At the bus stop, his guitar precariously stowed in a chipboard case held together by a bungee cord, he was watched by two shirtless boys on a stoop, drinking sodas. Their young, dark torsos emerged out of the enormous dungarees like shoots sprouting.
“Yo,” one of them called. “Let me see that.”
Black Elvis stayed where he was, but tightened his grip on the case. The boys stood and walked over to him. The sun hung low in the sky, turning the fronts of the row houses golden red.
“Are you a Muslim, Brother?” asked the smaller of the two. His hair was cornrowed, and one eye peered unnaturally to the side.
Black Elvis shook his head. He wondered how hot it still was.
Eighty, at least.
“He’s a preacher,” said the other one. “Look at him.” This boy, though larger, gave the impression of being less sure of himself. His sneakers were untied and looked expensive and new.
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Images taken on Main Street, Vancouver.
Text from Black Elvis by Geoffrey Becker (1999).
A Photographic Record 