King Blelvis

12:30 a.m., at the Wonderland on 11th Street NW.

After an hour of working the crowd on the Wonderland's patio, Blelvis has decided to accept the offer of a free Pabst Blue Ribbon from a newfound fan. Suddenly, from across the bar, a hoot: "Blelvis!"

Blelvis scans the crowd, searching for the voice. It belongs to a 21-year-old rockabilly with a two-inch pompadour and a T-shirt with rolled sleeves. Blelvis spots him: "Elvis!"

The two men meet in a bear hug in the middle of the bar, Blelvis and Elvis, thumping each other on the back. Elvis is Elvis McGovern, a 21-year-old student who was raised on the street serenades of Blelvis, and who credits the man for instilling in him a love of music. Blelvis was, he says, the best thing about growing up in Mount Pleasant.

His arm still slung around Blelvis's shoulder, he puffs his chest out, as if there is a story he has been waiting his whole life to tell.

"One time, Blelvis and me, we fought a fire -- did he tell you about that? We ran into each other at a bar and decided to go back to my house and shoot the breeze. So we get back home, and there's a fire in the alley, and we leap out of the car, and I grab a board and he grabs a garden hose, and we just start beating on that fire. And the fire department finally comes, and Blelvis being Blelvis, he just splits."

Blelvis nods. Elvis grins. He believes in Blelvis: the man, the demigod, the keeper of Elvisology and the patron saint of Washington nights.

"Man, when I was growing up, this guy was my hero. You should have seen him. Man, you really should have. I mean, he's still got something, but back in the day, he had it all. Back in the day."