I’ve been with the girl I’m with for two months.

She came along, the way those girls usually do, easily. Taken by my act. But I’ve kept her around. I like the way she looks, and the complicated gestures she makes with her hands. The conversation is not demanding. She apologizes for liking fashion. A lot. I tell her it’s like me liking sports. Sometimes, in bars, she watches the fashion channel, and I watch sports. And yet. And yet.

Her name might be Megan. She lives with someone, has a roommate I mean, so one of them is named Megan. It’s on my caller ID.

Or perhaps it’s Mee-gan. Depends where you’re from, I think.

I didn’t find an easy time to ask her after I first forgot, and then, after that, it just seemed strange. When I call her, I just use my best Elvis voice and say, Hey Baby.

Might-be-Megan says, Do you know that leopard print blouse I have? Do you think it would go with that girl’s bracelet?

Beside me, a man plays video-poker. He is wearing a polo shirt and a lai. Come on, he says.

*

West Side Elvises against all the rest.

We are the elite Elvis impersonators, the cream of the crop (the new ones get in by staging these fights, trying to kill one of them off. )

*

I’m the best Tuesday Elvis in dis town, Grapati says, not bothering to consider his hooked nose. I think that he may be in the witness protection program. He has a terrible combover and always sings Volaré. Cantaré. I mean, picture it.

He doesn’t even have a regular Elvis gig. I think he fills in some holidays at the Rumba Room. The Bunny Hole. The I’m Not Here.

None of you shit Elvises is worth a shit.

So get your Elvis friends, I say. Let’s have this out.

*

We face each other in a carwash parking lot, false dawn in North Las Vegas. Or perhaps it is Henderson. We’re all here, the boys from the West Side. Except Saturday Elvis, who is either still tattooing or with that Denny’s waitress who looks strung out all the time.

No one from the bar even bothers to come out to watch.

Chinese Elvis, who performs Wednesdays, is the only one of us who’s under six-four. But he has a nth degree belt in something. His eyes were made round before he started with us. The crowd only clues in when he sings, Brew Suede Shoes. But they like his num-chucks and throwing stars.

*

The girl once said to me, None of you are even any good.

Is, I said.

What? She had come to get me after work.

When I am done an act, my body will keep sweating for hours. I mostly juggle chainsaws and pony kegs and small dancing girls while I sing. I have my shirt open, and my right arm hangs out the passenger window. I say, There are no good impersonators, only tough ones.

She doesn’t say anything.

It’s like Survivor.

But for Elvises? She’s biting her thumb. We go by The Sands.

Yes.

At my house, I take a pill and we make love.

*

My fists are still like loaves of bread and my chest and shoulders are deep and heavy. However, my sideburns aren’t what they used to be. And I skirmish the hair in my ears a lot too.

*

Change to he has just finished and the young Elvises come for him.

You’re most vulnerable on the nights you’ve just worked. It’s how I got my start.

*

They’re just Jack-of-All-Trade-Wanna-Be’s these days. When I was young, Wanna-Be Hippie, Wanna-Be Gangster, Wanna-Be Day-Trader. These ones spread themselves too thin.

*

During the fight – There goes my pucker.

*

The girl just stands off watching. I told her about it. It might seem like a set-up but this is where the Tuesday night Elvis drinks after work.

It’s where I earned my spot.

*

Last year, they passed a law on Elvis.