My uncle, Mario, was two people.

During the day, he was Mario. Undisputed king of the dad joke. A middle-aged weirdo of minor repute. Think Tony Danza if Tony Danza were brown as fuck, installed drywall, and took minutes at the local Sasquatch sighting club.

But at night, he was Yelton John, the leader of the best goddamn Elton John cover band this side of the Cascade Mountains and well beyond.

It’s hard to believe. You’re telling me a stocky Chicano would trade his Big Dog tees and jorts for novelty sunglasses, feather boas, and platforms?

Hell, I barely believe me.

But truth is stranger than fiction, man. So with his backup band, the Rotten Peaches, he would rock every bar near the airport, every week of the year. We’re talking four-hour sets with costume changes—all made from scratch by my uncle, the handyman.

I can still see him sweating over the stitching and leopard prints with the chorizo he called fingers.

If you came, you got what you paid for. Your Song. Tiny Dancer. Levon. The hits of course. But if you stayed, you got Grey Seals. My Father’s Gun. Dan Fucking Dare, The Pilot of the Future.

(If you know, you know.)

The greatest of all his shows is when he’d get with his best frenemy, Memo Joel—who covers Billy Joel — and put on a little Face to Face Tour in the South Sound. Dueling pianos. Medleys. Lounge-room banter about I-5 traffic, the hayseed militias of Yakima, and Californians jacking up the prices of rents and gasoline. Swear to god, it was better than the real thing.

But you can’t live as two people. Not that long, anyway.

One day, when he was Mario and halfway through a rant about UFOs and next-generation anal probes, he shorted out. Stroked out. Three to be exact. Out out out.

I hope he don’t mind I put this down in words.

The specialist said he would never play again.

The doc should’ve quit his day job right then.

Why? Because he bounced back as Yelton John.

You don’t understand. He really thinks he is Sir Elton Hercules John.

But Mario? Mario is gone. Gone gone. Candle burned out long before his legend ever did.

He walks among us, but he doesn’t recognize my aunt. He doesn’t recognize his kids. He sure as shit has no idea who I am. To him, we’re just fans.

But I can’t be mad. He’s never been so happy. We all are. My aunt found a new man. My cousins have their husbands and kids. I have these stories I tell anyone who will listen.

Sure, my uncle doesn’t remember anything. But it’s not all bad. He gets to forget.

I’ll text you when he’s back from tour. I think it’s gonna be a long, long time. His star is taking off.

He still plays in those bars near the airport, though.

Ask me and I will take you.

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