Dixieland Sushi Page 11
“Anywhere you think we might be able to get a room?” Riley asks him.
“Well, my cousin works over at the Heartbreak Hotel. He said they had one room left about fifteen minutes ago,” the clerk says.
“Did you say Heartbreak Hotel?” I ask him.
The lobby of the Heartbreak Hotel looks like Barney on acid: there’s bright purple, red, and blue everywhere, and animal print trim on everything. In the lobby, we nearly collide with a pack of Elvis impersonators.
“That’s all right, mama,” says the one I nearly slam into. He’s wearing a white jumpsuit open to his navel, a purple scarf, and giant gold Elvis sunglasses.
“Are you lonesome tonight?” says another, this one wearing a gold jumpsuit and silver sunglasses, and very large, oddly real-looking muttonchops.
“Aye, but she’s a hunk, a hunk of burning love,” says the third, except it comes out sounding less like Elvis and more like Scotty from Star Trek.
“I think they’re from Scotland,” Riley whispers to me. “Look at the fourth one,” he says, nodding his head in their direction.
As I watch, a fourth Elvis joins them, only he’s wearing a plaid skirt with his leather jacket.
“There are so many things wrong with that, I can’t even begin to start,” I say.
“Now, this is the America I’m talking about,” Riley says, taking in the tiger-print-trimmed carpet in the lobby.
“I think I’m going to go blind.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Riley asks me.
“You’re in luck,” says the woman behind the counter. She’s dressed surprisingly normally, in a mauve polo shirt. “We have one junior suite that just opened up. The couple canceled this morning. It’s The Burning Love Junior Suite.”
“The Burning Love Suite?” Riley echoes.
I am certain that I turn bright red.
We share the elevator ride with a man who has a parrot on his shoulder dressed like Elvis. The parrot is wearing a red cape and a golden medallion and fake Elvis boots on its clawed feet.
“Six please,” the man with the Elvis parrot tells us.
Riley presses the button and the parrot caws “Thank you, thank you very much,” sounding eerily like Elvis.
Riley is looking straight ahead in the elevator trying not to laugh. I am staring at the parrot, which is gnawing on its owner’s shirt and periodically barking out lyrics to “Love Me Tender.”
The parrot sounds so sincere that I lean a little closer in, only to have it snap its beak at me.
I jump back. Riley snorts.
We get off at our floor, and the parrot shouts after us “Thank you, thank you very muuuch.” This could not get worse. Then we open the door to the room.
Everything is red velvet and heart shaped—heart-shaped bed, heart-shaped ottomans, couches, and red carpet. There are also gold drapes, gilded mirrors on every wall, and wall-to-wall purple-and-red-heart carpet. There’s champagne chilling by the bedside, which is, coincidentally, a king-size heart. Distracted by the flamboyant colors, I don’t immediately see the worst problem of the room: there’s only one bed. A king-size bed.
“I feel like I should be carrying you over the threshold,” Riley remarks.
“I think I need a drink.”
“Dead right.”
* * *
Riley flags down a cab and asks to be taken to the place where they make the strongest drinks, and we end up at one end of Beale Street, lined with neon signs for dozens of bars, and the cabdriver says, “Take your pick.”
We go into the closest one, which also happens to be promoting “the largest karaoke stage south of the Mason Dixon” and seems to be ground zero for the Elvis Invasion.
“Question: What do you get when you mix karaoke night and Elvis Week?” Riley asks me.
“This?”
“I was going to say your idea of hell.”
We take our seats next to a throng of Asian Elvises, who rival only William Hung in sheer talent. They’re cheering for one of their members, who is on stage singing “Ain’t Nothing But a Hound Dog” in a screech so terrible it makes me yearn for the cat-strangling sounds of “She Bangs.”
The karaoke bar looks like a Benetton ad. There are black Elvises, white Elvises, Asian Elvises, Hispanic Elvises, even female Elvises. Scottish Elvises, Russian Elvises, You Name It Elvises. Elvis in his early days. Elvis in his late days. Elvis in sequins with giant gold belt buckles and Elvis in his military uniform. Even, I see in the crowd, one Elvis in drag.
“To think that all it took to unite us as a world was polyester sequined jumpsuits with butterfly collars,” I say.
“Mock this all you want, but this is America,” Riley says. “It doesn’t get more American than this.”
“It could if we added a Wal-Mart, a McDonald’s, and a civil law suit.”
“So jaded,” Riley says, shaking his head. “Look at all these people. Look how happy they are.”
The Asian Elvis onstage is windmilling his arms at a dangerous speed, getting ready for his finale.
“I still think I need a drink,” I say. “Preferably one with lots of vodka.”
“Two All-Shook-Up martinis coming up,” Riley says.
Two martinis later, I begin to relax. I realize that it’s probably a bad idea to drink two martinis on an empty stomach, since I’d long since burned through those peanut butter and banana sandwiches, but these are desperate circumstances. If being in a room full of Elvises doesn’t make you want to drink, I don’t know what will.
“I dare you to get up there and sing one song,” Riley says. “Let’s see this famous Singing Face of yours.”
I laugh and shake my head. “I am far, far too sober for that.”
“One song! What? Are you afraid of being shown up by Yoko Ono’s brother over there?”
“No,” I say. “Why should I sing? Why don’t you sing?”
“Because if I sing, you’ll fall madly in love with me. I have that sort of power over women.”
I snort. But internally my heart does a little jump. Does this mean he’d want me to fall in love with him? There’s that flirting territory again.
“It’s a fact. My song voice is in a frequency that directly correlates to the emotional center of a woman’s brain.”
“This I have to see.”
“Fine.” Riley finishes his martini with a flourish. “I’ll sing, but you’ve been warned.”
“You aren’t really going to sing,” I say, still not believing him.
“Watch me.”
He marches straight up to the line of karaoke singers and pretends to flip through the songbook. I am almost certain it’s all for show.
It’s at this point that an unusually hefty Elvis pushes his way through the crowd on his way to the restroom and bumps my arm, sending me nearly on top of Mini Elvis—an Elvis impersonator wearing a red cape and gold jumpsuit who is no taller than my waist.
“Hey, darling, watch where you put those blue suede shoes,” he says, pushing up his Elvis sunglasses with one finger and giving me the trademark Elvis sneer.
“Sorry,” I say.
“You seem sadder than a hound dog, sugar,” says Mini Elvis.
“I’m fine, really.”
“You wanna see my Elvis Pelvis? Chicks dig my Elvis Pelvis.”
“Uh, no thanks. That’s okay.” My eyes slide to Riley, who winks at me from his position near the stage.
“Come on! I don’t bite,” says Mini Elvis. He hops up on a nearby chair and starts gyrating his hips. “One for the money …” he says.
“How about you stop for the money?”
“Two for the show. Three to get ready, now go, cat, go …”
Mini Elvis’s shiny rhinestone belt buckle is a little hypnotic; still, I think I am too sober for this.
I look up and see that the current karaoke performer, Elderly Elvis, is having difficulty finish up his version of “All Shook Up,” because he is in danger of losing his dental partial.
“I’m sorry. I’m with someone.”
“Who?” he asks me. “You show me my competition.”
Just then, Riley takes the stage, his back to the audience, microphone in hand.
The beginning chords of “I Can’t Help Falling in Love” come blaring over the speakers. Riley does a slow half turn. I see that he’s borrowed someone’s Elvis sunglasses, complete with muttonchops that hang from the earpieces. Every time he moves his head, the muttonchops sway from side to side. He flips up the collar of the Hawaiian shirt he’s slung over his Smiths T-shirt, and I can’t help it, I laugh.
“Him,” I say, pointing to Riley, who is starting to sing.
“Wise men say,” Riley sings. “Only fools rush in …”
He can actually sing. Really sing. Not just one of those weak, barely on key voices. He can sing.
Onstage there’s something even more magnetic about Riley. No one can take their eyes off him. Some of the women in the audience start cheering. He points to one woman in the front, and she joins him onstage. “Shall I stay? Would it be a sin? If I can’t help, Falling in love with you …”
She does a little happy dance, and then Riley moves on to another woman. He’s working the crowd like a pro, getting them into it, and I find myself wondering what else I don’t know about Riley.
Then he points to me and motions me onstage.
I shake my head.
He points again.
“No,” I mouth.
“Yes,” he nods, more vigorously this time.
The crowd starts to cheer. Hands push me to the front of the stage, and then I’m standing there, in front of a room full of Elvises, and Riley is looking right at me and singing, “Take my hand. Take my whole life, too. ’Cause I … can’t … help … falling in love … with yoooou.”
Riley finishes on his knees, his head slumping forward, and nearly loses his Elvis muttonchops. My heart is pounding. This, I think, is most definitely flirting.
The crowd goes wild, and someone yells, “Encore.”
“What did I tell you?” Riley says to me.
“I’m impressed,” I say. My head feels a little fuzzy, either from the proximity of Riley’s face to mine, or the fact that the All-Shook-Up martinis are taking effect.
“No,” Riley corrects. “You’re in love.”
Riley flashes me a grin, and I wonder if he might be right.
I consume three more All-Shook-Up martinis, and by the end of the night have:
Danced with Mini Elvis
Sung “Heartbreak Hotel” badly with Riley
Got a lei from Blue Hawaii Elvis
Judged a muttonchop contest
Joined in an Elvis conga line.
By the time Riley can drag me back to our hotel, I am laughing so hard that I have given myself the hiccups. I am leaning heavily on Riley, as my legs don’t seem to be working properly.
In the lobby, we stumble into an all-Elvis wedding. That is, an Elvis impersonator marrying an Elvis impersonator and a Priscilla Presley look-alike.
Elvis is saying, “I do—Thank-you-very-much.”
“Maybe we should get married,” Riley says. “You could arrive at your cousin’s wedding already married, and wearing Elvis muttonchops.”
“It would almost be worth it just to see the look on her face,” I say. “I doubt, though, an Elvis marriage would hold up in court.”
“We do have the Hunk of Burning Love Suite,” Riley says. “It would make a perfect honeymoon spot.”
I stumble and Riley catches me. We are flirting. Yes, definitely flirting. In my muddled state, however, I am having a hard time remembering why this is a bad thing.
In the hotel room, Riley tries to sit me down on a chair but I take him down with me, so that he’s nearly sitting on top of me. I hiccup again—loudly.
“This must be your half-Japanese side at work.”
“What?” I say, playing with the collar of his shirt.
“Your inability to hold your pints.”
“I can hold my liquor just—hiccup—fine,” I slur.
“Ummm-hmmm,” Riley says, doubtful.
“I can,” I protest.
“You wouldn’t last two hours in a pub in England,” he tells me. “Besides, your face is bright red.”
I open my mouth to answer but end up hiccuping again.
Riley laughs and shakes his head at me.
“It’s a good thing I’m a gentlemanly bastard son of the cousin of an earl,” Riley says. “Or else I could take advantage of you.”
Flirting! My heart sings.
“Your lineage changes daily,” I say.
“That’s what my mum says.” He starts to throw some pillows and a blanket on the floor next to the giant heart-shaped bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“Making my bed.”
“What? I have cooties or something?” I ask him.
“If by cooties you mean an alluring female form, then yes, you do,” Riley says.
“Alluring?” I echo, coming close to him, except “alluring” comes out more like “allurringed” in my drunken state.
I throw my arms around him and say, “You’re cute.”
“Thanks,” Riley says.
“I mean it. You’re cuuute.”
I am too drunk to heed the dull warning bell at the back of my head. The one that’s trying to remind me that even though he’s on break from his girlfriend, it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have one, exactly.
The little devil who sits on my right shoulder is telling me to take off his pants, and the angel—the one on the other shoulder, the one who is normally the voice of clear morality and reason—is drunk and shouting for Jell-O shots.
“I think we both have had too much to drink,” Riley says. “And by ‘we,’ I mean ‘you.’”
“I’m just fiiine.”
“I think maybe you should sit down.”
“You’re no fun when I’m drunk. I mean, you’re no fun when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Right, that’s what I meant.”
“Careful,” Riley cautions.
“Why?”
“Because you’re jumping on the bed, and I think you’re going to hit the golden chandelier.”
“I’m not going to fall,” I say, just as my foot slips off the bed and I hit the floor with a thunk.
Riley dives after me, and somehow we’re both rolling on the floor, and when we come to a stop the room is still spinning, and so is Riley’s face, which is now just inches from mine.
We sit there, nose to nose for what seems like eternity. Then Riley’s face gets even closer to mine, and suddenly we’re kissing, which soon progresses into a full-on teenage make-out party, with roving hands over rumpled clothes.
I’m not sure if it’s Riley’s lips on mine or the All-Shook-Up martinis, but the room is definitely spinning.
Riley lets his hands wander down into the waistband of my pants and into X-rated territory. I realize I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much.
“Riley …” I start thinking that while he’s on break from his girlfriend, it implies he might be getting back together with her. “Is this a good idea?”
“No,” he says. “It’s definitely not a good idea. But I don’t think I want to stop, do you?”
I laugh. “No.”
“Good,” Riley says, giving my butt a good squeeze. “God, I’ve been wanting to do this for ages.”
And then we’re tearing at each other’s clothes in such a frantic hurry to get to where we’re going that all I remember is a whirlwind of arms and legs and smooth bare patches of skin.
Two explosive—Disney World Fireworks Finale—orgasms later, we lay curled together, panting and slick with sweat, and the room isn’t spinning so much as doing a slow dance.
I’m happy for the first time in a long time, happy and giddy and still a little
drunk. And Riley’s arms are around me, and I feel safe and snug and high on the smell of him so close to me.
“Riley,” I sigh, tangling my hands in his hair. He is laying scrumptious kisses down the sensitive part of my throat. I close my eyes, feeling the strong pull of alcohol, the lead call of sleep, and even though I battle violently to keep awake, I think I am losing. It’s what happens when you go without sleep for as long as I have. Even one martini could put me under the table. Never mind five.
And just as I am sure I am going to pass out, three words pop out.
“I love you,” I sigh.
And that is the last thing I remember.
—Mr. Miyagi,The Karate Kid II
Sometime what heart know, head forget.
RETURN OF 1985
By Valentine’s week of 1985, I got the best news ever. Kevin Peterson and Christi Collins had broken up—at last. It was rumored that Christi Collins wanted to go with Jacob Langford, whose parents had a pool in their backyard and a time share in Orlando, Florida.
For the first Valentine’s Day in two years, Kevin Peterson was once again a bachelor. And I wasn’t about to let an opportunity like this pass me by. It was now or never.
Every Valentine’s Day since third grade had been pretty much the same. Everyone in class would get their own paper bag stapled to the bulletin board, and then classmates would fill up that bag with mini valentines bought from the five-and-dime.
I used extra care in picking out my valentines from the drugstore. I passed on the Mickey Mouse and Scooby-Doo (too obvious) as well as Care Bears and Rainbow Brite (too cutesy). In the end, I went with Garfield. He was trendy but not too trendy.
I laid out all twenty-four valentines, looking for just the right message I wanted to send to Kevin Peterson. I nixed all the Odie cards—they were the type I’d save for the Billy Connors of class—the carefully neutral lame ones like “Happy Valen-ARF-tine’s!” I also nixed the one with Garfield saying, “I love you almost as much as I love lasagna.”
It took me a solid hour to decide on which valentine to send. I had narrowed it down to a simple but coy “Happy Valentine’s Day” with Garfield opening his hands for a hug, and the more direct, and more risky, Garfield holding out a big red heart and asking the question “Will you be mine?”