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Twenty-Five
The infectious rhythm of Elvis’s “All Shook Up” plays in the distance. I’m still pretty shook up myself after this morning. Throughout this entire six-hour drive, I haven’t been able to look Nick in the face. I’ve kept quiet, busying myself with writing and rewriting jokes, listening back to successful recordings from New York, and drafting long texts to Imani about the whole ordeal only to think twice and delete them.
I also priced out car rentals so I can make the rest of the trip on my own. His infidelity is infuriating. Do you know how hard it’s been not to scream out, You’re married! this entire trip? I should’ve screamed it a million times by now but I find myself waiting for the right moment and using my one song an hour to play hits like “Before He Cheats” and “Womanizer.” To think I really liked him, that he might be someone I could trust. Now I want nothing to do with him.
Nick steers us down Elvis Presley Boulevard. Crowds of tourists mosey around the grounds. A variety of Elvis wannabes are sprinkled throughout. Seventy-year-old Elvises, short Elvises, Elvis on stilts, lady Elvises, and even pompadours on three-year-olds. The guy kicked the bucket nearly forty years ago but I guess it’s viva Elvis Presley.
“Have mercy!” Nick says, gawking at the Presley pack. Figures he’d break out a Stamos impression.
“That’s Uncle Jesse, not Elvis.” I bite back the end of my sentence—you cheating bastard.
He knits his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” What I’m not sure of is how we’re gonna perform in those ridiculous costumes. My stomach tightens. When not seething with anger and planning my escape, I obsessed over photos of Priscilla Presley—her gorgeous dark hair, alabaster skin, striking blue eyes, and perfectly arched brows. Will I be dressed like the more modest, newlywed 1960s Mrs. Presley or the vivacious, go-go-style 1970s Priscilla?
He lowers the music and asks, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” I say, and crank up the volume as Vince Neil sings “Girls, Girls, Girls” for the hundredth time this tour.
We arrive at the back of the soundstage, where we were asked to meet one of the event coordinators. After wandering around for a few more minutes, we find her.
“I’m Nick Leto. This is Olivia Vincent. We’re your stand-ups,” Nick says, introducing us.
She doesn’t bother to drop her tablet and shake our hands. “You’re the husband-and-wife duo?” I’m not sure what’s giving her that impression but the mention of Nick’s wife, even if incorrectly referring to me, makes my skin crawl.
“No, we’re not married,” Nick clarifies, seeming pretty tense for a guy who’s single and ready to mingle. Ugh, that phrase should’ve been my first clue.
“I see.” She stares at us over the rim of her glasses, shifting her eyes back and forth between us. “Well, thanks for coming on such short notice. I’m Jane. Follow me.” Jane heads farther backstage, her short legs carrying her quickly. We hurry close behind. “You need to get to hair and makeup right away. You got your material, right?”
Nick and I share a look—the first since we got the call. “Material? What material?” he asks.
“For cryin’ out loud.” Jane does not seem pleased and presses a button on the side of her headset, turning the corner. “Lindsey, I need a copy of the Elvis-and-Priscilla stand-up act in makeup ASAP.”
“What is she talking about?” I mutter to Nick but by the bewildered look on his face he’s got no clue either. Jane waves us to follow her into a room with a long, well-lit vanity punctuated with four makeup chairs. One of which is occupied with a black-leather Elvis, his matching black hair getting a full-on Aqua Net attack.
They still make that?
“So here’s the deal,” Jane begins. “You’re not doing your act tonight. You’re doing ours.”
“Excuse me?” Nick panics. Now so do I.
“This isn’t a corporate retreat. It’s Elvis Week. We need Elvis-related material for the guests,” she says, then a woman, presumably Lindsey, rushes into the room with a couple of scripts and hands them over to Bad News Jane. “Priscilla, you’ll do this ten-minute routine, and Elvis, you’ve got twenty minutes.” She shoves our respective material at us. “You go on before the grand-opening show. You’ve got two hours to get familiar with the material.”
“Two hours!” I blurt. How am I going to memorize a whole new set with the right timing and inflections in only two hours?
Jane raises an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”
“No, it’s no problem. Right, Olivia?” Nick says through a clenched jaw. Is he getting the gravity of the situation?
Still, I’m a professional. And a professional performer needs to be able to adapt quickly. “Right,” I say.
“Good.” Jane doesn’t crack a smile. “Lucky for you two we’ll have a teleprompter but I’d prefer you not rely on it. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“Good luck. Don’t screw it up.” She leaves without another word, and Nick and I stare after her like dogs left at the pound. Then I remember, Nick is a dog.
“Bernie didn’t mention anything about this,” I say in a hostile whisper. That word pops up in my head again. You know, the one that’s been haunting me this whole trip—disaster. This is more than a disaster. This is just more karmic retribution for hoppin’ in the sack with Nick—a total cad. “How am I gonna pull this off in two hours?”
