Lost in the Funhouse_ The Life and Mind of Andy Kaufman - Bill Zehme [55]
So he put on his pink suit. He had figured out a way to meet Elvis and it was going to happen in the kitchen through which Elvis had to pass before and after performances en route to and from his palatial suite upstairs. In the course of days/hours—maybe, perhaps—he had somewhat befriended a security employee who came to pity/tolerate him and who was impressed that this harmless wide-eyed college boy had written a book about Elvis with such a nice religious title and so—very much on the QT—the security guy explained to him the logistics of Elvis’s movements throughout the hotel. They hatched a plan, after the security guy’s palm had or hadn’t been properly/pathetically greased (twenty dollars or five dollars or nothing at all, per whichever version): During Elvis’s midnight show, he would be allowed to secret himself in a shadowy alcove along the kitchen corridor. There he would have to wait until Elvis and his men came bustling by after the performance and then he could step forward and proffer his greeting. And so he did just as he was instructed. Stashed in the darkened corner where he quavered, while the distant cacophony of Elvis and band and backup vocalists bounced along kitchen tiles, he began to quietly repeat over and over a sacred Buddhist chant that he had been told would make all dreams come true and, if ever there had been a situation to employ such mystical optimism, this was that—
Namu Myoho Renge Kyo …
Namu Myoho Renge Kyo …
Namu Myoho Renge Kyo …
He said it a hundred times and another hundred times and another and then the music stopped and thunderous applause and hooting wafted down the corridors and then that trailed off and then hurried voices and laughing voices got nearer and clearer and, as the voices were finally almost upon him, he stepped forth, glowing pink, gripping his God, clearing his throat. And Elvis’s men—Joe and Sonny and Red et al.—stopped suddenly and moved toward him and this other voice (OH!) said something like waitaminute waitaminute fellas and the eyes had never been this big ever before and he said something like mister presley i wrote this book about you and it’s called god and—well, time all but stops in such crucibles of dreams—Elvis Presley regarded the oddity before him and what the hell came toward it and looked at the pile of pages in its hands and heard something it said about God impersonating him or some damned thing and his lip curled slyly and he rested his hand on the oddity’s shoulder and said something like well now that’s very good that’s very good and he shook its hand and was precisely heard to remark, Man, this guy’s got a weird mind! And then Elvis Presley strode off and Elvis’s men looked back over their shoulders as they moved on and they were hyuckhyucking and then they were all gone.
And he was very very extremely very very pleased with the compliments that he had received from Elvis Presley Greatest Performer Who Ever Lived who had seen his book and shaken his hand and this was a most extremely buoyant moment for Andrew G. Kaufman who decided that heavenly benediction had been bestowed and that nothing would ever stop him—“And the next day I was all over Las Vegas playing slot machines. All I had was five dollars, but I put in pennies and nickels, trying to win money. Just twenty dollars was all I wanted, so I could go see Elvis Presley again. To make a long story short, I lost the five dollars.”
7
He who hesitates is sometimes saved.
—James Thurber,
Fables for Our Time
Ever so enthused by wondrous occurrence, somewhat familiarized with places he had not known before but would know well later—the conquering hero returned home long enough to face that which he had missed while away. Gloria had him meet her at a girlfriend’s house (neutral territory) and she showed him the photographs from the lawn of the church where Laurel—well, the baby … well, their baby … but not really theirs anymore—had lain and cooed for the camera. “He just looked at the pictures and