The City From Another Universe

From the pages of:

www.policegazette.us

Originally published August 2012

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 artists roaming the street with sketchbook and camera in hand, or camping at busy intersections with the junkies, accosting old ladies for social change. Some of the junkies have a practiced routine, 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. I didn't ask if she was there again, or still waiting when I was approached that winter. By then the car would have been 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 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 lost his State, Nation, or World Record Roy Rogers collection in a house fire that left him living in a shelter with barely an  embroidered bandolero. Rarely appearing in costume for a few years, a Greaser at the back of the line at the convenience store would still occasionally shout, "Hey Linda Blair!" This reporter found him early one morning shuffling along Chenango 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.

The cowboy is back now, swaggering 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, in his preferred attire, as full of piss and vinegar as a colt in an apple orchard, shouting at everyone he saw. The hero carries on. I will do Elvis the favor of keeping my photo private.

Update: Elvis the Cowboy passed away in 2013.