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The Heart Goes Last

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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?

XII | ESCORT Elvisorium

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.

“National Association of Broadcasters. TV, radio, all that. The see exhibits and listen to talks in the day, drink horrible coffee, the usual; then they hit the shows at night. Lot of single women, not always young. Stan, up for that?”

“Up for what?” says Stan cautiously.

“Escort Elvis. You’ve been doing great at the hospitals, nothing but stars and thumbs-up on the website Comments, so you should be fine. See a show, eat some food, drink some booze. They might hit on you, offer you extra to go up to their rooms. That’s where being gay can come in handy.”

“I can see that,” says Stan. “Maybe I need some of those gayness lessons.”

“But we need the client to have an overall positive experience. We’re all for gender equality. If the ladies want sex-for-cash, we provide it.”

“Wait a minute,” says Stan.

“Not you,” says Rob. “You’ll just give us a call on the cell, over at the UR-ELF Nightline, and we send one of the Elvis bots. Big markup on those! Like a super-dildo, only with a body attached. Vibrator built in, optional.”

“Wish I felt like that,” says Pete.

“Then you chat with them, pour them a drink, tell them you wish you were straight. When the Elvis arrives, you switch him on and he hums a little tune while you run over the instructions with the client: he responds to simple voice commands like love me tonight and all shook up. Then you wait in the lobby. You’ll have an earpiece, so you can hear it’s unfolding as per plan.”

Oh great, thinks Stan. Parked in a hotel lobby and eavesdropping while some mildewed hen has an orgasm. He’s had enough of insatiable women. He remembers Charmaine, the way she was when they were first married: her quasi-virginal restraint. He didn’t appreciate it enough. “Why wait in the lobby?” he says.

“So you can supervise the re-delivery. Plus, in case there’s a malfunction,” says Rob.

“Right,” says Stan. “How will I know?”

“If you hear too much screaming, time to act. Get up there fast and flip the Off switch.”

“It’ll sound different,” says Rob. “The screaming. More terrified.”

“No one wants to be fucked to death,” says Pete.

Why Suffer?

Ed has still not returned to the office. All that’s happened is that three men with Positron logos on their jacket pockets arrive with a large crate. It’s a stand-up desk, they say, and they have orders to install it in the office of the big boss. Once the desk is in they go away, and Charmaine is left to her own devices, which consist of slipping off her shoes and stockings and painting her toenails, behind the desk in case anyone comes in.