YULETIDE JEWISH ELVIS? "Christmas Eve--a packed auditorium. Every Jewish person in town is here because it's social--a good event, a good charity, and what else do these people have to do tonight?".

• Author: Bernstein, Alex
• Position: LITERARY SCENE

SO, Y'GOT a week to pull off yer show and yer plumb stuck without a headliner?

That's about the size of it, yes.

Christmas Eve's a busy night, son. Usually do three, four shows Christmas Eve.

"Right. Well, I don't want to waste any more of your time."

I'm sitting in a crummy, dilapidated booth with torn red leather seats at the Wishing Well, the last "nightclub" in town to allow smoking. The club's empty except for us, the bartender, and a few lingering musicians, but there's still a thick fog in the room.

King Cassidy smiles at me, bites down on his stogie. "No waste, son. What time you start?"

Eight.

Who's the opener?

I... we have jugglers. Two kids from the ... from our Sunday school.

"Mmm."

Three hundred pounds of bulging white jump suit, sunglasses, and an oily pompadour pulls out a tiny pocket calendar soaked in sweat, and with a swift motion, the King of Rock 'n' Roll unholsters a pen from a zippered pocket on his left shoulder. "Now, let's see ..."

"Mr. Cassidy," I interrupt. "Obviously you've got some . . . talent. Why would you possibly want to do this?"

'Fraid I don't follow.

"I'm sorry. Could you just stop for a minute and be a ... regular person? It's difficult to talk to you this way."

The bartender and a couple of Cassidy's bandmates glance over at us. I forget I'm on his turf here, not mine. He looks at me--hurt? Angry? Hard to read Elvis. "I'm sorry," I say. "I just don't understand___"

"Ah do this for a living, son," he says.

"Yes, but I'm guessing not typically for

Jews."

***

The wind in the parking lot's really whipping. I get in the car; turn the motor over. There's a rapping at my window--Cassidy. He gestures for me to roll down the window, and shoves a manila folder at me, his black hair flapping in the wind. 'Take a look," he says.

I open the folder. It's his head shot. A huge, ultra-bright, smirking hound dog. "Other side," he says.

It's his resume: TV and stage appearances, his real name, phone, address. Real name? "You're Jewish?"

Julie and I sit in the living room, staring at the television, mesmerized. On the nearby infant monitor, Eddie snores quietly in his room. On TV, King Cassidy finishes a set, bellowing to an enraptured hall of Kiwanis.

"This is a jackpot, Rob," says Julie. "Can you believe you were going to spend money on Mort Sahl? He's perfect."

He's just not perfect for the JCC. I mean, nobody's gonna come if I tell them it's Elvis.

So, tell them it's Jewish Elvis. Get him to sing Blue Chanukah or something. It's so obvious, Rob. Ask him!

"Absolutely not," says an angry Presley. "This isn't a game to me, Mr. Chaykin."

Rob.

I take my profession very serious.

You're Jewish and you're Elvis. Come on. There's gotta be other Jewish Elvises out there.

Well, call them, then, 'cause I'll be no party to mockery.

Cassidy ... look... I'm just afraid that... members of this community won't show up for an Elvis...