Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“Maybe. We reporters like to pin down hard facts like age."

“And name, rank, and serial number, right?" His laugh was loose and infectious. "Can't help you there. Never served my country in the military. Not that way. Not that I wouldn't have, if it had worked out. I'm a loyal American."

“Does being an Elvis impersonator require being a loyal American?"

“Yes, it does. That boy, he was Mom and apple pie personified."

“What about the rest of it? Babes and barbiturates?"

“Aw, now, Miss . . . Barr. The boy was under tremendous pressure. Sure he went overboard, but those girls were throwing themselves at him. He was young, he was breaking free from a very strict religious upbringing ... you know, he didn't touch a lot of those girls. Sometimes all he wanted was someone to sleep with, like those teddy bears he collected. In a lot of ways, he was just a scared seventeen-year-old country boy."

“In some ways, he was the wicked, rebel King of Sex."

“Yep. He had that charisma. But that type of thing works better from the stage and screen than it does in real life."

“You have some of it."

“Very kind of you to say that, a sophisticated professional lady like yourself. But it's a stage thing. It isn't real. That's where Elvis went a little haywire. He thought he had to live up to his stage image. See, Elvis only felt really free when he was onstage. That was his biggest love affair, with the audience. Nothing else could live up to that. It's hard to explain. I've heard dozens and dozens of other people who saw him perform live. He was like nothing else they ever saw. Some folks like to make fun of him, or put him down, but they were fighting against the tide. Even in their hardest hearts, they must of seen the phenomenal pull he had on people. It was like one big mass—can I say this? If not, please don't print it. I'm tired and I'm not thinking sharp enough to defend myself .. .”

Temple nodded. "I won't use anything harmful, that you don't mean to say."

“It was like one big mass orgasm, is what it was like. Only spiritual. An emotional release like you've never had before."

“You obviously saw him perform live.”

Lyle nodded. "In the seventies, of course. I came late to the banquet." He paused. "I even saw him in the last couple years, when he was just pitiful. He was like a puppet on those drugs. It made grown men who knew him cry. The fans cried, but they never stopped loving him. Unconditional love, isn't that what you call it? It was like he couldn't do anything to make them not love him, and sometimes I think that's what he was trying to do, putting himself onstage when he was too drugged to stand up, or to remember lyrics or anything. He was trying to make them give up on him, so he wouldn't have to bear the burden anymore. If they would just stop loving him . . . but they couldn't, any more than he could stop hating himself at the end. He was ready to leave. That I know. He was ready. Everybody around him knew it. He died standing up, with his boots on, not in that bathroom at Graceland. That was just the actual fact. The real death was earlier. We were all watching a dead man walking for a long time."

“What did you do then?"

“Do?" Lyle shook his head as if to shake off a nightmare, Temple thought.

She glimpsed the tiniest flash of white roots at his left temple. His face was lightly lined and tanned, the way Elvis liked to look after a trip to Hawaii. Temple was miserable at guessing ages. Because she felt she looked so ridiculously young, she tended to underestimate other people's ages too. She would put Lyle Purvis in his forties. In fact, Elvis's hair had gone white by forty-two. It was weird to picture a snowy-haired Elvis.

While Temple was dallying on top of old Smokey, all covered with snow, Lyle had come out of his own fog reliving Elvis's last performances.

“What do you mean 'do'?"

“Do for a living back then?"

“I don't even remember. I was just a kid."

“What's your day job now?”

He laughed, uneasily. "It's pretty unglamourous." When she waited in silence, he added, "I work for a messenger service."

“Around town here?"

“Right. Have car, will travel."

“None of the Elvis impersonators have performance-type jobs that I can tell. Unless they're the ones who make a living at it."

“There are a few of those," he agreed.

“Why not you? Everybody talks like you're the best." "Because I don't want it to be that serious, all right? I want it to be something I can do if I feel like. I don't want to end up like Elvis, having to go through the motions to make enough money to get everybody off my back, and then get so depressed I blow the money myself and have to dig myself in deeper to keep the whole cycle going."

“It's hard making a living as an entertainer," she agreed. "What brought you out of hiding for this show?" "Hiding? Who says I was hiding?"

“I didn't mean hiding, exactly. Just that the other El-vises see you as some kind of mysterious figure that comes and goes without notice."

“There's nothing mysterious about me."