I leap up. It will be a shame to tell this spirit to get lost, but this is a Jersey Joe Jackson attraction, and his ghost has dibs on the venue. Call it ectoplasmic copyright. He was here first, and it would be interesting to discover who predeceased who. I am sure that they have debates about haunting rights in the afterworld.
Meanwhile, though it is impressive to see Elvis rockin’ and rollin’, I grow a bit uneasy about not seeing Miss Midnight Louise. No doubt she has swooned, as so many female Elvis fans were prone to do. I guess I should amble down, now that she has learned her lesson, and make sure the ghost doesn’t turn any of her black hairs white. She would look pretty silly spotted like a Holstein.
I step into the yellow light road made by the hard hat and follow in Miss Louise’s invisible footsteps.
The light fades and the darkness gets thicker as I move along.
I hiss for Louise, but get no answer.
Elvis is still bent over, flailling his legs and arms like a madman, playing the meanest air guitar I have ever not heard.
If only I had this on videotape. I could make a boxcar full, just like the Colonel.
Still no sign of Louise. Looks like I will have to ask Elvis to answer for it.
The closer I get, the more the jumpsuit glows, white-hot, with red, green, and blue sparkles. Elvis has his head dropped down so he can see his ghostly fingers hitting his ghostly chords on that air guitar.
Well, no. Elvis does not have his head dropped down. Elvis has no head! This is not your usual National lnkquirer sighting. This Elvis is not rated PG, but R. Too much for my tender offspring.
“Get out of here, you creep,” I shout, worried for the first time. Ghosts with major missing parts are usually more sinister than the all-there sort.
Of course he does not listen to me. I am now only a few feet away. “What have you done with my daughter?” I demand. “Unhand her, you phantom.”
No answer, not even a pause to recognize my presence and demand. Okay, the Michael Jackson gloves are off.
I spring from my position, shivs extended, planning to hit him in the jerking knees.
My first contact with the incorporeal is the sense of a barrier being breeched, a soft, giving barrier that I push through like the fighting feline I am. In a second, I am right through Elvis and on the other side.
Oops. I hope it is not the real Other Side, like I cannot get back into the living world.
Even as I worry, I land like a bag of nuts and bolts on the cold, hard cavem floor.
Elvis has crumpled into a pale puddle, just like the Wicked Witch of the West went south in a dark pool of ickiness in The Wizard of Oz.
But where is Louise? I stand and call her name, turning in a circle. No answer.
And as I turn back the way I came, I see that Elvis is struggling to rise again. I leap upon his heap of congealing, ethereal atoms.
But Elvis is striking back. I feel the sting of wounds from beyond the grave and soon his jumpsuit is becoming a winding cloth. I spin round and round until I am swaddled and trussed like a turkey.
“Cut it out!” a voice orders.
A familiar voice.
Midnight Louise struggles out from the wadded fabric, which is only too, too solid. It is, in fact, not only material, but a cotton material common to work clothes.
“Here is your Elvis. One of the painter’s jumpsuits. He must have been putting on the phosphorescent paint along the tunnel corridor and got it all over his white coveralls. So he left it hanging to dry down here. Everybody was too scared to come down and investigate.”
“Great. I always thought this was a purely natural phenomenon. What would Elvis be doing down a dark hole, anyway? All we have to do is drag this suit down by the elevator, and even the dimmest bulb should be able to figure out what happened, just as we have.”
“We. Right. Start dragging, Dad, and save some strength for the upward climb. I did hear you refer to me as your ‘daughter,’ did I not? When you thought I was missing?”
“I was, ah, calling for wa-ter. Not daughter. I thought you might have fainted.”
“Yeah, sure. Well, at least your roommate will have seen the last of Elvis on all fronts. I would definitely say that Elvis has left the building.”
cannot disagree.
We set off down the long, dark tunnel to the elevator shaft. It reminds me of a birth canal, though I do not often think of things like that.
We are halfway there when my left ear flicks back to catch a distant murmur of “Thank you, thank you verra much.”
I glance at Louise, whose sour puss is pointed dead ahead, ears unperked.
Naw
Tailpiece
How a Cat May Look at the King
If you ask me, Elvis, the world’s most famous draftee, may have been A-1 to the army, but he was 4F in life: literally crushed to death by fame, fans, floozies, and flunkies.
I have detected several similarities between the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll and my kind of cat, least of all our propensities to hang out in a streetlight in front of all and sundry and cut loose with sound, motion, and our natural erotic appeal to females of all ages, stages, and wages of sin.
First, we share very humble origins, but extraordinary pizzazz at making ourselves beloved by others. Elvis was never a street person like myself, but we were always loners with a vision of how we could rise far above our kind to become an idol and inspiration to millions. Okay, -thousands and thousands in my case, but I am not done yet.
Natural talent can be such a curse, always in danger of exploitation by others. Like myself, Elvis had touching trust in those who purported to assist him in his meteoric rise to fame and fortune. (Okay, so my rise is more mediocre than meteoric; close enough.) Elvis had his mysterious Svengali, a self-created illegal immigrant who put on a pseudonym and airs, Colonel Tom Parker. The so-called Colonel commandeered the King’s career at an early stage and helped himself to a much bigger share of the take than a reputable manager would.
I have my so-called collaborator, Miss Carole Nelson Douglas, who signs our contracts and handles the purse strings and catnip dispersion. It is assumed I have no interest or aptitude for the distribution of my own wealth. In fact, I am treated something like an ignorant and minor child, who must be “managed” for my own good.
Although our associations with our respective “partners” have been necessary and good for us at the onset of our careers, as time goes by our Svengalis have exercised far too much artistic control of our high-energy brand of performing genius that requires constant challenge lest it become boring servitude. Elvis was indentured to films and concert tours. I have my books and book tours, although my front woman takes over even there.
And then there is our endless attraction to the ladies. We cannot help that. We were born with that, although Elvis helped it along by adopting my hair’s own natural ebony coloration. So there we are: bigger than life, black, and beautiful. Add in our natural athletic ability and urge to take the spotlight, and you have a potent variety of catnip for dolls of all persuasions.
Speaking of nip, we even share the same failing. I too am mighty fond of a legally prescribed medicinal substance, which, if taken too intensely, can change my kittenish, lovable side so appealing to my friends and fans into cruel, predatory moods during which I lash out and bounce off the wall. I cannot help it any more than Elvis; it is a genetic predisposition.
Elvis always wanted to be a helpful authority figure. Early in life, he wanted to be a policeman, which accounts for his later habit of hanging out with the police and collecting badges—even via President Nixon, during one famous Elvis incident when he was pretty well smoked—and major personal armaments such as guns. Despite his own medication dependence, Elvis hated kids using street drugs and wanted to serve as an example to them.
I, of course, help homeless members of my own species through my Adopt-a-Cat tours. And I too am drawn to police work, although I walk the PI side of the legal beat, not being much of a dude for regulations, just like Elvis. Just like Elvis, I am often loaded with concealed side arms, only mine are of the edged variety.