The City From Another Universe: Elvis

From the pages of:

The City From Another Universe

by Paul Juser

July 2012

Elvis the Cowboy

It's big art in a little city here in Binghamton, or so it says in fading paint on the side of city hall. We have galleries and coffee bars, and with a little gumption we even have our own breweries. Artists roam the street with sketchbook and camera in hand, or camping at busy intersection accosting old ladies for social change. The junkies already lived in that park, they weren't attracted by Occupy. Some of the junkies have a practiced routine, with a pregnant wife in the hot car down the street, and no gas to get to the hospital in Elmira. One left his wife there for a week and a half, and I didn't ask if she was there again, or still waiting for spare change that winter. By then the car was very cold.

If you wait long enough on the corner of Court and State, you might even see a cowboy. Goes by Elvis, and he shuffles past each morning in sequined riding jacket, chaps, and cowboy hat. Elvis never asks for money. John Law has warned him to stop carrying his loaded capguns to town, but sometimes he'll sneak them out of the holster for a duel. That's how he appeared in the Anthony Brunelli Gallery, in the stairwell aiming his pistol at anyone that didn't like what was displayed upstairs. The print was tiny, but it dominated the show. All month people asked each other, "Did you see Elvis at First Friday?" Surely the the Brunellies made sure the appropriate model releases were signed and that Elvis was paid accordingly before putting him on display. 

The real Elvis doesn't come out for many events beyond coffee at Rolando's. There his ladies are Linda Blair and the gents are Bruce Lee. I've also seen him tossed out of the Belmar for screaming "Sugarlips!" at a giant that did the immense favor of not flattening the brittle little cowboy. 

According to legend, Elvis had the largest Roy Rogers collection in the entire State, Nation, or World. When his house burned, he moved to a shelter with barely an  embroidered bandolero. He rarely appeared in public for a few years after, but a Greaser in leather jacket and blue jeans would occasionally shout, "Hey Linda Blair!" from the back of the line at a convenience store. This reporter found him early one morning shuffling along Chenango St. with grocery bags under his arms. It was near dawn, and very cold if I remember correctly. He wore his heavy motorcycle jacket. I offered him my coffee money for a picture, but he looked sad, and shifted uncomfortably. 

Elvis swaggers determined through Downtown, headed somewhere. When he arrives, there will be trouble. His arms are perpetually cocked to draw on whatever filth and corruption he finds.  He's one of the good guys, a legend from a lost era that everyone remembers from their youth, when victories were clear and decisive. 

Elvis didn't look in the camera when I photographed him, and I don't remember if he took the money. I've seen him since, again clad in his preferred attire, as full of piss and vinegar as a colt in an apple orchard, shouting at everyone he sees. The hero carries on. I will do Elvis the favor of keeping that photo private.