Meeting the King

Elvis was at the bus stop. Or rather, it was a life-size action figure of Elvis (by the look of him), complete with all the cheap accoutrements that accompany action figures - blown up to ridiculous proportions, of course. This was the Elvis that haunted Market Square on weekday afternoons, wearing spandex representations of the King's wardrobe that did precious little in the way of what a garment should - namely, covering up the unsightly parts. He would plug in his karaoke tape player and vomit detuned Presley songs onto the innocent bystanders of Market Square, who were out merely for lunch or to buy a new shirt or a book, and who had little concept of the surprise bonus they would get from the crackpot impersonator.

I think it gave his life some sort of meaning. He never really got paid for his time - at least, by anyone with a brain stem. He had also grown out his hair so that he would have to wear a toupee. Nasty sideburns crawled down his face like some bizarre Saxon ivy, and he had piled his hair - with the liberal aid of Crisco, I think - on top of his head in a black pompadour fit to impress a weatherman. One had to admire him for his spunk (which was considerable), crooning and serenading every passerby (including myself) with "Only You" as his hips randomly gyrated, causing people to randomly return their lunch from whence it came. It was interesting that he didn't seem to mind people's habit of widely circumventing his act with heads down and whispered voices, as if Elvis Impersonation was a leprosy that might catch if not given sufficient berth. Still, I find some odd envy in his ability to see his profoundly abnormal activity as a necessary and effectual part of everyday life.

I suppose I'll miss something if he quits. The laughter, at least.