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Ron Cruger
The Spectator
founded 2004 by ron cruger
A place for intelligent writers
A place for intelligent readers
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Elvis Presley appears and explains
I know but I ain't tellin'
 The recliner beckoned and I answered its call. My book, “The Big Bam,” a biography of Babe Ruth, was terrific reading. The Babe was, in truth, larger than life. A comfortable chair, a good book and the evening slowly spreading its darkness. A good life. 
          I felt the book slip out of my hands just as I heard the gentle knock on the front door. 
          I kicked the foot rest extension back in position and wrenched my body out of the chair, and headed for the door. 
           Checking the peephole, I saw him there, an older man, heavyset, dark-haired, peering right back at me. I yelled through the closed door, “Yes, what can I do for you?” 
          The answer came back in a soft voice with a Southern accent, “Just seein’ if I could use your telephone, sir, would that be possible?” His “I” sounded like “Ah,” 
Somewhat doubtful, I opened the door an inch. I looked the man over. He was wearing silvery pants, a black shirt with sequins decorating the pocket and collars. His hair was solid black, odd for a man his age. He wore white, zippered boots. His sunglasses were oversized and silver. He smiled and said, “Would it be possible to use your telephone, sir. I’d appreciate it.” His “I’d” sounded like “Ahd.” 
           I decided to open the door and let him use the telephone. 
           Before entering he scraped the soles of his white shoes on the door mat, cleaning them. He came in the house and reached out to shake my hand, saying, “I’m grateful, sir. My name is Elvis.” His “I’m” was pronounced “Ahm.” 
            “Elvis? Is that your real name?” “Yes, sir. Elvis Aron Presley.” 
            He looked like an older Elvis and he certainly sounded like Elvis. He was maybe 20 pounds overweight. He slid off his sunglasses and looked me in the eyes and said, “I just have to call my car service, sir, so I can get a ride home. I’m heading for Memphis.” 
           I showed this Elvis where the phone was and let him dial and talk in private. I could hear him, though, in the next room. “That’s right, son, you got the correct address. Be here inside of an hour and I’ll be beholden to ya. See ya then.” 
           After he hung up the phone he walked into the living room and asked, “Would it be okay if I sat down for a short while, sir. My ride will be here shortly.” 
           I waved him to sit on the couch across from me, which he did. 
          “So, are you one of those Elvis impersonators?” 
          “No, sir, I’m Elvis Presley. The real one. I get potently tired of seeing those guys trying to imitate me. I wish they wouldn’t do that.” 
             By now I was confused. 
             “So, Elvis, if you’re the real one, where have you been?” 
           “I’ve been playing music, sir. I been doin’ the same thing I’ve always done. Just getting’ on stage and singin’ and movin’ around.” 
           “But, I thought, just like everyone else, that you died in 1977. I thought you died, man.” 
           Elvis, taller than I had pictured him, took a deep breath, stretched his legs out and said, “No, man, I didn’t die. I just didn’t like the way my life was going, you know, with the drugs and me getting’ fat and all. I just wanted a change in my life.” He pronounced my like “mah.” 
            “So, what about the funeral and the sadness and the crying by millions of your fans?” 
           “Well, man, I was real sorry ‘bout that, but I had to get going with my new life. I stopped taking all those drugs, stopped drinking, lost a lot of weight and got in shape. Took me 6 months to feel better. Then I started singin’ and entertainin’ again.” When he said again it sound like “Agin.” 
          “Well, if you’re the real Elvis, where have you been for almost 30-years?” 
          “I’ve been around, singin’ and makin’ music.” 
          “Where’s around?” 
          “Around, man. Just around. Don’t you see, I got as many fans now as I did back then. I been around. Never stopped singin’ and makin’ music. Just because you ain’t seen me don’t mean I ain’t been around. Other people have seen me. I been around.” 
          Elvis twirled his silver sunglasses around in his left hand, crossed his right leg over his left and said, “Y’know, man, I don’t dig some of the music that they do now. Can’t stand that rap stuff or the hip-hop. Just too mean and violent for me. Also don’t like how so many kids now have guns, shootin’ people all the time.” 
          Damned if I wasn’t starting to believe that the real Elvis was sitting right across from me. 
          I asked Elvis if he wanted to watch some television while he waited for his ride. He nodded and said, “Sure.” 
          Thinking he would like some music, I tuned onto one of the kids’ video channels. There was a rapper surrounded by 6 scantily dressed dancers, rubbing their bodies against the singer. 
          Elvis started shaking his head back and forth. He frowned. “Man, I don’t know how moms and dads let their kids watch this stuff. It’s downright dirty. Makes me sick.” 
           I changed the channel and Elvis and I watched television for the next 20-minutes. 
          Then Elvis heard something outside. He cocked his head to hear better. Then he stood up and said, “Man, I think my car is here.” 
          We both walked towards the front door. I opened it and saw a sparkling white stretch limo parked at the curb. Its windows were darkened.
          Elvis turned towards me, reached for my hand and shook it. He said, “Man, you’ve been kind to me. I appreciate your hospitality. Maybe some day we’ll meet again. Thanks again, man.” 
          He walked to the curb, opened the door to the limo, bent down and slid inside. He gave me a short wave and winked at me. 
          I stood in amazement as the limo drove down the street and out of sight. 
          I walked back inside the house and returned to my recliner. I was bewildered. 
          Was that Elvis Presley who was just sitting and talking to me? Did I imagine the last hour? Was I dreaming? After all, I was sitting in my recliner, reading a book and I often fall asleep when I read. I thought to myself, “I must have been dreaming – after all, Elvis!”
          I leaned back and flipped out the leg extension on the recliner, stared ahead and thought, “Nah, I must have imagined it.” 
          Having decided that I had, indeed, spent the past hour dreaming, I reached down for the book I was reading. 
          And there it was. Right next to my book. A beautiful, white, silk scarf. The kind that Elvis used to wipe his brow and throw to his screaming fans.