’d been saying about the ending to “Elvis.” So just as I did with Machiavelli, I’ll say it now. But I’d also like to say something about spoilers.
I’ve never understood them. How can saying what happens in a story ruin it for someone else? For example, if it was revealed that a group of people had jumped off a cliff, how could that have meaning without knowing what happened before it? I’d need to know who these people are. Without that, it’s just strangers doing something strange so it doesn’t have meaning. And if it doesn’t have meaning, how can it spoil anything?
But others don’t like spoilers. It’s that simple so I try not to do it. The problem is that when something like the “Elvis” ending excites me, I start talking before realizing it. But in this case no damage was done so for anyone who hasn’t seen “Elvis” yet, consider this your “spoiler alert” because I’m going to reveal it now.
As I was saying, it’s his last concert and Elvis is at the piano singing “Unchained Melody.” Massive amounts of moisture have welled up on his face and you’re unsure whether it’s sweat or tears or both. But then, just when it seems like he might not be able to go on, his voice gains strength as he peeks out at the mostly female audience, screaming their hearts out in love and admiration. And then we follow along with him to the end of that much loved classic.
Lonely river flows to the sea, to the sea,
To the open arms of the sea,
Lonely river sighs, wait for me, wait for me,
I’ll be coming home, wait for me.
Stock footage has almost always been used to fill in the narrative where recreating a scene was prohibitive but that wasn’t the case here. Everything to that point had been recreated, including the lead actor’s performance. His voice, singing and movement had all been perfect. It was only in his close-ups that he didn’t look much like Elvis but that was fine too with the rest working so well. But then this real footage comes on without any attempt to disguise it. It signals a change and begins to serve as a kind of coda to the film in the way that a superscript at the end is sometimes used to tie up loose ends. This would be our last image of Elvis. And a remarkable image it was indeed, him on stage doing what he’d always done best, singing his heart out with every last bit of heart that he had left. Taking that lonely trip with his audience down the river to the sea, to the open arms of the sea, as he looked out again and again at those women who embraced him to make sure they were still there. In that moment, they were all his mothers and lovers, just as it had always been.
More archival footage is now interspersed. In one clip he tells an audience that we need only a song to make it to the end and we know that “Unchained Melody” is that song when he knew better than anyone how close to the end he was.
And time goes by so slowly,
And time can do so much,
Are you still mine?
And every woman there screams back that she is. In that moment form and content came together for the perfect ending. That was what I was going to say to the book club but now I see how it might have been more of a spoiler than I’d thought.
5
Emma was my nurse on the night before my most critical surgery. She told me about her longtime boyfriend, Dan. He sounded like a nice guy but she was still unsure about that “rest of her life” part of getting married. They had reservations for two different destination weddings coming up that summer in the Caribbean. The problem was that the weddings were two weeks apart and she was having second thoughts about traveling to almost the same place twice in such quick succession. It conflicted with her sense of efficiency but she also knew that marriage was in the air for her group and it was time for her to kick out at least some of the stops.
Steam was rising from the corner of the cubicle and I saw that it was from a small autoclave as she stacked layers of steaming towels next to it. She then brought them to the table next to my bed and began placing them on my chest. When that steamy heat penetrated my skin I’d never felt anything like it. It had been days since I’d felt anything warm and clean. My second surgery had come right after the first and since both were emergencies there hadn’t been any attention paid to “niceties.” So, aside from how good it felt, washing or having it done for me, felt almost like healing.
Emma folded half of the towel already in place back onto itself before applying the next towel to that same area while also covering a new area of the same size. In that way she proceeded across my chest and stomach and then down both legs. This solemn progression over my body combined with the opioids in my system lulled me into an almost fugue like state as I savored each second. The parts of my body still untouched were almost crying out in anticipation of that delicious warmth. It all seemed so masterful and beyond the ability of a normal human that I finally had to tell her.
Emma, I can’t get over how well you do that. Did someone teach you or did you learn it yourself?
Hmmm, a little of both.
Did you always want to be a nurse?
I always wanted to do something in medicine.
Have you ever thought about becoming a surgeon?
Well, my hands aren’t really precise enough for that. But something I’ve been thinking about is becoming a sales rep. You’ve probably seen them out there at my station.
I have.
They actually work for the medical suppliers. They’re here onsite to make sure we have everything, even if they have to go get it themselves. They’re good that way. It’s interesting and you get to travel so that’s what a lot of us here end up doing. You have to know a lot more about medicine than I do, but then you advance really fast and make tons of money too.
I see.
So how about you? What do you do?
Well… I’m a legal assistant… and a writer. That’s why I came to New York… more than forty years ago now… to get my plays produced. Back then you could get original plays done in other places but you had to be a New York playwright for people to take you seriously.
So you’re a playwright. That sounds interesting.
I guess.
You know, I saw my first play ever last month on Broadway.
Really? What was it?
The Lion King.
No kidding, how’d you like it?
Oh my god, the theater was packed and Dan and I were there in the dark when all these animals began coming out of the shadows and walking down the aisles talking to us. I was holding Dan’s hand and then I felt his hand squeezing mine and then I was squeezing his back and we looked at each other. Then we started laughing until we were both lost in that other world and it was one of the most fun nights I’ve ever had.
Wow!
And you know the funniest part? It was my birthday and Dan had been trying to decide for months what to give me. Then for some reason… he just took a chance and bought those tickets…
And you had the best night of your life. So now you know why I became a playwright.
I do.
Sounds like Dan did good.
He did real good.
… Thank you.
You’re welcome.
… I think I’ll sleep now.
I’ll check back.
… Goodnight…
Goodnight.
6
Walking to the subway after book club, I thought of the nine months between coming home from the hospital and putting Herman to sleep. It seemed only right that in the same week I’d finally gotten some good news, Herman took a turn for the worse. It was almost like he’d hung around for the bad part and then when I got better, he felt like he could leave.
A few years ago we’d been watching TV when he jumped off the couch and staggered towards the kitchen. From my previous cats, I knew that it was probably a stroke and this could be the end of him. But then he was able to eat his late night snack, even as he leaned to one side. Over the next few days, he gained strength until I was sure it had been a stroke that was now clearing up.
I considered taking him to the vet but decided against it. Even though he was almost twenty, he’d only been a few times. The last time, about ten years ago, the Vet assistants didn’t want me in the examining room so I looked through the door window. Two of them with shoulder length gloves on held him with his stomach turned up as another gave him an injection. I almost couldn’t believe it as I saw a stream of piss shooting straight up from him and splashing all three. After he was back in his carrier, the Vet told me they usually kept cats overnight but with Herman that wasn’t such a good idea. And this was the Vet who specialized in “problem cats.” The last thing he said was, “Take Herman home and enjoy him,” and that was exactly what I did.
So there’d be no Vet since nothing could be done anyway and just going there might traumatize him enough to cause another stroke. It went on like that for another year until his next stroke. It was a lot like the first one except that he was moving more slowly afterward.
When he was younger I’d roll him around the apartment on my desk chair. He’d hunker down on the seat while I pushed him around the living room and down the hall faster and faster and it always ended with a few good spins. But after his first stroke I was afraid it might cause another one so I stopped. The only thing I still did like that was when he’d come up onto my chest, I’d hold him over my head and rock him down like he was hanging from a parachute. But then one time as I was letting him down he yelled in my face, “No! I’m too old now so you can’t do this anymore!” After that whenever he came up I’d just let him settle down with his head on my shoulder.
When I got back from the hospital, Herman was still doing well. Then in the summer he didn’t want his late night dry snack which had always been his favorite ritual. Then he didn’t want dry food at all so I replaced it with wet food. With his habits now changing so fast, I knew he was getting worse and then in the fall I saw that he was losing weight.
I’d always imposed strict rules on him because when I’d first gotten him that was the only way to keep him from ripping me apart. But now we broke all the rules. He was eating or at least tasting four different cans of wet food a day and getting constant attention. One day we were watching a basketball game on the couch and he seemed so happy that I couldn’t help but think that he knew and it occurred to me that this was how it should be for everyone. Herman was simply enjoying the time he had left. I’d been thinking about how Herman was that day and it began taking on more importance as it might hold an answer to a question I’d first asked myself in the hospital.
It was just before they came to get me for a surgery that I knew I might not come back from. I’d soon be under anesthesia so I looked around for something to be the last thing I’d see and it bothered me that I couldn’t find anything. I wondered if I’d had a wife or kids there, would it have helped and decided that it would but I also knew, that in my case, that in itself wouldn’t be enough. So what would? All I knew was that it had to do with accomplishing something. It wasn’t just having accomplished it but feeling like I had on the most basic level, like the way Herman was that day watching that game. To be so completely present that no matter how the surgery went, I could say I was fine because I already had what I needed. I swore then that if I came out of that surgery I’d live every second after it to be able to say that.
I thought of what happened before leaving the book club earlier. I was in the living room and a second round NBA game was coming on TV. Our host’s daughter was watching and it surprised me that she was a Milwaukee Bucks fan as I’d never met a Bucks fan before. I asked why and she said that they had some rookies on the team she’d liked but since they’d been eliminated she was looking for another team to follow. Then she began listing different players and I was impressed that she had such definite opinions. She talked about talent, character and maturity, the latter being especially surprising given her young age.
It reminded me of what happened that night with Emma in the ICU. As this guy passed in the hall he said something about basketball. I commented on it so then Emma ran out and called for him to come back. In about five minutes there were four extremely tall ex-basketball players in my cubicle talking about the upcoming playoffs. When I told them who my team was they looked at me in the same way as I had our host’s daughter as these guys had never met a Memphis Grizzly fan before. But then I explained I’d been a Knicks fan back during the Starks era and that gave me some credibility as that was the New York team they’d grown up with. We reminisced about our favorite players and then they asked if I thought the Griz actually had a chance to win the championship. Their tone implied that none of them did so that’s when I played my ace.
Well, I saw Jordan and Bird back in the day and I was in the Garden just last month to watch Ja when the Griz were in town. That’s all I’m saying.
Wait, you saw Ja in the Garden?
I did.
Live and in person?
I did.
So let’s hear it.
I let an appropriate silence settle in before answering.
I’ll put it this way. I can’t even describe how good he was.
At that, their hoots and laughter shook my small cubicle. Now these guys had played at a very high level plus they were all huge NBA fans. They knew more about basketball than I ever would but their favorite players were the stars from the big city markets like LeBron and Steph, not this new guy, Ja, who might be talented but still ain’t won shit. Then one of them named Corey who’d been mostly listening spoke up in his quiet and deliberate way.
Your man, Ja, I’ll give you. He’s good but he’s young and playoffs are a whole different animal.
The other three then threw down. Damn right. You listen to Corey cause he knows.
And he did because the Griz then lost in the second round. But what I remembered most about those guys was how they stopped back in that night a few more times. And they didn’t do it just as a favor to Emma. It was like they came back to share in the intensity of my situation. Maybe for them it was like being back on the court with the clock running down when all that matters is making that shot. To be completely in that moment when everything else falls away.
That’s what I’d wanted that day before surgery, to be like Herman had been on the couch when all that mattered was just being there. And if I could truly take in a moment like that, then that’s all it would have to be. All the rest, the what-ifs, half-lies, half-truths, recriminations and regrets, none of it would matter if I could truly take in something as my own. There wouldn’t have to be anything beyond it either. It had already been done so it wouldn’t have to be done again. Anything extra would just be icing on the cake.
And that takes me again to that last scene in “Elvis.” He’s singing to his adoring fans and knows the end is near. That’s why he’s looking out at those women who still embrace him after all those years. He’s taking it in while all the rest, even the possibility that he might not get up from that piano, drifts away. He’s already paid the price a thousand times over so he’s going to enjoy that moment and take refuge in it and revel in it for as long as it lasts.
It reminds him of when the world was young and held unlimited possibility. Not like now when each new day brings only new problems and new pain. How much will it cost to go on? And does he want to pay that price even if he could? If all the lights were suddenly shut off or even if the whole world hated him and tried to take it all back, it wouldn’t matter. He’s already paid in full so it’s his now. That’s what his grin is saying. He sees those faces out there filled with love for him and knows that he already has all that he needs and will ever need again right there with him.
Harvey Huddleston's short fiction has been published in Otoliths, The Eunoia Review, Literary Yard, CC&D Magazine, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Mystery Tribune, Ravensperch, Stray Branch and The Scarlet Leaf Review.
I
Walking down the hall, I thought of my last time there when I’d found a lovely Christmas wreath with silver bells and pine cones hanging on her door. Feeling behind it for the doorbell, I’d jarred it loose and sent it crashing to the floor. I went to rehang it but then, thinking how odd it might be for her to hear noises at her door that sounded like scratching or clawing, I decided to knock and when she came, explain away my clumsiness and rehang the wreath at her instruction.
I knocked but all was quiet. I knocked again but still no answer so I turned the knob and cracked open the door. No one. And no one from book club either. Then it all made sense. She’d taken Theo out for a walk before book club and had left the door unlocked in case any of us came early. But was I early? I hadn’t thought so but since a few minutes more or less didn’t matter that had to be it. After standing the wreath up against the wall, I went in and sat on the couch, hoping to avoid any more mishaps.
There was some commotion in the hall when Theo came bursting through the door. As he bounded over me I heard her discovering the wreath, “Theo, look what you’ve done.” It was only after I’d begun confessing that I realized I’d had the perfect scapegoat in Theo if I’d only kept my mouth shut. But I hadn’t so I explained about the wreath and doorbell but then she was smiling, seemingly unconcerned with it one way or another.
So here I was five months later for our next book club with a bottle of wine that held promise if you could believe that guy behind the counter. I knocked on her door – now wreathless – while gathering my thoughts on our latest book. She opened the door with Theo next to her doing handsprings like St. John Bosco had performed to become the patron saint of actors. Then, bending down to calm Theo, she looked up at me and said, “I am so sorry about Herman.”
Herman, I thought, now where did that come from?
I’d had to put Herman to sleep about four months earlier. I hadn’t been away from my apartment overnight for a while but it was the Christmas season so I’d decided on a short trip to see friends. Before leaving, I’d noticed Herman having trouble getting up to his place on the couch so I’d placed a wooden box in front to give him a step-up.
But then coming back the next morning, I’d found him hanging from the couch by his front claws. He’d fallen off the box while trying to get up on the couch and his claws had stuck. He was weak but still alive so, freeing him, I let him lie there while trying to figure out how to help him regain his strength. He wasn’t able to move his lower body so I lifted him up to his water bowl on the coffee table and was encouraged that he took some sips. But then I saw he still couldn’t move and as time passed, it became clear that he never would again. What I’d been dreading was now upon us.
I’d tried to prepare so I made the call and put him in his carrier and took him out into the fresh air which he’d always loved. The car came and we went. And when I got back it seemed impossible that he wasn’t with me. I cleaned the apartment as it had begun to smell from his many bowel and bladder leaks that I hadn’t been able to keep up with. But when it came to his things, I couldn’t get rid of them. Even now, his litter scoop still lies on the floor of the closet, halfway visible.
When someone close dies, there’s usually others to share in our grief but with Herman there was only me. He’d spent his first two years in an alley and, even though he liked humans, his way of playing was to lure them in with his good looks and then lash out with his claws. And no matter how hard they tried to make friends with him and despite all my warnings, they always came away needing at least a bandaid. Herman wanted human contact but something inside him just wouldn’t allow for it so I knew how much he depended on me. I didn’t realize though how much I depended on him.
I still see him in the corner of my eye walking in after the dinner he just ate. Or he’s there in the dim light across the living room, playing our game and peeking at me from around the corner. It’s like he’s there but not really so I’ve tried to get on with it like everyone else has had to do since the beginning of time.
But then our host, while bending down to calm Theo, looked up at me and said she was sorry about Herman. And she said it with such concern and like it happened only yesterday that I almost fell over. A wave of joy came over me, not the kind that makes you stop to take it in but the kind that drives you forward into the simple act of living. I thanked her and we opened the bottle of wine, which turned out to be pretty good by the way. Then the other book club members arrived and for the rest of that evening it felt like Herman was there with us.
I wondered where that joy had come from and why it had come over me at the mere mention of his name? I wondered what might sustain it or if it could be sustained. Then a theory began forming in my mind. It seemed that time itself had dissolved in that moment. That is, the distance between now and then contracted to the point where it vanished, leaving only what is and always will be.
It was confusing how people would look at a clock and make a pronouncement like I have to be there by eight. And they’d say it with such authority that I couldn’t help but be impressed. Even my sister who was only two years older than me had this power. I’d ask when Howdy Doody was coming on and she’d give me the answer by just glancing at the clock. It seemed so natural that I assumed she’d been born with this power and that some like her had it while others like me did not. That was bothersome but what really had me worried was the thought that it might be a permanent condition and that I’d forever be at the mercy of my sister and others like her. It went on like this until one day I asked her about it.
So how did you know it was fifteen minutes after two?
Because that’s what the clock said.
But how did you know what the clock said?
I looked.
No, I mean how did you know what it said?
At that she just looked at me. Oh, you mean how do I tell time?
Yeah.
Now might come the answer I’d been dreading but instead she asked a question.
You want to learn?
… I think so.
So come on.
I followed her over to the clock and she said that there were two hands. The short hand tells the hour and the long hand tells the minute so all you have to do is see how many minutes it is before or after the hour that the short hand is pointing to. Then she told me to tell her what time it was so I did.
See? It’s easy.
What’s the skinny red hand for?
It’s for seconds but you don’t have to worry about that.
What does it do?
Now she was annoyed. Okay, sixty seconds make a minute and sixty minutes make an hour. Believe me, that’s all you need to know.
Then she was gone, leaving me counting the marks around the clock. But then I realized I didn’t have to count them because the numbers already said what they were. It amazed me that not only did we have clocks to tell time but, from then on, I’d never be confused by them again.
I also thought my sister must be a pretty good teacher to explain it so easily. I wondered if that’s how it was with everything, if all those things I didn’t understand were only mysteries because no one had explained them. Then I had the idea that maybe we were supposed to figure things out for ourselves and the more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed because that was exactly how I’d found out about music.
I knew that music was supposed to make you feel good but what was it supposed to sound like and what kind of good feeling was it supposed to give you? There was Lawrence Welk on TV with his “champagne music-makers,” and bubbles floating around. I figured his music was supposed to make you happy by the way he kept smiling but it never did that for me. My friend down the block told me his father said the woman on Lawrence Welk was so pretty that he wanted to run out in the street and kiss her. That seemed like a strange thing for his father to say but, even if he did, that didn’t mean he was any happier and it sure didn’t explain anything about music. So it remained a mystery until that night on the back porch.
I’d sit out there after dark when they’d let me and on this night I was watching and listening to the teenagers next door. The teenager who lived there didn’t pay any attention to me but I liked him anyway because of the time he’d walked around on his hands in our front yard with his feet waving up in the air.
I sat there watching the reds and blues and yellows reflect off their faces. Their faces were all I could see because the hedge between our yards cut off everything else below their necks. And even though I couldn’t see it I knew there was a jukebox there because of how the colored lights kept shifting and the songs kept changing.
Then it happened.
To a heart that’s true.
I don’t want no other love,
Baby, it’s you I’m thinking of.
And I said, this must be music. It had revealed itself without me doing anything. And that was Elvis singing. I knew about him because he was from Memphis and had made a big splash on TV. He’s telling this girl to not be cruel to him and I wondered what she’d done that was so cruel but he never says and then I realized he didn’t have to because no matter how cruel she was, all that matters is how much he loves her.
Then it felt like I’d gone somewhere else and whenever after that on a hot summer day with the fan on high and my mother ironing while Elvis or Patsy sang on the radio, I knew exactly what I was hearing.
After first grade we moved to a bigger house in the suburbs and right after that Elvis moved out there too. He was getting more famous and had enough money to buy anything he wanted so I guess that house on Audubon was it. We drove by to see it and it didn’t look much bigger than ours but only Elvis lived there while our house was for the whole family. You could tell which one it was by the music notes stuck on the fence around the front yard.
It had a swimming pool in the backyard which we only knew about because of my sister. Her friend in third grade had invited her over and it turned out she lived right next door to Elvis. This friend showed her how she spied on him through the backyard fence. I imagined Elvis in his pool with all these girls swimming around but my sister said he just laid out there all day and it was kind of boring.
Pretty soon so many people were driving down Audubon that his neighbors complained. So Elvis moved away to a new house called Graceland and I wondered what kind of house had its own name. A picture showed it with columns out front and a front yard like a city park with a driveway that curved around up to the house. There were still music notes in front but these were big ones on a fancy gate that closed the driveway off from the street.
Then I don’t remember much until he got drafted. There wasn’t a war going on so he didn’t have to worry about getting killed. All he had to do was get it over with and hope that when he got back people hadn’t forgotten him. There was also so much new music coming out. One day I’m walking past Elvis’s old house and this song called “The Locomotion” was running through my head. It was like a freight train with this female singer who sounded black and sexy.
Come on baby, do the Locomotion.
Chugga chugga motion now, let’s make a chain now,
Come on baby, do the Locomotion.
Then we heard Elvis was out of the army and had brought back to Memphis with him a young girl he wasn’t married to. The paper said she’d come with her father’s blessing and that she’d been enrolled in a private school. It was all pretty weird but Memphians chose to believe the best. Then I found out this private school was the same Catholic girls school where my sister went. My sister said she was nice but didn’t hang out with them much. A chauffeur dropped her off in the morning and then picked her up in the afternoon but that changed one day when she drove up to school in a brand new Mustang.
So with Elvis collecting young girls and no one thinking about him much, he starts popping up in the movies. What? I mean I knew he could sing but who said he could act. You didn’t just start acting and I figured that had to be especially true for this guy from Humes High but that’s what Elvis did because then he was starring in more and more movies. He mostly sang and danced but he had to be doing something right for Hollywood to keep making them.
Then the movies stopped and he disappeared again around when the Beatles came out. It was a pretty long time before he showed up again but then he did what they called his “comeback concert.” His hair wasn’t slicked back anymore and he had these thick sideburns like a motorcycle greaser back in the fifties. But his comeback was a success and then his music came back on the radio but that was different now too, slower and more old fashioned. All I knew for sure was that it wasn’t for me. It seemed like he’d crossed over to a more adult image and not a very cool one at that.
One time we were driving down Bellevue and Elvis was out at his gate talking to his fans. None of us had ever seen him up close so we decided to stop but by the time we got over there, the crowd was a lot bigger. We stood at the back but then the gates opened up and the crowd began moving inside towards one of the stone walls that surrounded the grounds.
I thought of the time in New Orleans when I’d told this guy I was from Memphis and he said, “Like Elvis.” Then he asked what I thought of him and I’d answered, “Just a Memphis hick who made it big,” and I’d felt bad about that ever since. Who knows what he’d be like if you talked to him up close. Then I thought I might find out if I could get up to the front of this crowd. A friend motioned to where two more friends were climbing up onto the stone wall. I climbed up too and followed them along the top to where Elvis was sitting. We all sat down on the wall cross-legged, just a few feet above his head.
He had on a shiny gold shirt and white pants as he sat there talking to his fans. Maybe it was the way his hair puffed out but his head seemed twice as big as any I’d ever seen before. He didn’t know we were up there and I thought how easy it would be to just smack him. Then I wondered if anyone else was worried about that when I saw a bodyguard type in the crowd watching us. Someone was taking pictures and I thought what a great shot with the crowd down below and us up above and that’s why they were letting us sit there. I guess the bodyguard tipped him off because then Elvis twisted his head around to look up at us and said, “Hey up there, how you fellas doin’?”
I answered, “pretty good,” and that’s all we said. He then turned back to his fans and we walked back around the wall and climbed down. His voice had been that same one we all knew but there’d been something different about it too. Along with that deep hollow sound there was a Mississippi twang to it I’d never heard before. I was glad he felt comfortable enough out there to not worry about how he sounded. It was like there was something inside him that made it hard for him to relax and you felt that from him too. It came off as a sensitivity that made you like him.
He sang everything, love songs, work songs, ballads, Gospel, folk, blues, anthems, jazz, rock and roll. But as his success grew so did his drug problem. During one of his stays at Baptist Hospital with the tin foil in the windows, a girlfriend and I were driving down Union when she said her aunt was his nurse up there and all he did was brush his teeth. He’d brush them and then ten minutes later brush them again. It went on like that all night and the only other thing her aunt said was that it was sad.
I was turning onto a ramp on I-240 when it came on the radio that Elvis was dead. I figured it was what they were hinting at, an overdose and/or the problems that came with addiction. They said he had a pill doctor who got him anything he wanted and that made sense as I knew plenty of those doctors in Memphis.
It was normal for Memphians to mourn him but what didn’t seem normal was so many people coming from other places to mourn too. I moved away the next year and watched from a distance as his celebrity grew. It surprised me at first and then I was shocked by how many traveled there to be where the magic had happened. But then for me too, whenever I went back, I took a trip to Graceland to buy the Elvis junk that I then gave out back in New York. It seemed like you just couldn’t go wrong with Elvis.
So after dozens of movies and documentaries, a new biopic on him recently came out that’s been nominated for several awards. His widow, Priscilla, the same girl my sister went to high school with, and their daughter helped to publicize it and they spoke so highly of the actor playing Elvis that I made a point of seeing it. That was during the week before our next book club, the one I’d just arrived at.
As usual some of us liked the book while others didn’t. This latter group, of whom I was one, kept our reservations mostly to ourselves so as not to upset the convivial atmosphere created by our host. By that same token though, there’s no reason why I can’t say now what I thought. I hated The Prince and reading it was just as excruciating as my first time through fifty years earlier. I should have said, “tried” reading because I chucked it aside again just like in the good old days, convinced once and for all that the only reason for reading Machiavelli was in its proof that, unlike the cheese our host had laid out, he didn’t get better with age.
After some disagreement, book club ended in a consensus – which I have to admit Machiavelli had no small part in – that people haven’t changed much in the last four centuries. Then the talk turned to other things. Some disconcerting news was that one of our members hadn’t completely recovered from being hit by a car while jogging. But she then explained that her prognosis was good and, though she still had some headaches, her doctors expected a full recovery.
I was asked about my own medical condition and said “better,” which was true enough. About a year earlier, I’d spent eleven days in an ICU as they rebuilt my aorta and it still had me a bit rattled. I’d also found out that near death experiences have a short shelf life so now I just say that I’m trying to get on with it.
Other books, plays and movies came up and the new biopic on Elvis was mentioned. Not all of us had seen it but one who had spoke of how effective it was when Elvis as a young boy heard Gospel music for the first time and began vibrating with it. I began telling how real footage of Elvis from his last concert had been used at the end. “Elvis is at the piano singing, his face extremely bloated and his eyes so glazed you think he might collapse when –”
But then I realized I was about to commit my usual “spoiler” blunder and stopped. The talk then moved on to other things but even as I joined in with it, I wanted to finish what I’d been saying about the ending to “Elvis.” So just as I did with Machiavelli, I’ll say it now. But I’d also like to say something about spoilers.
I’ve never understood them. How can saying what happens in a story ruin it for someone else? For example, if it was revealed that a group of people had jumped off a cliff, how could that have meaning without knowing what happened before it? I’d need to know who these people are. Without that, it’s just strangers doing something strange so it doesn’t have meaning. And if it doesn’t have meaning, how can it spoil anything?
But others don’t like spoilers. It’s that simple so I try not to do it. The problem is that when something like the “Elvis” ending excites me, I start talking before realizing it. But in this case no damage was done so for anyone who hasn’t seen “Elvis” yet, consider this your “spoiler alert” because I’m going to reveal it now.
As I was saying, it’s his last concert and Elvis is at the piano singing “Unchained Melody.” Massive amounts of moisture have welled up on his face and you’re unsure whether it’s sweat or tears or both. But then, just when it seems like he might not be able to go on, his voice gains strength as he peeks out at the mostly female audience, screaming their hearts out in love and admiration. And then we follow along with him to the end of that much loved classic.
To the open arms of the sea,
Lonely river sighs, wait for me, wait for me,
I’ll be coming home, wait for me.
Stock footage has almost always been used to fill in the narrative where recreating a scene was prohibitive but that wasn’t the case here. Everything to that point had been recreated, including the lead actor’s performance. His voice, singing and movement had all been perfect. It was only in his close-ups that he didn’t look much like Elvis but that was fine too with the rest working so well. But then this real footage comes on without any attempt to disguise it. It signals a change and begins to serve as a kind of coda to the film in the way that a superscript at the end is sometimes used to tie up loose ends. This would be our last image of Elvis. And a remarkable image it was indeed, him on stage doing what he’d always done best, singing his heart out with every last bit of heart that he had left. Taking that lonely trip with his audience down the river to the sea, to the open arms of the sea, as he looked out again and again at those women who embraced him to make sure they were still there. In that moment, they were all his mothers and lovers, just as it had always been.
More archival footage is now interspersed. In one clip he tells an audience that we need only a song to make it to the end and we know that “Unchained Melody” is that song when he knew better than anyone how close to the end he was.
And time can do so much,
Are you still mine?
And every woman there screams back that she is. In that moment form and content came together for the perfect ending. That was what I was going to say to the book club but now I see how it might have been more of a spoiler than I’d thought.
Emma was my nurse on the night before my most critical surgery. She told me about her longtime boyfriend, Dan. He sounded like a nice guy but she was still unsure about that “rest of her life” part of getting married. They had reservations for two different destination weddings coming up that summer in the Caribbean. The problem was that the weddings were two weeks apart and she was having second thoughts about traveling to almost the same place twice in such quick succession. It conflicted with her sense of efficiency but she also knew that marriage was in the air for her group and it was time for her to kick out at least some of the stops.
Steam was rising from the corner of the cubicle and I saw that it was from a small autoclave as she stacked layers of steaming towels next to it. She then brought them to the table next to my bed and began placing them on my chest. When that steamy heat penetrated my skin I’d never felt anything like it. It had been days since I’d felt anything warm and clean. My second surgery had come right after the first and since both were emergencies there hadn’t been any attention paid to “niceties.” So, aside from how good it felt, washing or having it done for me, felt almost like healing.
Emma folded half of the towel already in place back onto itself before applying the next towel to that same area while also covering a new area of the same size. In that way she proceeded across my chest and stomach and then down both legs. This solemn progression over my body combined with the opioids in my system lulled me into an almost fugue like state as I savored each second. The parts of my body still untouched were almost crying out in anticipation of that delicious warmth. It all seemed so masterful and beyond the ability of a normal human that I finally had to tell her.
Emma, I can’t get over how well you do that. Did someone teach you or did you learn it yourself?
Hmmm, a little of both.
Did you always want to be a nurse?
I always wanted to do something in medicine.
Have you ever thought about becoming a surgeon?
Well, my hands aren’t really precise enough for that. But something I’ve been thinking about is becoming a sales rep. You’ve probably seen them out there at my station.
I have.
They actually work for the medical suppliers. They’re here onsite to make sure we have everything, even if they have to go get it themselves. They’re good that way. It’s interesting and you get to travel so that’s what a lot of us here end up doing. You have to know a lot more about medicine than I do, but then you advance really fast and make tons of money too.
I see.
So how about you? What do you do?
Well… I’m a legal assistant… and a writer. That’s why I came to New York… more than forty years ago now… to get my plays produced. Back then you could get original plays done in other places but you had to be a New York playwright for people to take you seriously.
So you’re a playwright. That sounds interesting.
I guess.
You know, I saw my first play ever last month on Broadway.
Really? What was it?
The Lion King.
No kidding, how’d you like it?
Oh my god, the theater was packed and Dan and I were there in the dark when all these animals began coming out of the shadows and walking down the aisles talking to us. I was holding Dan’s hand and then I felt his hand squeezing mine and then I was squeezing his back and we looked at each other. Then we started laughing until we were both lost in that other world and it was one of the most fun nights I’ve ever had.
Wow!
And you know the funniest part? It was my birthday and Dan had been trying to decide for months what to give me. Then for some reason… he just took a chance and bought those tickets…
And you had the best night of your life. So now you know why I became a playwright.
I do.
Sounds like Dan did good.
He did real good.
… Thank you.
You’re welcome.
… I think I’ll sleep now.
I’ll check back.
… Goodnight…
Goodnight.
Walking to the subway after book club, I thought of the nine months between coming home from the hospital and putting Herman to sleep. It seemed only right that in the same week I’d finally gotten some good news, Herman took a turn for the worse. It was almost like he’d hung around for the bad part and then when I got better, he felt like he could leave.
A few years ago we’d been watching TV when he jumped off the couch and staggered towards the kitchen. From my previous cats, I knew that it was probably a stroke and this could be the end of him. But then he was able to eat his late night snack, even as he leaned to one side. Over the next few days, he gained strength until I was sure it had been a stroke that was now clearing up.
I considered taking him to the vet but decided against it. Even though he was almost twenty, he’d only been a few times. The last time, about ten years ago, the Vet assistants didn’t want me in the examining room so I looked through the door window. Two of them with shoulder length gloves on held him with his stomach turned up as another gave him an injection. I almost couldn’t believe it as I saw a stream of piss shooting straight up from him and splashing all three. After he was back in his carrier, the Vet told me they usually kept cats overnight but with Herman that wasn’t such a good idea. And this was the Vet who specialized in “problem cats.” The last thing he said was, “Take Herman home and enjoy him,” and that was exactly what I did.
So there’d be no Vet since nothing could be done anyway and just going there might traumatize him enough to cause another stroke. It went on like that for another year until his next stroke. It was a lot like the first one except that he was moving more slowly afterward.
When he was younger I’d roll him around the apartment on my desk chair. He’d hunker down on the seat while I pushed him around the living room and down the hall faster and faster and it always ended with a few good spins. But after his first stroke I was afraid it might cause another one so I stopped. The only thing I still did like that was when he’d come up onto my chest, I’d hold him over my head and rock him down like he was hanging from a parachute. But then one time as I was letting him down he yelled in my face, “No! I’m too old now so you can’t do this anymore!” After that whenever he came up I’d just let him settle down with his head on my shoulder.
When I got back from the hospital, Herman was still doing well. Then in the summer he didn’t want his late night dry snack which had always been his favorite ritual. Then he didn’t want dry food at all so I replaced it with wet food. With his habits now changing so fast, I knew he was getting worse and then in the fall I saw that he was losing weight.
I’d always imposed strict rules on him because when I’d first gotten him that was the only way to keep him from ripping me apart. But now we broke all the rules. He was eating or at least tasting four different cans of wet food a day and getting constant attention. One day we were watching a basketball game on the couch and he seemed so happy that I couldn’t help but think that he knew and it occurred to me that this was how it should be for everyone. Herman was simply enjoying the time he had left. I’d been thinking about how Herman was that day and it began taking on more importance as it might hold an answer to a question I’d first asked myself in the hospital.
It was just before they came to get me for a surgery that I knew I might not come back from. I’d soon be under anesthesia so I looked around for something to be the last thing I’d see and it bothered me that I couldn’t find anything. I wondered if I’d had a wife or kids there, would it have helped and decided that it would but I also knew, that in my case, that in itself wouldn’t be enough. So what would? All I knew was that it had to do with accomplishing something. It wasn’t just having accomplished it but feeling like I had on the most basic level, like the way Herman was that day watching that game. To be so completely present that no matter how the surgery went, I could say I was fine because I already had what I needed. I swore then that if I came out of that surgery I’d live every second after it to be able to say that.
I thought of what happened before leaving the book club earlier. I was in the living room and a second round NBA game was coming on TV. Our host’s daughter was watching and it surprised me that she was a Milwaukee Bucks fan as I’d never met a Bucks fan before. I asked why and she said that they had some rookies on the team she’d liked but since they’d been eliminated she was looking for another team to follow. Then she began listing different players and I was impressed that she had such definite opinions. She talked about talent, character and maturity, the latter being especially surprising given her young age.
It reminded me of what happened that night with Emma in the ICU. As this guy passed in the hall he said something about basketball. I commented on it so then Emma ran out and called for him to come back. In about five minutes there were four extremely tall ex-basketball players in my cubicle talking about the upcoming playoffs. When I told them who my team was they looked at me in the same way as I had our host’s daughter as these guys had never met a Memphis Grizzly fan before. But then I explained I’d been a Knicks fan back during the Starks era and that gave me some credibility as that was the New York team they’d grown up with. We reminisced about our favorite players and then they asked if I thought the Griz actually had a chance to win the championship. Their tone implied that none of them did so that’s when I played my ace.
Well, I saw Jordan and Bird back in the day and I was in the Garden just last month to watch Ja when the Griz were in town. That’s all I’m saying.
Wait, you saw Ja in the Garden?
I did.
Live and in person?
I did.
So let’s hear it.
I let an appropriate silence settle in before answering.
I’ll put it this way. I can’t even describe how good he was.
At that, their hoots and laughter shook my small cubicle. Now these guys had played at a very high level plus they were all huge NBA fans. They knew more about basketball than I ever would but their favorite players were the stars from the big city markets like LeBron and Steph, not this new guy, Ja, who might be talented but still ain’t won shit. Then one of them named Corey who’d been mostly listening spoke up in his quiet and deliberate way.
Your man, Ja, I’ll give you. He’s good but he’s young and playoffs are a whole different animal.
The other three then threw down. Damn right. You listen to Corey cause he knows.
And he did because the Griz then lost in the second round. But what I remembered most about those guys was how they stopped back in that night a few more times. And they didn’t do it just as a favor to Emma. It was like they came back to share in the intensity of my situation. Maybe for them it was like being back on the court with the clock running down when all that matters is making that shot. To be completely in that moment when everything else falls away.
That’s what I’d wanted that day before surgery, to be like Herman had been on the couch when all that mattered was just being there. And if I could truly take in a moment like that, then that’s all it would have to be. All the rest, the what-ifs, half-lies, half-truths, recriminations and regrets, none of it would matter if I could truly take in something as my own. There wouldn’t have to be anything beyond it either. It had already been done so it wouldn’t have to be done again. Anything extra would just be icing on the cake.
And that takes me again to that last scene in “Elvis.” He’s singing to his adoring fans and knows the end is near. That’s why he’s looking out at those women who still embrace him after all those years. He’s taking it in while all the rest, even the possibility that he might not get up from that piano, drifts away. He’s already paid the price a thousand times over so he’s going to enjoy that moment and take refuge in it and revel in it for as long as it lasts.
It reminds him of when the world was young and held unlimited possibility. Not like now when each new day brings only new problems and new pain. How much will it cost to go on? And does he want to pay that price even if he could? If all the lights were suddenly shut off or even if the whole world hated him and tried to take it all back, it wouldn’t matter. He’s already paid in full so it’s his now. That’s what his grin is saying. He sees those faces out there filled with love for him and knows that he already has all that he needs and will ever need again right there with him.
Harvey Huddleston's short fiction has been published in Otoliths, The Eunoia Review, Literary Yard, CC&D Magazine, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Mystery Tribune, Ravensperch, Stray Branch and The Scarlet Leaf Review.
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