The King Is Dead

At one point, very early in my writing career, I was obsessed with winning a writing contest. No idea why. I guess it’s just the kid in me thinking “if I can beat other people at something, and win an award for it, then that means I’m great at it.” The cash prize didn’t hurt either. It was a dumb thought process. Even worse, I couldn’t just enter small, regional contests, no no no I had to enter the Writer’s Digest national fiction contest where the winners go on to pen New York Times bestsellers and stories adapted into movies. The balls on me, trying to compete. “Here is an entry from a graduate of a prestigious writing program and another from a guy that once blogged about pissing on his cat. I’m sure they are both of the same caliber.”

Obviously I never won, or even came close, but these stories still sit on my hard drive so I figured why not share with readers. My losses are your gain. Sort of.

This is my first contest submission ever, in its original form, and it made me cringe just going reading it back again. If anything I’ve become a much better writer. And drinker.

Enjoy!

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The King is dead.

It was an accident. I have a habit of pressing hard when I write. He was too close to the edge of the shelf. Crash. He landed head first on the wooden floor. His pompadour sliced from his skull. The blow knocked the microphone from his hand and his left shoulder snapped like a rotted tree branch in a cold Kentucky rain. Auburn-tinted liquor poured from his body.

My family owned a tavern. Boxes of promotional items from eager salesmen filled the basement. Growing up, I could name more liquor brands than clothing brands. Probably because all the stuff in my house was promotional material. It seemed normal stuffing Bacardi beach towels into Absolut duffel bags for family vacations to the Jersey shore. When my Catholic elementary school allowed students to wear green in celebration of St. Patrick’s Day, my father provided me with shamrock Budweiser suspenders. It earned me a trip to the principal’s office.

“Young boys shouldn’t be promoting alcoholic beverages in school. Booze is the devil’s drink,” said Father Hugh, blessing my face with a breath so full of cheap vodka that he could raise Jesus from the tomb without the help of the apostles.

My father had an impressive liquor memorabilia collection. Commemorative bottles and steins lined the basement shelves like soldiers during roll call. The drill sergeant stood front and center, commanding his platoon into a tight formation. Painted into a white jumpsuit adorn with feathers, multicolored rhinestones and a Carolina blue scarf draped around his neck, stood the King. He looked like one of my wrestling figures.

One afternoon, my father found me staring at the statue. “That’s Elvis Presley,” he said. “Do you know who Elvis is? He was a superstar back when I was your age. Movies, television, records.”

Twisting a silver knob on the statue’s base, my father beamed as a mechanical band began to played an unfamiliar song. “That is ‘Love me Tender.’

“Can I hold him?”

”No” he replied. “You’ll drop him. He is a collector’s item and will be worth money some day.” According to my father, everything in the house would be worth something someday. Roughly $200 at a massive yard sale. Not exactly the riches he imagined.

“Also, there is liquor inside him,” he answered “and both the statue and its contents are off limits to young boys. Understand?”

Oh sure, I couldn’t touch the booze but I could wear Stoli swim trunks with raspberries covering the part of the suit containing my actual little raspberries.

Years later, my mother redecorated the basement, and forced my father to pack away the bottle collection. Refusing to give up the King, my father found him a new home. He handed him to me like he was giving away his only daughter on her wedding day.

Later that evening he did a quick drop-in surveillance of my room to ensure that my fried Tad and I weren’t doing whatever it was that teenage boys did. After he left, our discussion continued.
“Danny got drunk off beers from his basement fridge,” Tad said, comparing his biceps to a picture in a muscle magazine

“We should get drunk,” he said. 

With false bravado and fake enthusiasm, I reluctantly answered, “Good idea,” hoping he was kidding. 

”Think your parents would notice if we raided the liquor cabinet?”

”Probably,” I said, brilliantly faking my disappointment.

My father’s liquor cabinet was legendary. The home of a bar owner always had the best booze. His friends would spin the lazy Susan just to watch the bottles revolve before their eyes like a prize wheel at a carnival. My parents kept a closer eye on those bottles than NORAD did on enemy missiles.

“What about Elvis? Doesn’t he have liquor in him?” Matt pressed. “We take some out, and just replace it with water.”

The King did seem foolproof. While clear bottles are a dead giveaway, the King was a sequins-suited vault of secrets. Ignoring my father’s collector’s item speech, I ripped off Elvis’ head and took a long, deep sniff. The aroma was strong and intrusive to my sinuses. It smelled like gasoline and cologne.

“Does liquor go bad?” I asked.

“Just drink.”

I closed my eyes and drank deep. I opened my eyes and swallowed. A slow burn cruised through my body. I coughed hard to drum up enough saliva to swish around inside my mouth. Grabbing the King by his waist, Tad took a long chug, coughing and then wiping the excess from his chin.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Take another swig?” he suggested, unsure if it was a good idea.
Another swig. I handed the King back for Matt to do the same.
“How about a toast? To Shannon Brown’s chest!” Tad cried out, before taking another drink. “May it never stop growing and may I never get assigned a new lab partner.”

We passed the King back and forth, laughing and toasting with each swig, each sentiment more ridiculous than the last.

“To the King!” I shouted, holding him triumphantly above my head.

“All hail the King!” Matt replied.

We listened to “Stairway to Heaven” at least eleven times, over analyzing the lyrics and arguing whether having a “bustle in your hedgerow” was a positive or negative quality.

“This feels good,” I said, leaning too far back and knocking a stereo speaker off of the shelf.

The slight buzz evolved into a piss drunk. After that passed the feeling of nausea soon emerged from deep within. The whisky felt like it was incinerating the walls of my stomach. Staring at the ceiling, the room began a rapid clockwise rotation. I stumbled to the bathroom down the hall and locked the door. My dinner slowly marched its way up my throat.

Crouching over the toilet, vomit rocketed from my mouth. My knuckles turned bone white as I gripped the bowl tightly. Eventually, I had no more to give. After a minute of calm, I rinsed with half a bottle of Scope. I brushed thoroughly and washed my face for good measure. I tiptoed downstairs to find a repeat of Taxi flickering on the television and my parents sound asleep. I returned to my room to find Matt lurched over the side of the bed, face down at looking at his regurgitated dinner soaking into the carpet.

This morning, I wrapped the King’s body in a Smirnoff towel and laid him to rest in a garbage bag. Unable to reserve a proper burial plot on the grounds of Graceland near the real King, I settled for the trash bin outside my house.

I opted to notify his next of kin by telephone.

“Dad,” I stammered. “It’s me. I have something to tell you. Remember that Elvis statue? Yeah, that one… Um, I broke it this morning. Yeah, I know, a collector’s item. Hey, want to hear a funny story.”

Once again, the King made me spill my guts.

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Posted in: FICTION