Free Losing Graceland by Micah Nathan

the floor. Darryl shoved the manager, “Viva Las Vegas” still blaring, and Ben tried to usher the old man to the door but he yelled and spat. Every time Ben grabbed his arm, the old man ripped it free. “Goddammit, I was singing and you go and put that shit on,” the old man shouted, and they exited into the night, where the parking lot blacktop was still warm, smelling of tar, their shoes making whispery scuffles.
    Ben rested his head on the steering wheel. He heard the old man breathing hard next to him. The old man coughed.
    “I can’t do this,” Ben said.
    “Sure you can. Just start the car and drive away.”
    “I think I should leave when we get to Fort Thomas,” Ben said. “You don’t have to pay for my ticket back. I want you to take the money and pay for those bottles you smashed—”
    “They already have my money. I gave them a grand to keep the bar open.”
    “What about the bartender?”
    “What about him.”
    “He’s fucked up and he didn’t do anything wrong. He was just standing there.”
    The old man coughed again. “The world is full of fucked-up people who were just standing there. Colonel was slicker than a greased snake, but I’ll never forget the night after my momma died. I told him she sacrificed everything and what did she get in return, and Colonel said it isn’t about who deserves what, it’s about
timing.
”
    In his side-view Ben saw the bikers pour out of Lil’ Rascals.They stood in front of their bikes, yelling at the manager and his gang of waiters.
    “Timing’s what got me into those terrible movies,” the old man said. “Every one of them names they gave me sounded like a gay porn star. Clint Reno. Lucky Jackson. Rick Richards. Don’t tell me the writers didn’t know what they were doing. My movies were a fucking joke. Turned me into a good ol’ boy with a stupid grin. That wasn’t what I was about.
That wasn’t why I came into this world.
”
    Someone banged on the passenger window. Myra. Her black hair rested on her shoulders and her teeth shone white.
    The old man rolled down the window. Myra adjusted the bag slung over her arm. She raked her hair back, turning her head to let its thickness shine in the parking lot light.
    “We’re rambling,” the old man said. “Be a darling and thank Darryl for all his hospitality.”
    “Take me with you,” she said.
    The old man smiled kindly and pulled the gold lightning-bolt ring off his finger. “I need you to do something for me.”
    “Anything.”
    He placed the ring in Myra’s hand and closed her fingers over it. “I need you to give this to the bartender. Will you do that?”
    Myra nodded, her eyes rimmed with tears. “Can I go with you? Please?”
    The old man touched Myra’s face. She closed her eyes.
    “Darling, one hundred years ago you’d break my heart,” he said, then he gestured to Ben, who started the car and pulled away. In his rearview he watched Myra fade from red to black, standing in the parking lot with her weekend bag as the old man began to sing again.
    * * *
    It stormed all night into the next day, cedar trees swaying against the dark flashing sky. They’d driven past Fort Thomas, along narrow Kentucky roads bounded by stone walls and plank fences. The Caddy’s wipers weren’t fast enough and the water fell in sheets but Ben still drove. His right eye was blacked and swollen; the knuckles of his right hand were cut in the shape of someone’s teeth.
    The old man kept quiet. His green-tinted aviators sat crooked on his face, one arm missing, the crinkled map spread across his lap with doughnut crumbs collected in the center crease.
    “Everyone has a lost love.” The old man stared out the window at the raindrops shuddering across the glass. “I lost mine in Tupelo. Emma Grant. Wasn’t the prettiest I’d been with, but man, she was the sweetest. Told me she’d take care of me until the end of my days. I still remember what she looked like when no one was watching.”
    He