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A clink on a glass quieted the room. Hasan and his new husband, Claude, stood, hand in hand. The DJ turned down Can’t Help Falling in Love. “I’m so happy to have found someone who truly understands me, who truly loves me.” Hasan pulled his spouse closer, who rested his head on Hasan’s shoulder. “I guess it’s time for a speech. I know you’ve all been wondering how we met.”
The color drained from Claude’s freckled cheeks and the smile dropped from his face. He whispered in Hasan’s ear.
Hasan shook his head. “It’s fine, they should know how we met.”
“Here, here!” Hasan’s father Mohammed yelled from the table in the front, his speech slurred and far too loud for the intimate restaurant. “Don’t lock your knees, you’ll pass out if you do.” His wife Afifa shushed him, smiling as she stared into her son’s golden brown eyes.
“It’s okay,” Hasan said, beaming. “Glad y’all are having a good time.”
Claude's parents giggled with a sidelong glance at their drunken counterparts. Claude’s mother leaned closer and said,
“Didn’t you say it was raunchy?” said Claude’s mother Sabina as she leaned in. “Maybe it’s too much for a wedding?”
“I don’t want to hear nothing about that,” said Mohammed, who was immediately pinched by Afifa. “What? I don’t, it’s true. Ow, stop.”
Hasan stared at their hands. A thin scar marked the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. “Our relationship is built upon honesty, respect. I think you should know how we started.” Overcome with emotion, he wiped his face and took a shaky breath. “Sorry. This just feels so right, I keep lingering on it. I can’t believe I’ve found my someone. I hope this feeling lasts forever.”
“Tell us how – hic – how you met,” said Mohammed, again too loud.
“I’m getting there, I’m getting there." Hasan said with a wink.
“Already kept us waiting for the story, we gotta know,” said Mohammed. “You just showed up from LA with him and now we’re here.” Afifa squeezed his arm and glanced around, mouthing her apologies.
Hasan cleared his throat. “As I said before, I really wanted someone who understood me.”
The bright lights of Hollywood, I knew it was for me. With twenty-K in my pocket, my life savings, I had bought myself a few months. Something I should probably be honest about before we get started is why I moved to LA in the first place.
I’ve always drawn inspiration from entertainment. Songs and movies felt so true, so real. When we were kids, it was always music. Elvis was the most nostalgic and comfortable for me, with how my parents played It’s Now or Never when we would clean. It made it natural that I’d search for someone like him as my life partner.
During puberty, as other guys were more and more into swimsuit models, Tom Hanks’ rom-com era was my favorite. Mr. Hanks stared into my soul and spoke directly to me. I wanted Tom to look me in the eyes and tell me he loved me as we made love. His chest on mine, his full lips kissing me, rubbing my hands on his goofy physique. I wanted all of it.
In my early twenties, I’d watch musicals on loop. Phantom of the Opera was my favorite. The Phantom was so relatable and down to earth. I even went into hairdressing because of Sweeney Todd. I loved the relationship he was able to build with his clients, but that never happened for me. Nobody wanted me to sing to them.
However, the allure of musicals soon ended. They always seemed to be singing to each other, not to me. And none of the actors were all that attractive to me. Pierce Brosnan had a chance, but we all saw Mama Mia.
The most connection I ever felt with anyone was Elvis. I knew that Mr. Presley had passed away long ago, obviously, everyone knew that. The magic, the majesty, the moves. I knew I had to have it as best I could. How original his music was, him growing up poor, how he wants to be remembered after his death. It was all so relatable, so me, you know?
Everywhere in LA felt like Elvis. I could taste it in the air, his je ne sais quois. Each street was fringed in the same gold as his suits, even the sun was gold. Each and every passerby dripped with style. For my first six weeks there I’d go to the Wax Museum on Hollywood and Highland to see my idol. It was only a few blocks from the Walk of Fame, where my man actually earned two stars, and the Chinese Theater. At the museum, I’d stand by Elvis’ sculpture from nine to when I’d break for lunch. The crowds weren’t as thick then, I could see him with minimal distractions.
Once, this nice man with a thick mustache approached me and said, “He was the greatest, huh?”
“The one and only.” I wiped a tear from my eye, as I’d never actually meet him.
He glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. “A shame, a real shame that one.” He checked his watch briefly. “You know, I might be able to help you out.”
“How so?”
“Well, I have the real toilet where he died. God rest his soul. I can’t bear to get rid of it. It’s like I was meant to have it.” The man sniffed, wiped his eye, and held out his hand. “I’m Greg by the way.”
“Hasan.” We shook hands. “Glad to meet a true fan. I can’t believe you’ve got a real heirloom like that, congratulations.”
“Me too, and that’s the rub of it. Everybody’s so fake nowadays.” He slapped me on the shoulder and smiled. “Not you though. You give me a good vibe. I’ll let you see it if you want.”
My heart just about burst out of my chest as he said this. Never in a million years did I think I’d see a certified heirloom of the man himself. “I’d love to.”
Greg leaned close and whispered. “I’ll let you see it for free, but I’ve gotta make sure you’re really invested, you know? That costs money.”
“How’s a thousand dollars?”
He blinked several times and cleared his throat. “For a friend like you? That’ll do.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled down an address only a few blocks away. “Meet me here at two. Cash only.” Greg sauntered off with a final slap on my shoulder.
It was a few hours until he agreed to meet me. I waited by the address, which was a park with a public restroom. I waited for him to show up as a homeless man shuffled around and fed the birds. Greg arrived, this time in a charcoal hoodie and worn Dodgers cap, and waved me over to the public restrooms.
“Got the cash?”
I pulled an envelope out of my pocket and handed it over. He thumbed through the money, held one of the bills up to the light, and nodded. “Right, in here.” Greg pulled opened the door to the public restroom and ushered me inside. “Everyone knows public restrooms are disgusting, so nobody ever uses one. It’s the perfect place to hide something precious like Elvis’ toilet, so I hid it here.”
“Smart.” I opened the stall and leaned over the bowl. It was more beautiful than I imagined. Each streak on the inside, I knew who left those. They seemed so well preserved, so fresh in here. Greg was a genius.
“He was the last one to use it,” said Greg reverently. “Poor man. So much more good music to make.”
I wiped my eyes. This was a very emotional experience for me.
“You know, I would let you use it if you want. Because you’re such a big fan.”
My words stuck in my throat. All that would creep out was, “Really?”
Greg nodded. “I need to make sure of your fanhood, though. For a thousand more dollars you can have all the time you want.”
The money flew from my pocket as fast as I could get it out. I threw cash at him and ushered him out, locking the door behind me. This was more than I could imagine, being in the presence of such a relic and using it in the same way he spent his last moments.
I left the bathroom late after night had fallen. Greg had gone, but that was fine by me. If I found him again, I’d happily pay double for more time with this toilet.
The next day I returned to the Wax Museum, but I never saw Greg there again. Maybe he was sent by God to give me a moment like that, and for that I was thankful. My routine returned to normal after this. I spent so much time around the Elvis sculpture that other guests started to pay me to take photos for them, but the assholes in charge banned me for it.
I’d frequent bars, drinking myself into numbness. They’d taken my way of seeing my love from me, and there was no way for me to find Greg again and see the throne. I even considered heading home when I saw a sign for Las Vegas outside the airport, with an Elvis impersonator on the poster.
The five-hour drive seemed to fly by. I hitchhiked alongside a couple eighteen-year-olds going to get hitched. All I had to do was buy them liquor. They dropped me on the strip and started wandering.
All the impersonators were terrible. They all either married drunkards, were drunk themselves, or both. None of them had the majestic persona I expected. They soothed the itch though and thank God brothels were legal in Nevada. It’s hard to fake lust, but they did for me.
I was never the biggest fan of Queen. They were too similar to what came before, too boring. They didn’t have the showmanship that I was looking for. A little while before my move came Bohemian Rhapsody, the movie not the song. Having a biopic about a musician so normal and average like Freddie Mercury, that was a touch of genius. With him being gay, that really was a wonderful touch for me, seeing that represented on the silver screen. However, as I was never into Queen it wasn’t the perfect film.
When I was in Vegas, along came Elvis. All the magic of how the music spoke to me, with the knowledge of who the person was behind the scenes. How original his music was, him growing up poor, how he wants to be remembered after his death. It was all so relatable, so me, you know?
The eponymous Elvis was played by Austin Butler, and so I knew he had to be mine. He was the closest I would get to happiness, sorry Claude. I had to meet him, to know him, to make him love me back. I hurried back to LA, as we all know all movies are made there. There were posters of him everywhere when I first got there, “For Your Consideration”. I’d considered, alright. I knew what I wanted.
It was harder to find him than I thought, someone so famous couldn’t hide from me forever. On a star tour the guide told us that Austin lived in Anaheim growing up, so I headed down there. I hoped that with such a big name I’d be able to find his parents or something and show them how honest and loving I could be. I assumed with such a famous name that everyone would be going to his house, like one of the star tours in Hollywood. That was a bust. Everyone else was going to Disneyland, like there’s nothing else valuable in all of Orange County. I ended up back in LA.
For a little backstory, there’s a scientific concept called the Degrees of Kevin Bacon, the study of which is Baconology. For those unfamiliar with this science, every actor - or actress, I’m not sexist - can be linked to each other through movies they’ve acted in. This leads to a score for how many steps it takes to get to the man himself, Kevin Bacon.
Mr. Butler’s Bacon score is two, with Tom Hanks serving as the bridge in between. Of course, it had to be Tom. My first real heartthrob bringing us two lovebirds together. As I couldn’t find Austin or Mr. Hanks, I searched for Kevin Bacon instead. He wouldn’t shut up with how many movies he’d been in, it seemed I saw him everywhere. He would be easy to find, the first step on my path to my love-to-be.
Of course, I tried to set an appointment with him, even reaching out to his agent, but I got no response. So, I did what I needed.
A news site told me he lived in the hills above Los Feliz, within site of the observatory. I went to the pound and picked up a dog. I threw a collar on it and wandered the neighborhood. I flagged down a couple walking their dog.
“Hi, sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m trying to find the owner of this dog.”
“Did you call the number on the tag?” said the woman. She was middle aged with bouncy hair and saggy eyes.
I shook my head. “There’s no name, it says this dog is ‘Celt’ and the owner is Kevin Bacon. That’s all I know.”
The man nodded, his thick chin roll jiggling, and pointed to a large mansion with a private gate. “Go up to them, they’ll take the dog from you. Probably will never see the owner, but his guards will take them.”
“Huh. How many guards does he have?”
“How should we know? Ask them.” They wandered off with a glance over their shoulder.
I walked ‘Celt’ up to the gate and buzzed on the gate. “Good morning.”
“Morning.”
“Is this the Bacon residence?”
The guard glanced at me and the flea-ridden pit bull mutt I’d picked up. “Who’s asking?”
“How many guards do you all have there?”
He scowled and pushed me back. ‘Celt’ growled and barked against his muzzle. “Enough to make sure you never come by here again,” said the guard. “Get the fuck out of here, now.”
“Alright, alright, no worries.” I wandered off with ‘Celt’. Once a block or two away I let the dog off leash and slapped him in the flank, where he ran off. No use for him anymore.
I wandered by the front of the house and found a spot I could hide from the cameras and see who came and went. His schedule was funky, I’m sure he worked a lot. Also, his awful wife always seemed to be there. Hollywood couples don’t like spending time together, how could I have expected this? I wanted him alone just in case I had to confront him and move on quickly.
What the neighborhood did have was dog walkers and lots of foot traffic. Wasn’t LA supposed to be a driving city? Doesn’t matter, this way I would be able to get right up next to the house without being noticed.
It took a week to figure out my route in and out. Luckily, once I got into the backyard I could see that there were no cameras inside. I guess they didn’t want to always be on camera. The only thing that ever caught me was a cat who’d sit by the window, watching me, its tail flicking.
I didn’t want to just break in and take what I needed, that would be psychotic. My relationship with Austin – we should be on a first name basis soon – shouldn’t start by breaking the law. If I had to, though, well what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. For a few days in a row, I left flowers and chocolates inside the gates with a note to call and tell me where Mr. Hanks lived. I just wanted to let him know I wasn’t threatening.
Mr. Bacon never reached out. Eventually, I had to move forward. It was clear evening when I popped the window and snuck inside, same as I’d done when breaking back into my house after going out with friends. Strumming acoustic guitar echoed from upstairs. He must be up there, but I’d only go up there if I need be.
I ended up in a very nice kitchen, their realtor must have said it was great for entertaining because it looked like it had never been used. A low light came from the office, but from what I’d seen there was never anyone in there at this time of night. I guess when you make as much money as these people you could be wasteful. Lucky them. The floors were nice, without creaks, so it was easy to walk around silently. I let my guard down, bumping into a stainless steel bowl on my way through the kitchen to office. It crashed onto the wooden floor and echoed across the vaulted ceilings.
The light in the office turned off and one turned on up the stairs. I slid behind the island in the kitchen as muffled footsteps approached. My chest ached as my heart throbbed out of it, beating it as my chance at Austin got away with something as silly as bumping a metal bowl. The only weapon I could find nearby to defend myself was a rolling pin hanging off the edge of the island. I would use it if I had to.
The cat hurried past me towards the footsteps. “Did you knock something down?” said a young woman’s voice, not one I recognized from cinema. The footsteps continued towards me and I held my breath. My fingers inched closer and closer to the rolling pin until the bowl was picked off the ground and placed right above my head. I pressed my back against the white cabinet door, each throb of blood through my head deafened me against her soft footsteps as she hummed away. I poked out my head and caught her glance at the slightly ajar office door as she passed.
“Dumb bitch,” I muttered as her footsteps disappeared upstairs. My ragged breath slowed along with my shaking. I’d dodged a bullet this time, but more care would be needed if I were to get out unscathed. I stood, my knees still shaky, and slunk over to the office.
The office door was silent but heavy as I opened it. A screensaver on the large double monitors offered the only light in the room. As I tapped on the keyboard, the office door clicked shut and, before I could turn, a metallic object pressed against my neck.
“Who are you?” a deep male voice hissed in my ear.
I held up my hands and glanced down at the blade shimmering in the computer light. “Take it easy,” I said, low and slow as I bent my knees in preparation for a fight. 'Let’s be calm."
The knife pressed into my throat. “Why are you here?”
My head spun. I couldn’t trust this freak not to slice me open. “Put the knife down and we’ll talk.” The blade shifted, as if his hand shook with nerves. I’d need to make my own opportunity.
“No, talk or I’ll — “
I threw an elbow into the squishy space below his ribs while I ducked and spun away from the blade. The blade fell and sliced through the webbing in my thumb and forefinger as I wrenched the knife out of his hands. In the semi-darkness, I knew I’d succeeded when the weapon clattered metallically against the floor and sent a shiver down my spine as I thought someone would hear. I had to keep him silent to stop him from yelling for help, so I threw myself at him but was pushed off. I stumbled back and bumped into the monitor, which we both reached out to catch before it toppled and shattered.
We pushed the scree back and scrambled for the knife, which I grabbed and held between us. I caught my breath as I held the hilt with both shaky hands and stood. He labored to his feet as well, holding his stomach where I’d elbowed him. I wiped a spot of blood from my cheek, although with the adrenaline I didn’t know if I’d been cut or if he’d dripped on me.
Both of us diving for the monitor intrigued me, so I picked up a glass from the desk. My clammy hand rattled the melting ice and I pretended to drop it. The other man lurched down to catch what never fell before scurrying back.
I said in a whisper, “What are you doing here?”
He whispered back and edged towards the door. “I asked you first.”
I cut him off. “I have the knife.”
“If you stab me, I’ll scream.”
“Then why would you stab me?”
“I was gonna cut your throat,” he said.
“And why don’t you think I’ll do that?”
He rolled his next words around his mouth before he next spoke. “If you try to cut my throat I’ll scream.”
With a huff I lowered the blade and flipped on the light. The warm glow burned our eyes and I let myself adjust before I spoke. “They have money in a safe upstairs.”
He blinked his clear, blue eyes and shuffled his feet, seemingly embarrassed that he could be fully seen. "I know."
I pointed at the office door with the knife and stood aside. "Then go get it."
“I don’t want nothing to do with that.”
“Then why the fuck are you here?” I said, my voice raising.
He held his hands out and pressed them towards the ground. “Keep it down, yeah? Alright, I’m looking for where Tom Hanks lives so I could track down Leonardo DiCaprio.”
The air in the room sucked right out and I laughed. “You’re shitting me.”
He blushed, a subtle pink through the light freckles on his cheeks. “Well, why are you here then?”
“Austin Butler, also through Tom Hanks.”
He rubbed a furrow on his forehead and smiled. “We can help each other out then.”
“Yeah, we could.” I put down the knife and brushed his hair back off his face. “You know, you have striking eyes.”
Hasan stared at their entwined hands. “I knew in that moment, it had to be him. He understood me, really understood me.” He sniffed and Claude wiped his eye for him. “I knew how far he’d go for our love.”
Claude spoke up, his cute blush piercing his freckles. “It’s a bit embarrassing, I know. I asked him not to tell it until after the wedding.”
Hasan’s parents sat with mouths agape. Claude’s mom had fainted and her husband, red faced, tried to revive her. Hasan’s sister finished her glass of red wine in one gulp before dragging from the bottle. Claude’s twin sister snorted as he laughed, the only sound in the silent room.
The End
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