Dixieland Sushi Page 10

  Kevin: Really? Oh, really?

  Me: You’ve always been the boy for me. (We share a passionate embrace.)

  Ms. Lowery, my piano teacher, however, had no appreciation of my Singing Face or Singing Hands (granted the hands were negated as I had to use them to play piano). But still, anyone could see how much emotion my hands were conveying when I pressed down the keys.

  Ms. Lowery, who wore bottle-thick glasses and her grayish hair in a tight, spiral perm, spent almost every piano lesson using what I only imagined was her highly developed ESP to discern that I had not practiced piano at all the previous week. Attempting to explain the importance of practicing Singing Face or Singing Hands fell on deaf ears.

  Eventually, Vivien stopped paying for my piano lessons, after Ms. Lowery told her I wasn’t practicing enough to make real improvement. Ms. Lowery also said she was worried that there might be something wrong with me, since every time I played, I squinched up my face and looked like I was either in pain or constipated. Ms. Lowery suggested that if I practiced more, I might not feel so much pain when I played.

  “But that’s my Singing Face!” I cried.

  “Ya-shee, I’m not throwing money away so you can make faces at the teacher,” Vivien scolded.

  That ended my dream of being a country western star.

  —Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid

  Stupid but fact of life. Win, lose, no matter. You make good fight, you win respect.

  “You would have made a bloody fantastic country western singer,” Riley tells me when I’ve finished my story. Riley is driving again and has his eyes on the road.

  “Is that sarcasm?” I ask him.

  “No, absolutely not. Speaking of country music, what do you say about stopping in Graceland? That sign back there said we’re only twenty minutes away.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But it’s Graceland,” Riley sighs. “There is nothing more American than Graceland.”

  “What about the White House? The Grand Canyon? Mount Rushmore?”

  “Not even close seconds,” Riley declares. “Have you been to Graceland?”

  “No,” I admit.

  “Me neither, and I think as American citizens, it’s our duty to go.”

  Riley starts humming Paul Simon’s ode to Graceland.

  “Stop that,” I say.

  His humming gets louder, and then he adds lyrics. “We’re going to Graceland … to Graceland … to Graceland.”

  “Please stop singing.”

  “I won’t stop unless you agree we’re taking a detour.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t make me start singing ‘Walking in Memphis.’” When I say nothing, he starts to sing. “I put on my blue suede shoes and …”

  “Stop! Please. You win.” I look at my watch. A little detour, I think, won’t hurt us too badly on time. “Okay, but we can only spend an hour there,” I say, sounding like someone’s mother.

  “Whooppee,” Riley says, clapping his hands together.

  “Keep your hands on the wheel,” I admonish. “What’s that?” I point to the red engine light, which has just flicked on.

  “Nothing to get your knickers in a knot over, most likely,” Riley says.

  Ten minutes later, a steady stream of white smoke starts wafting up from the hood of my car.

  “Uh-oh,” Riley says, pulling into the first gas station we see, next to the sign that says “This way to Graceland.”

  In the gas station parking lot, my car hisses and then dies, and Riley opens the hood to a theatrical show of steam and smoke that billows out.

  “I bet it’s the radiator,” Riley says, looking at my engine and sounding confident. “Bet your fan went out.”

  “What’s that?”

  “One of many things that keeps the engine cool,” Riley says.

  “You overheated my car,” I exclaim.

  “I didn’t overheat anything.”

  “You were driving. My car never has any problems when I’m driving.”

  “You never get above fifty.” Riley raises his voice.

  “This is your fault.”

  “It is not my fault. It’s your car’s fault. Anyway, it’s a waste of time to argue the point.”

  “Can we just stop arguing and find a mechanic?”

  “That’s what I was saying in the first place. That it’s a waste of time to argue.”

  “You weren’t saying that.”

  “I did so say that.”

  “Can we please stop arguing now?”

  “I’m not the one arguing.”

  “I think you are the one arguing, because I’m certainly not the one arguing.”

  “STOP! Enough,” Riley says, sounding exasperated. “Jaysis Bleedin’ Christ. Women’s logic.”

  Riley stomps off from the car and heads into the gas station. I follow behind him.

  Inside the small store, there are just two glass refrigerator cases, a counter, a freestanding display of car air fresheners, and the sweet, thick smell of marijuana.

  “Wow,” Riley says, then coughs. “Strong.”

  “Hello?” I shout, for good measure. “Anyone here?”

  “Does it look like anyone’s here?” Riley asks me.

  “Always the smart-ass.”

  “That’s Sir Smart-Ass to you.”

  “Say, you don’t think this place was robbed, do you?” I ask, suddenly feeling that the place has a creepy air.

  “No,” Riley answers matter-of-factly.

  “This is always how some horror movie starts. Stranded motorists. A weird gas station, and before you know it there’s some guy wearing a mask made of human skin wielding a chainsaw.”

  “You do realize you’re certifiable, don’t you?”

  “Innocent travelers are almost always the victims in horror movies. All the Friday the 13th movies. The Shining. Psycho.”

  Riley snorts. “Completely insane.”

  “Well, if I’m so crazy, why don’t you check behind the counter, just to make sure there’s not a dead clerk back there.”

  “It smells like weed in here, not like a crime scene.”

  “I don’t see you moving.”

  Riley leans over the counter. “You see there’s nothing to …”

  Suddenly a guy pops up, as if he’d been lying on the floor. He’s wearing a mechanic’s jumpsuit, and his hair is oily and flattened in weird places.

  Riley shouts in fright, causing me to scream, and we both jump back five feet.

  “Can I help you?” says the bleary-eyed clerk, who is swaying a little on his feet. His eyes are bloodshot, and I am positive he’s very high. He is clearly the source of the pot. He reeks of it.

  “Our car broke down,” Riley says. “We need it fixed.”

  “Huh?” says the clerk.

  “Our car,” Riley repeats.

  “What?”

  “Our car,” I say this time.

  “Huh?” The clerk says. His eyes are having trouble staying focused. They keep wanting to cross over his nose.

  “OUR CAR,” I shout. “IS BROKEN.”

  “Broken,” Riley echoes.

  “What you say?” says the terminally stoned car mechanic.

  “Mate, look, our car. See? Car?” Riley makes the international sign for car by pretending to drive an imaginary steering wheel.

  “Yeah,” the high car mechanic says. He sounds like he’s starring in his own Lil Jon video.

  “It’s overheated.”

  “What?”

  “Over. Heated.”

  “OVERHEATED!” I shout.

  “Oh? Yeah?” The high car mechanic’s tone is one of polite surprise.

  “Can you fix it?” Riley asks him.

  “Can I what?”

  “Fix it,” I say again.

  “Fix what?”

  “The car,” I say.

  The car mechanic blinks a few times. “Oh, yeah, yeah, sure. Not a problem.”

  “Can I talk to you a second?” I ask Riley
, tugging him by the arm away from the mechanic.

  “I don’t think I should leave my car here,” I tell Riley in a hushed whisper.

  “What’s the worst that happens?” Riley asks me.

  “He completely trashes my car.”

  “Last I looked, it was trashed,” Riley points out, glancing over to the car, which is still hissing and has steam and smoke puffing from the sides of the hood.

  “Good point.”

  “I don’t see that we have another choice, even if this guy is mashed.”

  “Mashed?”

  “High,” Riley explains.

  We both turn and look at the mechanic, who is staring intently at a piece of lint on the sewn-on name tag patch on his mechanic jumpsuit.

  “I don’t know.” I hesitate.

  Before I can say anything else, my cell phone rings. This startles the mechanic, who looks about for the source of the sound. Riley rolls his eyes. “Bloody cell phone—again.” He sighs. “Don’t you ever turn that thing off?”

  It’s Anne, my assistant.

  “I am SO sorry to bother you,” she starts. “It’s just that Michelle is a bit on the warpath and …”

  “Say no more,” I say. “Just tell her to leave her expense report on my desk and I’ll deal with it when I get back.”

  “I did, but she doesn’t seem very happy about it,” Anne says.

  I sigh, just as I watch a giant bus pull into the gas station. It has Elvis painted on the side doing a famous hip swivel and singing into an antique microphone. On the back of the bus are painted the words “Follow Us. We’re Going to Graceland.”

  We both watch as the bus driver gets out, inspects a wheel, and then hops back on the bus.

  “That’s our ride,” Riley says, taking me by the arm.

  “Anne, I’ve got to go,” I say, hanging up. “No way,” I tell Riley, shaking my head.

  “What else have we got to do?” Riley asks, a mischievous look in his eye.

  “Find a sober mechanic for my car, for one …”

  “Come on, we’re going to miss it,” Riley says, tossing my keys to the mechanic and tugging me in the direction of the bus.

  On the shuttle to Graceland, a retired couple on the seat behind us informs their neighbors that this is their fifth trip to the home of Elvis Aron Presley, and the tour just gets better every time. While Riley and I pretend not to listen, they slip into what sounds like a familiar argument—which room is the most impressive: the rec room (with three wall-embedded tele-visions), the jungle room (with the working waterfall), or Elvis’s racquetball court/hall-of-fame room?

  “Elvis played racquetball?” I ask Riley.

  “And you call yourself an American,” Riley says, disapproval in his tone. “You don’t even know anything about Elvis.”

  “Are there Elvis impersonators in England?” I ask Riley.

  “Oh, tons of them. Elvis is huge in the UK. My uncle moonlighted as Elvis once. The fat Elvis. He saved up his money for five years to take a trip to Graceland.”

  “Did he think it was worth it?” I ask, eyeing the front gates, complete with music notes carved into the wrought iron, with some skepticism.

  “Every shilling, he said.”

  Graceland is packed wall-to-wall with impersonators. There is some sort of impromptu vigil happening outside the mansion, and we are very lucky to get inside after being jostled through the onlookers.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Riley.

  “I dunno. Maybe somebody has spotted the King? In Vegas, they have running odds that the King is still alive. They’re a thousand to one.”

  “Well, maybe this time he made an appearance in a tortilla like the Virgin Mary.”

  “He’d prefer fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches.”

  “Why fried banana?”

  “Don’t you know your American history? That was his favorite.”

  “You know a frightening amount about Elvis,” I say.

  We walk through the doors of Graceland, and I feel like I’ve stepped back in time. The year is 1977. There is plenty of shag carpet and earth tones—avocado green, banana yellow, and brown. And, for some odd reason, lots and lots of white ivory monkey statues.

  Riley takes in the “jungle room”—the monkey statues, the exotic animal shag couches, the antler skull, the cascading waterfall down the gold brick wall—and then leans over to me and says, “This is fabulous. I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me buy the audio tour.”

  “It’s horrible,” I say. “And,” I add, noticing the shabby look of the shag carpet, “it’s a bit run-down.”

  “This,” Riley says, eyes gleaming, “is the most American place on earth.”

  “Do you think the King played racquetball in a sequined jumpsuit?” I ask as we walk into his personal racquetball room, which is decorated wall-to-wall with gold records.

  “God, I hope so,” Riley says.

  In the rec room, where there are three televisions embedded in the wall—one for every network station so that Elvis could watch all three network news stations simultaneously—Riley leans closer to me.

  “You think if Elvis were alive today, he’d have one television for every major cable channel? He’d have to fill up the whole room with TV sets.”

  “He’d have to trade in his Colt .45 for an Uzi to keep up with blasting that many televisions.”

  “Look, if you were incredibly rich, very eccentric, high on Mother’s Little Helper and a steady diet of fried foods and carbs, I think you’d want to shoot out your television sets, too.”

  We brush by a gaggle of Japanese tourists with cameras.

  “Your people,” Riley whispers to me, as we watch a hundred flashbulbs go off as they take a picture of his wall of gold records.

  “Very nice,” I say. “I’d point out your people, except I think even you can recognize the people with really bad dental hy-giene.”

  Riley gives me a smile full of mischief. “If Elvis were alive today, I think he’d be the spokesperson for stomach-stapling surgery and he’d spend two months out of the year campaigning for ultraconservative Republicans.”

  “I think he’d be the spokesperson for Viagra and Doritos.”

  “There would be plenty of Elvis to go around, I’m sure,” Riley says.

  At the end of the tour, Riley insists we buy fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches at the souvenir diner, along with a bumper sticker that reads “I’ve died and gone to Graceland” and an “Elvis Lives!” T-shirt.

  “I got a gift for you,” Riley says, outside the diner.

  “I don’t even want to see.”

  “I picked it out just for you.”

  Riley presents me with a red velvet box. I open it up to see a plastic Elvis head on an adjustable ring.

  “His head spins around, see?” Riley says, putting the ring on and spinning Elvis’s sunglass-wearing face around and around.

  “Does this mean we’re engaged?”

  “Only if we can get married at Graceland,” Riley says, flashing me his impish Colins grin.

  At the garage, the mechanic, still bleary-eyed and, if possible, even more disoriented, doesn’t recognize us for a full fifteen minutes, even after I stand by my own car in the garage and point to it.

  “I haven’t gotten a chance to look at it,” the mechanic says.

  “What do you mean you haven’t even looked at it?” I am livid.

  “Merv called in sick, and we’re swamped,” he says, shrugging.

  I look around the completely deserted gas station. There’s no car here but mine and one other, an old pickup truck that is sitting on blocks.

  “I can probably fix it tomorrow,” the stoned mechanic says.

  Great. We’re already a half-day behind schedule. At this rate, we could be in danger of missing the rehearsal dinner in two days. Vivien is going to be furious.

  “Come back tomorrow, around eleven,” says the stoned mechanic. “Should be done by then.”

  “This i
s all your fault,” I tell Riley.

  “You sure you don’t want me to drive Old Red up to get you?” Bubba asks me on the phone. Old Red is Bubba’s prized vintage Chevy pickup.

  “No, Dad. We’ll be fine.”

  “We?”

  “Riley is with me,” I say.

  “Who’s Riley?”

  “The boy I told you about. The one who’s coming to the wedding.”

  “Hmmmm. Well, if you like him, I like him. But if he tries anything funny, be sure to tell him about my gun safe.”

  “I will.”

  “Now, here’s your mama.”

  Vivien is even less understanding about my little detour.

  “Ya-shee,” she sighs, sounding despondent. “You’re just trying to make things difficult for me.”

  “I’m not deliberately trying to make things difficult.” I want to remind her that I am not the difficult daughter. That title usually falls to Kimberly.

  “Even Kimberly is flying. Why couldn’t you fly?”

  “You know why,” I say.

  “Just like your father. He’s scared of flying, too! You are just like your father.” This is the worst insult Vivien can think of, and she uses it only when she’s really frustrated, like the time when I was seven and left a half-eaten Dairy Queen dipped ice-cream cone to melt in between the cushions of her backseat.

  “I’m doing my best to get there,” I say.

  “Ya-shee. Try harder. What are you trying to do? Step on a crack—give your mother a heart attack?”

  “Break your mother’s back,” I correct.

  “That, too,” Vivien says and sighs. “Well, you know there is nothing more important than family. You need to be here. This is family.”

  This is one of Vivien’s favorite lectures. She likes to speak about the Nakamura clan as if we’re part of the Japanese syndicate.

  “I know, and I’ll be there,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re all booked up,” says the man behind the Motel 6 counter, where Riley and I have ended up after walking two miles from the gas station. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s Elvis Week.”

  “What does that mean exactly?” I ask.

  “We’re celebrating the Twenty-fifth anniversary of the King’s death. Didn’t you see the candlelight vigil outside Graceland?”

  “That would explain the busload of Elvis impersonators,” Riley says.