Mesopotamia Read Online Free PDF Page A

replied, without thinking. “I need a drink. Can I buy you one?”
    “I don’t feel right about a pretty girl buying me a drink.”
    “How about I’ll ask you a couple questions in return?”
    “You’re not one of them snoop reporters here about that Missy Scrubbs tramp, are you?” I remembered that Gustavo said she was from around these parts.
    “I am, but I’m more interested in the body out back.”
    “Well, if that’s all you wanna know, follow me out to my office,” he said and started walking. I told him that my Uncle Hymie from Vegas took me to see Elvis in concert for my Bat Mitzvah thirty years ago, which was absolutely true.
    “You wouldn’t happen to remember when that was, would ya?”
    “Around the week of my thirteenth birthday—September, 1975. I remember him doing karate moves and rambling on about his ex-wife and how they were still dear friends.”
    “It’s true, he did a lot of rambling back then … So, can you carry any of his tunes?”
    “When I was in high school I had to learn ‘Love Me Tender.’I was pretty good at it, but I haven’t hummed in years.”
    “Well, in a little less than two weeks we have our annual Sing the King contest, which comes with a big cash prize.”
    “But I’m not even a guy, let alone white,” I said removing my sunglasses.
    My host took the last stool at the bar, next to six other barflies. “Hey everyone, this is … What’s your name, dear?” All of them appeared to be above two hundred and fifty pounds, and over sixty years of age—except one.
    “Sandra.”
    “I’m Snake Major.” Who the hell willfully calls himself Snake? “These guys are a band called the Evils.” He reached up over the counter for a mug and slipped it under the spout. He tipped the tap and filled me a frothy glass.
    “It’s an anagram for Elvis,” one explained. “We’re an Elvis tribute band.”
    “You from here, doll?” another of them asked.
    “I’m from the next town over, Mesopotamia. How ’bout you guys?”
    “We’re retired,” one muttered, choosing to interpret it as a question about employment.
    “Actually, we only perform for the Sing the King contest,” clarified another. “Till then we drink.”
    With that as a cue, they all took sips of their beers.
    “So, y’all from Tennessee?”
    “I guess, so, ’cept I ain’t in the band,” replied the younger man, standing up from a stool at the end of the bar.
    “What singer are you impersonating?” I asked. He sported a Roy Rogers cowboy shirt with a patriotic red and blue motif in the upper panels and a white ten-gallon hat.
    “I’m what you might call a Jesus impersonator,” he replied with a smile. “Have you heard the beautiful voice of the Son of God, sister?”
    “Only once,” I said. “He sung to me that I was on my own.” Several of the Evils chuckled.
    “This is Minister Morton Beaucheete,” Snake Major introduced.
    “I assure you that He has a lot more to sing to you,” said the muscular young preacherman. “Why don’t you come by my church and I’ll be glad to fill you in?”
    “The minister can definitely fill you in,” muttered one of the Evils lecherously.
    “I’m at the Fifth Baptist Church, down on Makataka Road,” the minister said, looking at his watch, “and I got to scoot.”
    “It was a pleasure,” I replied, and he left.
    “So what brings you to us?” an Evil asked.
    “I was just wondering about the vic out back,” I said, heaving myself up on the barstool.
    “His name weren’t Vic,” corrected another Evil.
    “We’re now welcoming multicultural, multisexual Elvises … Hell, we even have some transgender Elviras.”
    “That means they got no dicky,” clarified another, wagging a loose finger.
    “Shoot, the Asian thing’ll work straight to your ’vantage on account’a this being the year of Affirmative Action Elvis. Elvis-clusiveness they’re calling it. In fact, I’ll tell you a big secret: the judges’ll be partial to a