18
Star Man dances around the ring, roundhouse kicking the air as The Amazon circles, his green webbed fingers grab the purple muscular shoulders as he leans in, starts to eat his head, his red lips chomping, the blood spraying in 8-bit streaks across the screen. Monkey mashes the buttons but it’s too late. He’s thrown to the pixelated mat and pinned as the screen flashes “GAME OVER” followed by a sheriff’s star, “Don’t Do Drugs” in block letters underneath.
He looks up from his phone as Sam gives him a friendly pat, sits in the chair in front of him.
“How’s that game treating you? Learn anything?”
Monkey shakes his head.
The other wrestlers mill around the men’s room of the armory. No one’s talking much. Lots of different colored gym bags, men looking in the mirror, getting their makeup right, adjusting capes, lacing boots. Sam’s dressed in a grey pin-stripe suit that’s too big for him. Monkey’s in a black t-shirt with bone letters that reads, “The Missing Link.”
Sam scratches his beard, leans in not sure how to begin, clasps his hands together then looks him in the eye.
“You’re…not from around here. I think we’ve established that.” He looks deep in thought then raises his hand as if something’s about to come, thinks some more, then finally, “You probably aren’t going to understand this but…Monkeys mean something different in America…in the south…than they do in…”
“China?”
“Right.” He smiles. “I’ve dined at my fair share of Red Star Buffets. There’s always a monkey on the placemat. Part of the astrological calendar right? They represent,” he rotates his hand, “mischief, cleverness, something like that?”
“Something like that,” Monkey says cocking his head.
“Our astrology is…different here. Monkeys don’t conjure up the same…associations.” A man in a unitard with a lighting bolt on his crouch walks by. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”
Monkey shakes his head.
“How can I put this?” Wrinkles spread across his forehead. “Some people don’t think highly of,” he touches his hand to his chest, “black people. They think of us as animals and they associate us with monkeys.”
Monkey frowns.
“Why is that bad?”
Sam laughs.
“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.” He clears his throat. “I’m not trying to put down monkeys.” He leans back. “How can I explain this?” A man in a leather mask and a zebra cape walks by. “These people…they don’t like Monkeys and they don’t like black people so they link the two. Kind of a fuck you to both of us, you know? They think of Monkeys as dumb, savage, untrainable and that’s how they think about us. Like we’re animals. That if we were given every opportunity we’d never amount to anything because we have this…I don’t know…this thing inside that we can’t escape from. Does that make sense?”
The man in the leather mask hovers by them then asks, “Have you seen my feather boa?”
Sam turns.
“I’m having a conversation here!” Lets out a deep sigh. “Did you try the plastic bins? Sometimes people put things in there.” Turns back to Monkey. “Sorry about that.”
“Who are these people? The people you're talking about.”
“That’s the thing. Back in the day, it was easy to tell because everyone was open about it. Down here, in the south, some still are, but nowadays, you’re not sure who they are. Could be anyone. Who knows how many are here tonight. Might be one, a handful or the whole damn crowd.”
Monkey looks confused but nods.
“So you might be thinking, why’s he telling me this? Well, we’re performers, and more than that, we’re wrestlers and what do wrestlers do?”
He thinks for a moment.
“Wrestle?”
“Sure. That’s what we do with our bodies but what we’re really doing is finding that thing, that thing that gets under their skin, and then we go out there,” he says pointing to the red curtain,” and we needle them with it relentlessly.” He puts his hand on Monkey’s shoulder. “You’re a heel. Your job is to make them hate you. Really hate you. Most of these people have come to laugh, to make fun of the fact that we’re grown men in tights that pretend to beat each other up, but what they don’t expect is that we’re going to take their insecurities, lay them in front of everyone and laugh in their face.” He pokes Monkey in the chest. “And that’s how we get them. That’s how we turn them from being dumb hicks here to laugh into dumb hicks that want to murder us.”
Monkey thinks this over.
“Shouldn’t we be doing something…more useful?”
Sam shakes his head.
“That’s not our job. Our job is to make a buck. To get asses in seats. To make them remember us, so while they’re yelling every profane thing they can think of back home, we’re at the bar spending their money.” He takes a Liggett out of the pack, taps it gently on the table. “Look. I know you’re a monk and you’re trying to make the world a better place, but I’m here,” he points to the concrete floor, “trying to get what I can, while I can. And is there a better way? Yeah. There’s a better way. But it’s not our way. It’s not my way. I make do with what I have, and right now I have a magic fucking monkey in a hick town in south Florida, and yes, I’m a black man, but I’m also a performer, and I couldn’t live with myself,” he points to his oversized suit, “as a performer if I didn’t exploit what I have sitting in front of me. Do you understand?”
Monkey nods.
“Now leave the talking to me. I’m your manager so you just have to walk up to that ring nice and slow and look at them like they don’t mean shit, and then we’ll introduce the babyface and he’s going to come out and the crowd’s going to roar and he’ll dance around and taunt you and then that bell’s going to ring and you’re going do what we’ve practiced, ok?”
“Ok,” Monkey says.
“They’re about to play our music. When you hear those first notes, your whole body’s going to feel it and you’re going to want to run out and jump into that ring. Don’t. Wait. Wait till you get that feeling and then wait some more. Let them stand there looking at that curtain for as long as you can and then when you can’t stand it anymore, you push through and let them see who you are. Becky! Christa! Come here.” Two women in short shorts and tube tops walk over. “You’re going to follow him in, put your arms around him and do all the things I told you ok? It’s almost time. You ready?”
Monkey cracks his neck and smacks his hands together as the “oi’s” from AC/DC’s TNT echo across the armory. The crowd immediately starts booing as the chords crunch the opening rhythm and Monkey starts hopping up and down. Sam peeks through the curtain as a gravelly voice blares over the PA.
“See me ride out of the sunset
on your color TV screen
Out for all that I can get
if you know what I mean
Women to the left of me
Women to the right
Ain't got no gun
Ain't got no knife
Don't you start no fight”
The guitar drags as Sam throws open the curtain and strides out. Monkey, Becky and Christa follow behind as the chorus erupts. The crowd stands and boos, some throw cups, hands to their mouths screaming as Monkey glares with his most ferocious demon face. Sam leans his weight against the ropes, holds it open as Monkey steps in and goes to his corner. Becky and Christa kiss both his cheeks then take his shirt off leaving him in a pair of tiger print spandex, his small hairy frame bouncing up and down shadow boxing as the music is cut and Sam grabs the mic from the announcer.
“I’ve been on the road so long all these dumb hick towns look the same. What’s the name of this one again?”
“Wauchula!” the crowd yells.
Sam strides around the ring not missing a beat.
“Wachula. That’s right. Went to the bar last night to try and pick up one of these Wauchula women,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “but they were all so ugly I ended up sitting by myself googling your stupid town.” Boo’s rain down. “And it turns out that Wauchula’s an Indian name. Means, ‘Call of the sandhill crane’. Did you know that? Pretty poetic. Takes quite a mind to come up with a name like that.” Another pause. “Too bad your ancestors were degenerate Indian murdering fucks. Didn’t think too much of black people either did they?” More boos. Finger-pointing. A few laughs mixed with the shrill scream of a woman in the front row. “That’s why it must really piss you off to see a handsome black man up here surrounded by all these beautiful women,” he grabs Becky pulling her close, “and your poor dumb ass is sitting there hoping one day that fat corn feed cow of a woman at your local VFW will let you slip it in her one more time before you die. Isn’t that right Becky?”
She laughs and nods as popcorn falls like confetti.
“Wauchula. Did you know your claim to fame is being the cucumber capital of the world?” The crowd cheers. Sam drops the mic to his side shaking his head as the cheers die down. “Imagine being proud of a cucumber. How d’you guys get to growing them anyway? Was it because these Wauchula women finally got fed up with…”
He’s interrupted by “Eye of the Tiger” as a young man in American flag trunks bursts through the curtain wearing the championship belt. The crowd erupts as The Golden Boy grabs the mic and Sam stumbles out of the ring taking the best pratfall he can manage.
“I want to say on behalf of all the decent people of Wauchula,” he waits for the applause to end, “I couldn’t stand back there and hear that bull corn for another darn minute,” he continues over the cheers, “because the people of Wauchula are the most decent, welcoming, sincerest bunch of folks I’ve ever had the pleasure of growing up with and you can say all the things you want, but we’re here to wrestle so why don’t we settle this in the ring!”
He drops the mic, throws off his black nylon jacket emblazoned in sequins, struts around waving to the audience as Monkey stands in the corner, looks to Sam who gives him the “OK” sign, mouths the words, “Don’t kill him,” as the bell rings and the wrestlers move to the center.
The Great Sage Equal to Heaven
squares off with The Golden Boy
They grapple, stomping on the mat
moving into position
as Monkey’s thrown off the ropes
ducks under an outstretched arm
only to come from behind
and deliver a hammer blow
to the Golden Boy’s head
Among the boos and sweat
two men work in secret
trying their best to take
an elbow to the face
a well-timed kick to the crotch
writhing in pain
holding their balls
over nothing
as the referee’s thrown to the floor
and the Golden Boy leaps from the top rope
Everyone rises
as he comes crashing
and Monkey’s lifeless body
lies mangled
in the center of the ring
Monkey opens an eye to see if he’s expected to do something as The Golden Boy struts around taking in the cheers. He looks up to the metal joists above him, counts the lines in a single column, then gets bored, looks over to the people in the crowd, the glee in their faces as a big boot is lifted and comes down on his head. There’s a woman holding a corn dog, bathed in golden light, her hand clenched tightly around the slender wood rod as she waves it at him, a large hunk bitten off, the meat of the dog exposed. Her red lips open, scream words he doesn’t understand, as another black boot comes down on top of him.
“Get up,” The Golden Boy whispers hovering above, then louder, “Get UP!”
Monkey does not get up. He’s too busy watching them laugh and drink and point, their phones raised, taking pictures, furiously sharing a small snapshot of a monkey lying on a mat, a man’s boot on his face.
”They hate me,” he thinks, “but…is it enough?” He ponders this as The Golden boy tugs on his arm. “No.” He’s pulled to his feet. “I can make them hate me more.”
Monkey grabs The Golden Boy, swings him around then tosses him thirty feet in the air. Everyone’s eyes look to the ceiling as he leaps, bursts into flames, does a triple summersault then sails down smacking him in the middle of the ring breaking the spring and sending the ropes flying into the crowd. The entire auditorium grows silent as Monkey stands grinning.
Sam buries his head as a man in a tank top jumps out of his seat, points a fat angry finger at him.
“That nigger’s got a magic monkey!”
The front row clears as the crowd knocks over the guardrails.
Monkey turns to face them, eyes blazing.
“We gotta get out of here,” Sam says touching his shoulder. “C’mon!”
They duck down behind the ring then scramble underneath as
Metal chairs clang on the concrete
whistles and screams
the smell of mace
a thousand footsteps all at once
in different directions
boots stomp
bodies fall on the mat
yelps of joy
as grown men
fling themselves on top of one another
the security rushing in
clears the crowd
doors slam shut
megaphones blare
as the yells fade
and the echos in the hall
grow to an ominous
silence
Monkey and Sam poke their heads out. No one’s left except two security guards looking a little dazed, gold lacquered name tags, Kurt and Kalvin, pinned on tan uniforms. They survey the wreckage, kick a few beer cans and shake their heads as Sam and Monkey get to their feet.
“Jesus,” Kurt says.
“Certainly got them boys riled up,” Kalvin says taking a closer look at Monkey.
“Lil’ sensitive since his wife left him,” Kurt says pointing to the closed door past the scattered metal chairs and styrofoam cups, “on account of his small penis.”
“That’s what she says,” Kalvin butts in. “Heard she left him for bein’ an alcoholic.”
“Little penises don’t help matter’s none.”
“Sure don’t.”
“Got a regular size one myself,” Kurt says patting his crouch.
“Me too.”
“No complaints so far,” Kurt says smiling.
“Though they say size don’t matter.”
“They do say that.”
“They say a lot of things though.”
They both laugh. Kalvin picks up a half-empty beer can and tosses it in the trash.
“My wife was sayin’ the other day ‘bout this exercise she heard on the TV where you squeeze your muscles and it’s supposed to make your vagina smaller. Said she saw it on one of those daytime talk shows.”
Kurt shakes his head.
“Talkin’ ‘bout vaginas in the daytime.”
“In my day they didn’t talk about vaginas. Big or small.”
“Or penises for that matter.”
“This being a wrestling match, I suppose you ought to be prepared for that kinda talk.”
“Modern times and all.”
Kalvin picks up the championship belt, throws it over his shoulder.
“That boy never had much sense.”
”Even less so on account of his wife.”
“That woman put up with a lot.”
”Or a little, if you know what I mean.”
They both laugh.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says interrupting. “Maybe I’m the only one confused here, but what the hell are you talking about?”
Kurt tips his hat back and points to the double doors leading out of the armory again.
“Karl. The sleeveless one that charged the stage.”
“Him and the entire Klan from central Florida is out in the parking lot waiting for you boys.”
Sam looks toward the door.
“So you boys going to help us out or what?”
Kalvin points to his badge.
“We’re just the security for the armory. Not all of Wauchula.”
“It’s our job to protect you to those doors.”
“After that you’re on your own.”
Monkey and Sam walk over and peek out the window.
Three men
in pointy klan outfits
stand in the parking lot
a two-foot tall cross
made out of 1x2’s
burns on a Hampton Bay Ashcraft
30” steel fire pit
lighting up their eyes
as they peer out
the almond-shaped holes
of their hoods
“There’s three guys,” Sam says looking back.
“Like I said,” Karl says walking up behind. “The Klan.” He waves and calls out. “Hey Darrell!”
The Klansman on the right waves back.
“Why don’t they like crosses?” Monkey asks.
Sam watches the flames.
“It’s not that they don’t like crosses. It’s like…if you have a van but you want to make it more badass. What do you do?”
“Put flames on it,” Kalvin says.
“Everyone knows that.”
Monkey watches it burn as one of the Klan steps forward.
“You boys better come out or else…” But before he can finish Monkey’s pushed open the doors standing as tall as he can manage as he adjusts his tiger-striped undies. The three Klansman exchange glances. “I didn’t think you’d come out so quick.”
“Well, we’re here,” Sam yells back. “Now what?”
The three huddle together and discuss.
“Just a minute,” one of them says digging in the duffle bag. “I really thought you’d stay in there awhile. Give us more back and forth like, ‘I ain’t comin’ out’ and then we’d be like, ‘Oh yes you will’ and then you’d say something like ‘You’re gonna have to come and get us’ and then we’d have some kinda negotiation where you lay out your demands.”
“All right.” Sam says stepping forward. “I demand you stop being morons.”
“Well, I demand you stop being black,” one of them shouts back.
Sam rolls his eyes.
“Since neither of those things are going to happen, what’s next?” A sword is pulled out. A small black cauldron is set on the pavement. Candles with cartoon knights are placed in a circle. Travel size nazi flags are scattered on the asphalt as they touch the sword with their hands and whisper some words over it. “How much longer is this going to take?”
“We’re almost done,” Darrell says spraying the sword with lighter fluid then handing it to the leader who stands over the cauldron, whispers something then calls out, “Rise Big Jim,” as he points it up to the sky like He-Man waiting to be zapped with lighting. No lightning comes so Darrell flicks his lighter and the sword bursts into flames. The other two start doing a little dance, occasionally throwing their hands in the air, putting one foot in and one foot out as they turn and shake it all about. The sword starts glowing as the ground shakes. The overhead lights dim and turn red as a ghost army of Klansmen rise from the ground. The sword continues to shake as a large white spectral uber-man rises from the cauldron, his bald head shining, tattoos glistening as he raises his fists and lets out a roar which immediately gets a round of applause from the spectral army of The Klan.
The cheers die down as Big Jim takes the sword which grows massive in his hands. Monkey motions for Sam to move back as he takes his cudgel from his ear and lunges forward.
Monkey and his gold banded cudgel
Big Jim and his majestic sword
battling over yellow lines
and black spaces
the knight slashing and cutting
Monkey dodging and gnashing his teeth
neither side gaining or losing
Blocking the mighty sword
Monkey’s feet dig into the pavement
The white knight kicks him in the stomach
a stiff black boot
sends him into the cement blocks
as he stomps on Monkey’s face
puts his massive hand around his neck
raises him up for all to see
The spectral army cheers
as he parades the body around
and Monkey thinks to himself
that this is the most fun
he’s had all day
Big Jim throws him to the ground, snatches his pouch, digs around and pulls out the white ceramic monkey. Shows it to the crowd. There’s murmuring followed by a few shouts of, “Kill it!” He raises it high above his head.
“I cast you out demon!” Big Jim roars. “In the name of Jesus Christ, I send you back to hell!”
A white ceramic monkey
holding a ball off to the side
looks up to the night sky
gripped by two sweaty hands
it’s thrown to the ground
the face and arms and tail
crack
spread out
burst onto the asphalt
a thousand jagged pieces
sliding across the blacktop
The crowd cheers
and Monkey looks up
to the night sky
as the distant hum of a guitar is heard
Darrell takes his hood off, strains to hear piano chords mixing with the buzzing of the parking lot lights as the soft subtle roll of a guitar moves over the hills and in that dark Floridian sky a spark is seen, jumping this way and that, growing larger, and soon they see him, Elvis, feet planted on a cloud, hip thrusts careening him forward as the opening melody of ‘Burning Love’ splashes over the landscape like so much light reflected off his blue sequined jumpsuit.
“Lord Almighty, feel my temperature rising
Higher n’ higher. Burning through to my soul
Girl, girl, girl, you gonna set me on fire
My brain’s flaming. I don't know which way to go.”
Elvis streaks across the sky riding a cloud, one foot forward, shaking and moving, his arm outstretched as he swoops down and flies over The Klan. His cloud descends next to Monkey and Sam. The music fades as Elvis kneels, points a hand up to heaven then stands, removes his glasses to a smattering of applause.
“Thank you very much.” He surveys the parking lot. “Tough crowd.” Turns to Monkey. “These knuckleheads givin’ you trouble?” Monkey nods as Elvis throws a glance back. “Don’t look like much if you ask me.” Walks down the line of Klansmen peering through the eyeholes then turns and makes his way back to Monkey. “You know the only thing that’s gonna crack all these serious looks on all these faceless hoods is a good old-fashioned love song, you know what I’m saying?” Monkey frowns, shakes his head. “I like you Monkey,” he gives him a wink, then addressing the crowd. “Feel silly for asking this but in all my excitement I’ve forgot my gee-tar. Any one of you boys have one I could borrow?”
Darrell slowly raises his hand.
“He’s on their side Darrell!” Karl hisses standing next to him with his hands on his hips.
“Yeah, but…it’s The King. How’re you not going to give a guitar to The King?” He pulls one out of the back of his van, hands it over, as Elvis inspects it, strums a bit, tunes the D string.
“This should do just fine. Thank you…”
“Darrell.”
“Thank you Darrell. Now Darrell, and everybody else here tonight, I got a song for you and this is my absolute favorite so I want you to listen real close. After living and dying and living again I learned a few things and the first is, well, there ain’t no sense in playing dress-up parading ‘round causing a whole lotta trouble for folks like these,” he says gesturing to Sam and Monkey. “Now I know this here’s a demon monkey, but let me tell you he is the nicest demon Monkey this side of the Mississippi. Nicer than most of the people I met in showbiz I can tell you that.” There’s laughter and Elvis mulls this over, “and that ain’t no Jewish joke neither. I love them Jews like I love these fine folks behind me.” He slaps his guitar. “And that’s what I’m talking bout. This worlds ‘bout lovin’. Seems simple enough. Trite even. But dang if it ain’t true. Can I get an amen?”
“Amen,” Darrell yells.
“But you know sometimes you can’t find someone to love or sometimes the person ends up running out on you, breaking your heart, stomping on it even. Shoot, half my songs are ‘bout heartbreak and misery and all the pain and anguish of not being loved. And when that happens, the whole world seems like it’s against you, and it gets dark, and you start looking ‘round at this here paradise and see nothing but enemies lurking in the shadows conspiring to take what’s yours, and it might feel like the only thing you got is to find someone to stomp on ‘em just to prove there’s something under you, and dang it, I can’t say I haven’t been there before.” Elvis points to Darrell. “But I’m here to tell you that ain’t the way. This camaraderie you feel ain’t nuthin’ against the love of a good woman, and that hood you’re wearing, well, let’s just say there’s more to this world than you can see through those holes you poked through your bedsheet, you hear what I’m saying? Somebody give me an amen.”
“Amen,” Darrell says.
Elvis strums the first few chords of Love Me Tender then stops.
“Now, everybody knows this song. Heard it so many times you might stop hearing it. I know I did at times, but here’s something you might not know. This here melody was lifted straight from an old minstrel ballad called Aura Lea ‘bout a beautiful maiden with long blonde hair. Course we rewrote the lyrics and made it what it is today, but underneath it ain’t nothing but a song soldiers used to sing ‘bout a beautiful woman that no one’s ever gonna reach, and that’s the saddest story of all, a woman out there, trapped in a song, that you can’t hug or squeeze or make feel right.” He strums a few chords then stops again. “There’s a lot in these simple songs. Some of me. Some of you, and I suppose the sad old history of our nation is down there too, but let me tell you, it’s something to take a song and try to turn it right. Make it happy and lovin’ and sincere. Do it the best you can, but the funny thing is, after all that window dressing, sometimes it still comes out heavy and hurting and full of sorrow, cause that’s just the way it is.”
Elvis walks through the spectral army of the Klan and begins.
“Love me tender,
love me sweet,
never let me go.
You have made my life complete,
and I love you so.”
The Klan starts taking off their hoods so they can hear. A few put their arms around each other and sway.
“Love me tender,
love me true,
all my dreams fulfilled.
For my darlin' I love you,
and I always will.”
Each man finds a partner and starts to slow dance, laying their spectral heads on each other’s shoulders as the song drifts past the parking lot, past the highways, past the fields of wildflowers and the XXX adult shops, past the fireworks stands, all the way to the ocean as waves crash, the strumming reverberating over the land as a great sob gushes out and the tears well up and start to stream down.
“Love me tender,
love me long,
take me to your heart.
For it's there that I belong,
and we'll never part.”
Elvis points to the boys and men in the crowd, touching their shoulders and looking them in the eyes as guttural sobs are heard. Big Jim breaks down, throws his arms around Monkey as they sway together. Monkey looks confused as Elvis continues,
“Love me tender,
love me dear,
tell me you are mine.
I'll be yours through all the years,
till the end of time.”
The Klan assemble in one long line as they give Sam a sloppy wet hug, chests heaving and tears pouring as Sam pats them on the back, looking at his suit, worried they’re going to leave a stain.
“Love me tender,
love me true,
all my dreams fulfilled.
For my darlin' I love you
and I always will.”
Elvis stops strumming as the collective wail of the Klan dies down. He hands the guitar back to Darrell, face wet with tears then puts his hand on his shoulder.
“You boys should go on home now. Tell that little woman you love her, and if you don’t have one yet, well, you better get yourself together as best you can and go out and find one cause she’s waiting for you out there and you sure as heck ain’t gonna find her hanging out with this pointy hat hood brigade, understand?”
Darrell nods as his two brothers and the whole spectral army walks off sobbing and wailing until their moans fade into the soft hum of the parking lot lights leaving Elvis, Sam and Monkey alone, the travel size nazi flags tipped over next to the plastic cauldron as Elvis walks over, dips his finger then sticks it in his mouth.
“Raspberry,” he says looking wistfully to the sky then turning to Sam and Monkey. “Now what’re you boys up to? You hankering to run back to your motel room or are you gonna take The King out for a good time?”
A few minutes later they’re walking into a karaoke bar, two women drunkenly singing “Sweet Caroline” as Elvis rolls his eyes and mutters, “This song again.” He and Sam head to the bathroom as Monkey sits down and surveys the crowd.
Two Hispanic women in white t-shirts
sit at a table with a Vietnamese couple
They’re laughing waving to
a black woman behind the bar
who pulls a bottle of whiskey off the top shelf
pours six shots for the men at the counter
They smash their glasses together
as Sam and Elvis return
eyes wide
sniffing and grinning
as the whole bar breaks into applause
for The King’s return
Elvis pulls Sam on stage with some thank you’s and waves as Ebony and Ivory starts playing and they take their positions doing their best to ham it up as the crowd chants along with them and Monkey claps and laughs. The song ends and Elvis grabs Monkey with a, “Get on up here,” as the next song starts and the microphone is thrust in his hands. He’s petrified looking at the monitor as the words light up for Toots and The Maytals “Monkey Man”. Sam and Elvis slip back to the bathroom as Monkey nervously hops from one foot to another, not knowing the melody as the crowd helps him sing along.
Twelve drinks later, the bar is winding down. They’re out front, the bartender locking up behind as Elvis throws his arm around them both, gives them a hug then sweeps the bartender up in his arms as he drunkenly jumps on his cloud and rises in the air. Sam and Monkey wave then start walking back to the hotel. Everything’s closed and the silence descends for this first time as they walk down the middle of the street admiring how shiny that silver Buick is, the hand-painted locksmith sign over the window hangs a bit crooked with the cartoon cross-eyed lock or the shuttered flower shop with newspaper over its windows, a small “coming soon” sign stuck in the window.
“So you’re some kind of supernatural being from another dimension, huh?” Sam throws a glance over as Monkey nods. “Doubt I’ll ever understand but…from one man to another, give me some advice. Tell me something. C’mon. Don’t hold back. Lay it on me.”
Monkey thinks for a moment then holds Sam’s hand and looks him in the eyes.
“Don’t do drugs.”
Sam stares back then laughs.
“Shit. You got anything else ‘cause that sure as shit ain’t happening.” He kisses him on the head as they walk into the night, Monkey pushing his head into Sam’s side as he throws an arm around.
“I have to leave soon.”
“I know,” Sam says giving him a squeeze. “Let’s say our goodbye’s tonight. Just you and me and this big ugly sky.”
“It’s beautiful,” Monkey says looking up.
“Yeah? I guess so.”
They stop in front of the motel.
“I should get Lil’ Darlene.”
Sam cracks the door, looks around then swoops up the dog and hands her to Monkey.
“I’ll see you around,” he says suddenly distracted, shuts the door as Monkey leans against the metal balcony, looks over the city shimmering in the distance, the songs still playing in his head. He watches the lights brighten, listens to the birds chirp their early morning chorus, and the city, a few small buildings wedged against the soft bend of a highway, glows as the sun crests over the dark hills of the horizon.
