IGMS Issue 5 (21 page)

I was sure nothing hurt me, and I didn't want to know if some accident was going to happen to me any minute that all I could do was sell the pain to. "You know the pain I mean," he said.

And when I thought about it, I did. It was the worst pain in my young life, and until he walked into the bar, it was burning me like hell fire. And the moment I thought of Grace Powers, it started hurting me again, but a hundred times worse, because now I knew I could be rid of it. It wasn't just that I had this longing for her that I couldn't even define. It wasn't even that she didn't know I was alive, because she did, it was that no matter how much I loved her, wanted her, I could never have her.

It wasn't just that she was so beautiful and I wasn't. Or that I was short for my age, and she wasn't. Or that she was graceful and clever and sweet, and I was awkward and stupid and ruthless, though I didn't know then that I was ruthless. I believe all the Polka Man did was let me know what my pain really was; he didn't make it, he just made me fully aware of it, and it hurt worse than anything before or since. I could see that the pain was that I could never have her. She was the banker's daughter, and I was the runt nephew of a one-legged bartending ex-coal miner.

I could see that we would grow up along side one another and go to high school together and I would want her more and more the more ways I found out there was to want somebody, but I would never have her, and I would watch her get married to somebody who didn't love her at all, and beat her up, and keep her pregnant until her looks wore away, and she would never in her most desperate dreams think of loving me as even a possibility.

She would never think of me as anything but an ugly little runt who would go down into the mines and come up blackfaced and hollow eyed until I coughed myself to death trying to cough up all the coal dust I'd swallow before I was fifty. And that was all I would be, just a drunk in pee-stained underwear sitting in my Uncle Jack's bar and coughing my lungs up into a hanky and looking at it to see how long I had to live.

I could see that life inescapable as destiny, and seeing it hurt so bad I started to cry, even though I knew I was too old for that and my uncle was watching me and all. But I bawled and bawled, and the Polka Man let me go on until all I had left was sobs, and when I was all cried out, I looked at him and it was all there, fresh as if I hadn't grieved any of it away. I knew I was going to feel that terrible pain all my life, every waking moment from then on, and it would never get any better and it would never go away, and I'd never feel it any less than I did right then.

When I stopped crying for a moment, the pain didn't go away it was just like somebody turned the volume down and it was still playing in the background. And I said, "That's what you want?"

And he nodded. And I didn't know why, but I hated him for wanting it, even though I knew I was going to give it to him no matter what. I don't think I thought at all about the people wherever he came from who would hear it as part of his music, but I've thought a lot about them ever since. I can't help wondering what it did to them the first time they heard it. What it must have been like to people who never felt any pain at all. I think of that sweet sad note he played for me and what it did to me, and I'd heard music before. I don't really like to think about what it did to them.

I suppose if he told me they'd feel just what I was feeling every time they heard it, I would have sold it to him anyway. Hell, I'd have probably given it too him just to be rid of it, no matter who had to suffer it instead. "And I won't feel it any more?" I said.

"You'll never feel a thing when you think about her," he said.

"Take it," I said.

And Uncle Jack leaned over the bar and said, "Show him what he gets."

And the Polka Man started to play a polka, and everything that I knew was going to happen to me started to flash before my eyes again, but he played the white keys mostly, and all of it changed, and I could see myself grow up taller and better looking than I ever dreamed of being, and I played football and went away to college, and there was a long line of girls like Grace Powers doing things to me I couldn't even identify, and as soon as one left there was another along, and I loved all of them, and not one of them had the power to hurt me like Grace Powers.

So I let him take away the pain of first love, and when he touched my key, I still couldn't hear it, but my uncle heard it and big tears rolled down out of his eyes.

And when the Polka Man played out his song, I knew it was over because I thought of Grace Powers, and it didn't hurt. I didn't feel a thing.

But what I didn't know was that it not only wouldn't hurt, but that in all those beds and all those bodies, I'd never feel anything as painful or as good as I'd felt then, and much as I like the life I bargained for, like my Uncle Jack, when I think of it, and that emptiness I feel instead of love comes to me, I smile ruefully just like he did, and wonder if it wouldn't have been better to have kept the pain after all.

And when I do, I know what it is that makes my bargain and Uncle Jack's look good, bad as things get, because we don't have to be those poor painfree demi-angels, laying around in their endless luxury, when the Polka Man finally gets his instrument tuned and starts to play. And better still, when that pain floods into them and floods back out mixed with their own newly created agony, we don't have to be the Polka Man.

Elvis Presley watched Audrey Hepburn eat her breakfast in front of the Tiffany's window in the Caesar's Palace Mall. He loved how she managed to devour the food without spilling a drop on her black evening dress. He wondered if today he would walk over and introduce himself.

But where to begin? Haven't I seen you somewhere before? Hey, come here often? I couldn't help but notice that you're a clone of a famous person and I'm a clone of a famous person, so I guess we both have something in common. Or maybe he should just try a more classic approach. Can I buy you a diamond tiara?

He knew he was being stupid. He was just so tired. The wedding party he had been hired to emcee had gone on all night. Judging by the numerous requests for Blue Suede Shoes, even a hundred years after the King's death, he was still as popular as ever.

More people were beginning to fill the mall. Marilyn Monroe walked by, flashing her shapely legs and a coy smile. He caught himself blushing and immediately dropped his lower lip into a snarl. His namesake, Original Elvis, would roll over in his grave if one of his progeny blushed just because a pretty girl smiled at him.

Then the blood rose to his cheeks again, but for a different reason. A young boy, and his mother were hurrying past him. It was Elvis at age six. The woman had even dyed the child's hair black just like his own mother had dyed his, as soon as he had hair to dye. He wondered if she had been a big enough fan to know ahead of time that Elvis was actually a natural blond. Would it help if he stopped her and talked, yelled or pleaded until she understood that her child was more than a life-sized collector's doll? Could he convince her to just let the child be himself. Probably not. It wouldn't have changed
his
mother.

Audrey's breakfast was almost finished. He wasn't in the mood to approach her now. Maybe he should wait until another day. He had told himself that every day for the past three months. The night before, when only the thought of her had sustained him through the endless repetitions of "Thank you very much," he had promised himself that he wouldn't let another week go by.

There was something special about this woman. He had felt it every time he had seen her. It wasn't just her beauty. He had seen other Audreys before. No, it wasn't the beauty. It was the moments that she didn't think anyone was watching her that made him fall for her. The look on her face would become wistful, and sad and haunting all at the same time. He recognized that look. He saw it every morning in the mirror. Something inside of her was trying to speak from behind her famous face. He wanted to know what it would say.

His throat tightened as he walked up behind her. "Do we know each other?"

"Why, do you think we're going to?" She answered with her back to him, probably bored by what she must have heard a million times.

"How would I know?"

"Because, I already know an awful lot of people and until one of them dies I couldn't possibly meet anyone else."

"Hmmm. Well, if anyone goes on the critical list, let me know." Any moment now she is going to laugh in my face and walk away.

"Mmmm, quitter. You give up awfully easy, don't you?" She turned to him, and stared him with amazingly clear, blue eyes.

"See anything you like?" He pointed at the rows of diamond necklaces and rings that filled the display.

"So many choices and so little -- money." She scrunched up her nose in mock disappointment.

"Just say the word."

"And you'll buy me my favorite?"

"No, but say the word anyway, I like to hear you speak."

"Well, you're no help." Again, she held him in her eyes.

This was it. "You have the most beautiful, blue eyes."

Her lip pouted and her forehead crinkled. "I hate my eyes. They should be brown. Beautiful, doe-like,
brown
eyes."

Fix it! His mind screamed at him. "Blue is nice." Lame. Really lame. Next time tell her that you think she's swell. That'll reel her in.

"Original Audrey had brown eyes. A clone should look exactly like the original. You look exactly like Original Elvis. Pre-fat days of course."

Why did everyone feel a need to comment on that? When you know for a fact that your genetic predisposition is to gorge on fried chicken, you just never eat it at all. If you do, at least ten people feel compelled to point out your genetic future.

He must have frowned without realizing it. "I meant that as a compliment," said Audrey.

"Actually, I'm not so perfect. I have a mole on my butt that's shaped like Illinois. I don't think he had one. You want to see?" He hoped he could coax a smile back on her face.

"Sure." She paused expectantly and then gave a wicked little laugh when he panicked at the thought of baring his bottom. "Just kidding. I guess like anything else, cloning can't be perfect. That's why I have fake ones."

"Excuse me?"

"I have fake eyes. I mean contacts. My eyes were tired so I took them out."

Neither spoke for a minute. "So, come here often?" He couldn't believe he just said that.

Neither could Audrey, obviously. She held him in her gaze for a moment and then started laughing again, but not unkindly. "Been practicing that line long?"

"Every morning in front of the mirror."

"Hmm," she yawned. "Sorry, It's been a long night. I need some more coffee."

"We could get some. We could go to the coffee shop."

She took a moment to evaluate him in his rhinestone jumpsuit and nodded. Only in Vegas could an Elvis in a white rhinestone jumpsuit ask an Audrey Hepburn in a black evening dress to coffee, and not have it be weird.

"What's your name?" She asked as they walked.

"Elvis Presley Schwartz." Pretty obvious. Like many parents of cloned children, his mother had wanted to be sure that the world would know exactly who he was. Like it was possible for them to forget his face.

"Oh good. I hate when you meet an Elvis and his name is Stan."

"Why?"

"It just seems wrong. My high school had an Elvis. His parents named him Frank."

Elvis shrugged his shoulders as if to say "so?"

"It wasn't just that. He dyed his hair red and pierced his nose. He even got a tattoo." She shook her head. "You can't undo a tattoo. I mean you can, but it'd still leave scar. Also, he never sang, never. Sometimes, I wonder what he's doing now. I imagine he's doing the exact opposite of what Elvis would do. What would that be? Probably an accountant. Don't you think that being an accountant would be the exact opposite of a rock and roll star?"