Velvet Elvis

I stepped off the bus, already drunk, while lugging my backpack and the bottle of cheap wine I bought in Knoxville to inure me. Trailways bus station in Asheville was cockroach-ridden, the bathroom dirty. Expectations met that coming home would be disappointing in this superlatively disgusting atmosphere.

Afterward, I walked outside and lit a cigarette under the broken art deco clock. The hands frozen at 12:44.

I checked my watch, it was close to the actual time.

I stepped out the door and cased Coxe Avenue, looking for a cab to take me to the hotel I booked on Tunnel Road. The street seemed as desolate as I had remembered when I moved away as a teenager.

This was my first trip back since then, and again, my low expectations were met. Broken windows in the office of the abandoned car lot next to the bus station added to the dreary atmosphere, and the closed Exxon station across the street only added to the nowhere I arrived.

Two old Yellow Cabs were idling, and the first flashed its lights and moved toward me. As the cab pulled to the curb, I noticed feet sticking out of the shadows beside me, further reminding me of my old childhood hometown.

The driver was curly-haired, my age, and hip enough to have REM playing on the radio. The music got better after I left.

He looked over at me. “Where ya goin’?”

“Merriaman Avenue. The Days Inn by the shopping center.”

He cleared his throat, did a U-turn, and headed north. It was a relatively short ride. Asheville was still a small city, and I figured I would get there in less than 15 minutes at this late hour.

Nothing ever went on in this town at night, even though I had read it was getting better. As the driver navigated through the confounding labyrinth of one-way streets to get to the entrance of the

Expressway, I saw a slight improvement. Shuttered businesses and many for rent signs. Not much to look at, and so very southern, with no soul in sight until we hit the turnoff by the underpass that led to the avenue.

I took a swig of wine and stared through the window.

The driver looked at me through his rear-view mirror.

“Mind the radio? I’d like to turn it up.”

“Yeah, I like REM. What’s the station?”

“WUNF. I rigged the antenna to pick it up.”

“I remember WUNF. Bristol. Kingsport. Johnson City. Is the Midnight Rambler still on?”

“Nah, he quit years ago. No more heavy metal thunder. They play punk and new wave late at night, now.”

“Yeah, college rock. I live in Austin, Texas. It’s all we play.”

“I like it, though. You in a band?”

“Used to be. Not anymore. Just working.”

“Play guitar?”

“Rhythm. Got tired of it. Too much competition and we just weren’t good enough.”.

He sighed. “Too bad. I wanted to play. Never did.”

I knew the feeling all too well.

Looked out the window to see the neon. Merriman Avenue had a livelier appearance than downtown, emphasizing the perception aspects. Besides a gas station or a small market, everything was closed.

After taking a curve downhill, we passed the Greek Orthodox Church, which meant we were close to the hotel. Noticed a couple of cinderblock and brick buildings covered with graffiti, but otherwise, the area was another mundane southern town with nothing going on after ten p.m.

I took another swig, feeling a little more joyful than numb. Thank goodness for red wine. I leaned against the door and began to feel nauseated.

He pulled into the motel parking lot, and I counted the singles in my roll and got out, hoping I wouldn’t get a shitty room this late at night. I wanted to get through it all without puking or eaten by bugs. Should have booked a better hotel, but most of my old buddies were in the neighborhood, and after the first night, I expected to crash on a couch. Instead, I wanted to be alone; I would rather not face the old crew.

The desk clerk was an old greaser with a Johnny Cash do that was already a decrepitly coiffed comb-over. I paid for my room in advance, and he pointed me toward a first-floor room around the corner of the office.

It took a while to fiddle with the key to get into the room. Finally, I collided with the bed and dropped my backpack on the floor. Shit, I shouldn’t have gotten drunk, I thought, while moving haphazardly through the darkness toward the bedside lamp before turning it on.

Squinting my eyes at the glare, I turned around and saw a velvet painting of Elvis on the wall. Jesus, nearly jumped out of my sneakers when I saw it. But, at least the depiction was of the punk, vibrant

Elvis, not the bloated, chasing-lost-glory old before his time and fixing to die a legend. So, I felt less queasy and sleepy when my gaze lingered on it.

I pulled open the comforter and ran my hands over the sheets.

I undressed and went into the bathroom to take a piss. The place was clean, and it actually smelled of lilacs.

I stumbled into bed, and my gaze lingered on the punk Elvis, now off somewhere in Heaven riding some mystery train to undisclosed locations upon the guidance of God. At least, this is what some of the locals around Asheville probably think. They are a different lot than back in Austin.

His gaze, I imagined, was a comforting older brother, welcoming me home and communicating that maybe this trip would not be so bad after all.

I shut off the light and said goodnight to Velvet Elvis. Then, I turned to the side, remembering Thomas Wolfe and homes returnable.