The King stepped off Gulf Boulevard and into the smoky dive, slightly reeking of whiskey, stale cigarette smoke and Old Spice. He slid his black and gold aviator shades over his bloodshot eyes and unsteadily made his way to the bar. To his right, two clean-cut young guys in polo shirts racked up for a game of pool while their clean-cut sorority sweethearts sipped their vodka-and-cranberry drinks and giggled to each other, their teeth and hair glowing in the dim light. To his left, a small cluster of middle-aged women perched on bar stools around a small round table covered in half-empty bottles of Corona. He noticed the telltale strips of white flesh against flaming red flesh on each woman’s shoulders.

“Tourists,” he sneered to himself, as he sat down in his usual spot at the bar.

“Hey Elvis man, how’s it going?” the bartender looked up from washing glasses to greet him.

“Not too bad, not too bad. I’m all ready for tonight. Got my shades back. I’m gonna stop the show tonight,” he replied.

“I’m sure you will,” she said as she poured Jack Daniels and water into a tumbler and placed it, ice cubes clinking, in front of the King.

“Thanks, sweetie. Put it on my tab.”

He watched approvingly as she walked away, her long blonde hair that hung in a shiny curtain to her waist, her hips swaying as she teetered around strappy four inch stiletto heels. He wondered how long it took her to wrap her legs up with those straps, and then he wondered how those legs would feel wrapped around his body. He took a sip of his drink and turned around towards the small stage, savoring the familiar burn of Jack Daniels as it slid down his throat and into his chest.

He sipped his drink and watched as more and more people showed up. He saw more locals, more regulars, all of whom greeted him with a slap on the back and “You gonna sing tonight, King?”

“You betcha, gonna stop the show tonight,” came the response.

By the time he was halfway through his third drink, the bar was filled with people, smoke and the sounds of laughter and Metallica on the jukebox. A line of shiny, chrome motorcycles parked outside the front door. Inside, their black-leather clad owners slammed shots of whiskey and banged their fists together. Their old ladies rasped and laughed and exhaled magnificent plumes of smoke from their lungs. A few graying men, all veterans making the nightly rounds, sat in a row at the bar, polishing off bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Miller High Life. The King knew they’d be gone before the singing began.

He swallowed the last watered-down remnants of his whiskey and water, and stumbled into to the men’s restroom on the other side of the bar. After he locked the door, he unzipped his white polyester jumpsuit and relieved himself into the old, rusty toilet bowl.

“Ungghhhhhhh,” he moaned. His prostate had been giving him trouble for a few years now, but he refused to see the doctor. They always insisted he cut back on his drinking.

Finally he finished, and stood in front of the mirror as he zipped himself back into his jumpsuit. He then examined his reflection in the mirror, pulling on the wide lapels of his jumpsuit and adjusting the safety pin that held his zipper up. He took his aviators off and checked his eyes to make sure they weren’t too red. He checked the black paint on his flabby, hairless chest to make sure it hadn’t smeared or flaked off. He pulled a tube of Bryllcreem, same as what his daddy used, out of a hidden pocket in his jumpsuit and refreshed his inky black pompadour. He then put his aviator shades back on.

“Lookin’ good, man, lookin’ good,” the King said, as he pulled up his collar, curled his lip and bumped his hip.

Back at his spot at the bar, he noticed a young couple sitting next to his stool. He was dark-haired, probably Italian or Greek, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt. She was taller than him, blond, slender, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. They were nursing Bud Light longnecks and watching the Red Sox game on the corner television.

He sidled up next to the girl.

“Hey there, sweetie, you ever seen me sing before?”

Startled, the girl looked over at him. He watched confusion spread over her face.

“No, I don’t think I have.”

Now he had the boy’s attention, too.

“Well, don’t watch my first performance at eight. I’m terrible then. Wait ‘til ten, when I’m really drunk. I’m so good I’ll make you cry.”

The girl laughed politely and went back to watching the baseball game.

The King wandered off to another side of the bar, where he ordered another Jack and water and waited. On the stage a woman dressed entirely in black set up a small computer with two monitors, and opened a black plastic binder to some laminated pages. Soon, a drunk girl, probably in her late twenties, flipped through the book and pointed at a page. The black-clad woman tapped a few buttons on her computer, and the monitors cued up. The words “Shania Twain – Any Man of Mine” popped up, while the drunk girl clutched the microphone in her hand and waited. The machine counted off one-two-three-four measures, and the music began.

“Any man of mine/Better be proud of me…” Suddenly the drunk girl seemed to become conscious of the audience and stopped singing with a squawk. The crowded room looked back at her, unimpressed. Nerves overtook her and she began to giggle uncontrollably. The backing track continued while the drunk girl stood with the microphone in her hand and laughed.

The King looked at her and snorted.

“Fucking amateurs.”

A few minutes later, the song stopped and the girl leapt off stage, where she fled to the safety of her table and her beer. No one applauded.

Meanwhile, the woman in black cued up another song as a burly man in a Harley-Davidson bandana and a black leather vest took the stage. The opening notes of “My Way” lilted through the bar, and the biker began to sing. He sang clearly and with soul. The drunken crowd stopped and all eyes were on the biker, who was clearly experiencing some sort of ecstasy. When he sang the final lines of this tough-guy anthem, he threw his head back, closed his eyes and swept his free arm outward. A born performer, he had captivated the audience. When he finished, the bar erupted in applause.

“What the hell?” the King thought to himself. “How am I going to top this?”

He sat and stared at his nearly empty drink, watching the ice cubes in his glass. The bartender spotted him and brought him a replacement, which he began to drink without looking up.

He didn’t look up through the next song, a stirring rendition of “If You Could Read My Mind” by Gordon Lightfoot. He didn’t look up when the audience clapped. He didn’t look up until his glass was empty.

“I’m ready,” he thought.

He walked up to the stage and flipped through the book.

“Hey Elvis, what are you going to sing today?” the black-clad woman said.

He pointed to a song, and she nodded.

The King took the stage, microphone in hand, and stood with his back to the crowd, his legs slightly parted and his head down. The opening notes of “American Trilogy” began to play, although he could barely hear them over the din of the crowd. He turned around and started to sing.

At first he was quiet, subdued. No grand gestures, no strong vocals. He thought about Elvis, the way Elvis moved, the way he sang. He thought about the first, and only, time he ever saw Elvis live, at one of his Las Vegas shows surrounded by screaming housewives. Elvis was fat and sweaty then, just months away from his pitiful death on the toilet in Graceland. Yet there was still a glimmer of the old boy from Tupelo, the white boy who had shook up the world by singing black music and dancing like a girl. Elvis was rebellion. He was fire. He was soul. He was wretched excess and glorious simplicity.

Elvis was America.

The King thought about all of this as he sang. Suddenly, he was no longer the King, no longer an impersonator in a dirty white jumpsuit and a chest painted in black face. Suddenly, he was Elvis. He felt Elvis’ blood pumping through his own veins, and he felt Elvis’ spirit in his heart. He was Elvis.

The King spread his legs and bent one knee low to the ground, singing into the microphone in that familiar pose. He stood up and bent again. The sweat poured off his body. His pompadour began to fall. He didn’t care. He kept on singing.

When he finished singing the bar erupted with whistles and cheers. He stepped off stage and an ocean of arms and hands and smiling faces enveloped him with backslaps and smiles and cold beers pushed into his hand. He walked back to his spot by the bar, where the young couple was still sitting.

“Hey,” the young girl said, reaching out to touch his arm. “You were so good! I almost started crying as I listened to you.”

“Aw, it’s nothing,” the King said sheepishly.

“No, really, you were amazing. I’m covered in goosebumps.”

He blushed and smiled at her. Embarrassed, he slipped away into the crowd and found another place at the bar, where he could drink in peace until it was time for his ten o’clock performance.

Cory's Remix - I further elaborated on the relationship between the clip and your narrative...thought you might be interested.