by Ethan Russell

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I was ten when Elvis came along. Before Elvis I used to lie in bed at night with the lights off, and listen to country music very low on the radio, the tiny orange lights of the tube amplifier shining through the slits in the radio’s back.  I sang his songs in front of the mirror. I imitated his smile, raising the corner of one side of my mouth. I tried to move like him, rotating one leg from the hip. And I tried to comb my hair like him. I used Vitalis, Butch Wax, and Brylcream, separate and together, pulling the comb through my hair and seeing little white globules of grease ooze between the teeth.   FROM AN AMERICAN STORY

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