Approaching the counter, he fumbled through a gaudy leather-and-sequin wallet as I tried to remember one of his songs. He uncrumpled a five and a two-dollar bill, and setting his beer on the counter, made an odd smirk that may have been sexy once, and declared in his drawl, “Keep the change.” I replied, “Thanks Elvis,” and he smiled, turned, and walked out with his beer, pocketing a jerky stick on his way out. I decided not to say anything.