“Then go vomit,” Keith called after him. “Just make sure you don’t do it in your lunch pail again. Ah-ahaha-hahaha!”
Keith’s maniacal laugh was one of the few traits that endeared him to John. He shook off the lingering memory of his wife’s face as he reached over to pluck the joint from Keith’s fingers. “He doesn’t miss Nancy,” he said, “but I think he does miss riding the old white horse.”
“Just as well. The shit killed him in the end.” Keith frowned, pensively tapped his drumsticks between his
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legs. “Come to think of it, so did all the booze I was putting away….”
“You both bought it within weeks of each other, as I recall….”
“Yeah. So it did.” The wicked smile reappeared on his homely face. “But at least I managed to get old before I croaked. The kid, now, he was barely old enough to shave….”
” ‘Hope I die before I get old….’ ” John sang.
“Roger was full of shit and so was Pete. Ox didn’t say enough to be full of shit….”
“S’truth. Way I felt about George.”
” Ah-hahahahahahaha! Lord love a duck… or a bass player!” Keith reached up to touch his youthful, undamaged front teeth. “But I still miss my front tooth, you know. It was quite classy. The birds thought it had sex appeal. You reckon I may find another one from… ?”
“Hey! What’re y’all think you’re doing up there?”
John and Keith looked up at the sound of the baritone, southern-accented voice. The King was stalking down the right aisle from the sound booth, clapping his hands for attention. “Shit,” John murmured, discreetly stubbing out the roach behind him and palming it.
“I thought I told you,” the King bellowed, ” no drugs while we’re working!”
Keith looked at him blandly. “But we’re not working, mate,” he said in a maddeningly mild tone of voice. “We’re having tea.” He pointed up at the midafternoon sun. “See? It’s teatime.”
The King’s face became livid. “I don’t see any tea up there, son! All I see is that goddamn mari-hoochie I told you not to smoke during rehearsals! Now you get Sid and Brian back up there and you make sure you can play your
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asses off tonight, ’cause we got a riverboat coming in this afternoon, now you hear me?”
“Who’s the headliner?” John asked.
“The other band!” the King yelled. “And they’re gonna headline all week because you English assholes can’t get your shit together and an American band can and I don’t like your attitude and I think y’all play like a bunch of English queers and I don’t give two shits if you were one of the Beatles…!”
“Frankly,” John calmly interrupted, “neither do I.”
That shut him up, but John couldn’t resist twisting the knife a little more. He cleared his throat as he rested his chin in the palm of his right hand. “Tell me,” he inquired, “are you still blaming me for your movies?”
The King scowled at him but said nothing; he was never good for a wicked comeback. Keith hid his bemused smile behind his hand. “Goddamn fucking English eel-suckers,” he finally muttered as he turned around and began stalking back toward the soundboard. “Think you invented rock ‘n’ roll….”
Sunlight off the letters embroidered in semiprecious stones across the back of his redfish vest: TCOB. Taking Care Of Business. John watched the King walk away, feeling somewhat sad for him. A couple of years ago, when Elvis had started managing them, he still had his just-resurrected slimness and handsomeness, a sexuality reminiscent of his Sun Studios vintage years. Now he was becoming an obese wad again, much to everyone’s disgust, only worse than before: he had let his hair grow unchecked and his mammoth ass stuck out from beneath his kilt. Worst of all, he had developed into a mirror image of his old manager, albeit without the Colonel’s redeeming qualities. And he couldn’t sing worth a damn.
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But he was the King of Graceland; if you didn’t want to be a dragonfisher, a farmer, or a slave, you played by his rules.