Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“We got a Mexican Elvis," Jerry said. "El Vez. One of the top veterans in the business. We got Oriental El-vises. We even got a broad or two. But we don't get black Elvises." He shrugged. "It's just a cultural thing."

“Why do Elvis when you can do Ray Charles?”

Matt nodded. Elvis had been a musical, stylistic bridge from black to white, but it still wasn't necessarily a two-way street, for either race.

“What other specialty Elvises are there?”

The two men exchanged another of their insiders' glances: should we tell him? Jerry decided to do exactly that. "It's a riot. The El-vises we got. Just when you think you've seen 'em all, along comes a whole new act. Like Velvet Elvis."

“Velvet Elvis?"

“Yeah, man. Very cool. Wears this black velvet jumpsuit with these neon decorations, just like a velvet painting."

“Beeeeau-ti-ful," Mike said, nodding and curling his lower lip instead of the Elvis upper one. "You should see that one under the stage lights. And it's a woman."

“You mean a dyke," Jerry corrected.

“Well, the jury is out on that one, but not the outfit.First class. Original. There's always room for originality in an Elvis competition."

“But not too original," Jerry said. "There's a certain ranking for the songs and stuff. You got to deliver on the classics. Can't go too far off the path."

“But Velvet Elvis is pretty impressive. Great shoulders."

“Yeah. Velvet Elvis is okay. I don't think she'll win shit. I mean, a woman ..."

“And then there's Velveeta Elvis."

“Yeah. Cheesy!”

Their raw crescendoes of laughter threatened to split jumpsuit seams. Matt had read that the overweight Elvis had actually done that.

“Styles his hair with Cheese Whiz!" Jerry got out between guffaws. "Dude from Dallas, where I guess Velveeta is the local, you know, cure-all."

“Yeah, they probably use it instead of Viagra there!" Both men were laughing themselves almost off their chairs.

“Anyhow, Velveeta Elvis is no lightweight. Must go two-seventy. And he has a white jumpsuit and all the stones are this yellow-orange—"

“Like those yellow bulbs they embed in streets. We call him 'Warning Light Elvis' too."

“That guy just won't give up.”

Matt hated to interrupt the laugh fest. "Anybody get so serious about impersonating Elvis that they don't give it up—ever? They won't go—" He glanced at Temple. She knew the phrase for what he was trying to say.

“They don't ever go out of character," she supplied.

The two guys barely blinked at her interjection, though they responded to it.

“Oh, yeah," Jerry said. "The Ever-Elvises. These are not professional-caliber impersonators. They never walk away from a gig. They are the gig."

“These yoyos show up at Graceland in costume! Tacky, tacky, tacky. We are talking wannabe wannabes.

See, we don't have any delusions. We know we aren't Elvis. We are performers. These guys, they are head cases. They gotta walk like Elvis, talk like Elvis, dress like Elvis, sing like Elvis out there in the real world. Among the public. On the street."

“Sad," Jerry put in for the coda.

“So ... you don't approve of people like that?" Matt wanted to be sure.

Mike had no doubt. "They give us all a bad name." "They should be taken out and shot," Jerry said. "Or stabbed?" Temple suddenly suggested.

The men were too deep in their disdainful duet to notice her, or the sharp relevancy of her question.

“Just drowned, maybe," Jerry conceded, as if one mode of murder were less violent than another.

“Yeah. Elvis is dead." Mike shook his dyed, lacquered head. "It's too bad that creeps like those aren't."

“Amen, brother.”

Mike and Jeff, Elvises of one mind under the skin, grinned absolute agreement at each other.

Chapter 17

Turn Me Loose

(Written for Elvis in 1959 when he was in the army; Fabian recorded it first, and it hit the Top Ten)

This is one occasion when I do not have to worry about keeping a low profile while working undercover. I mean, this Kingdome place is a zoo.

Flrst of all, you figure on dozens of performers milling around in the dressing room area. Not just chorus members, mind you, but all solo acts. (If you can ever consider impersonating someone else as a solo act.) Then you have the costumes, which are stiff enough with glittering gewgaws to stand on their own, like a space suit. I am beginning to think that these fancy jumpsuits are capable of going out and doing a show on their own power. I mean, in this case it is a very close call as to whether the man makes the clothes or the clothes make the man. Or, in this case, the King.

This makes me sorry to see my little doll and Mr. Matt Devine wasting their time going around and talking to var- ious of these impersonator dudes when it would be much wiser to cultivate a unique source. Talk to one Elvis impersonator, and you have talked to them all, is my point.