Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

“Who knows what a beginning is, man. Or an end. If I could tell you that I would really be somebody. It all runs together, and then we put order on it and say this happens because that happened. Like they say my mama dying was the end of me, or Cilia leaving, or, hell, why not my dog Getlo dying after eighteen years? That dog was there when mama still was, when my star was shiny and new. How does anybody know what brought me down? I don't even know it."

“Everybody's an expert on you, Elvis."

“You got that right, Mr. Midnight. Ever'body but me, huh?"

“Haven't you had time to become an expert by now?"

“I've had time to think, that's for sure. If I just hadn't been raised to respect my elders like I was. Maybe I woulda given Colonel his walking papers. I used to threaten to do it, but ever' time I got mad enough to do something about him, he'd sit me down and scare me, like that time in seventy-six when he showed me this bill of millions I'd owe him if I fired him. That man was a wizard with figures. Had mah daddy beat seven times around the block. Somethin' in me just couldn't say no to anybody's face. It was like I was paralyzed."

“You couldn't say no to your mama. Maybe that put the fear of saying no in you."

“That's what they say about drugs now: just say no. Heck, they got no idea how hard sayin' no is." "But you don't take drugs now."

“Ah . . naw. Mostly not. Hell, I haven't got the money for that stuff now."

“But your estate's been built up again. It's worth millions. Why don't you go back and claim it?"

“See, that's what got me in trouble, all the money, and then the Colonel letting me pay ninety percent taxes on it, then me being a Big Spender. I was needing dough in those last years. Had to work to keep ever'body paid and the planes and cars coming so I had a chance of going somewhere fast some way. So I don't want all that. Finally got away, son; think I'm gonna run right back?"

“What happened to the boy who wanted to be James Dean, who showed up on his first movie set with the whole script memorized: his and everybody else's lines?"

“I was a go-getter then, wasn't I? I still had hope Icould make somethin' of myself, instead of ever'body makin' something on or off of me."

“What happened to those girls you fell in love with back then? Dixie, and June, and Debra Paget, your first costar. You were always falling in love, Elvis. What would have happened if you'd have married one of those girls and stopped letting those fans in the motel and hotel rooms for you and the boys to pick from like a basket of free fruit the management sent? They were just adventure-crazy young girls. What did you or they get from all that?"

“I don't know, Mr. Midnight. It seemed like a new adventure ever' night, that it did. And the guys, they really looked up to me. I was the King. I could have every woman in the world. They could take what I left."

“That's ... not the way you were raised, Elvis. Not what your mother wanted.”

The pause elongated into that one thing dreaded in live radio: dead air time.

“I know it." The voice was soft, shamed. "I know it. She wanted me to be clean-living. No cussin', no drinkin', no wild, wild women. And I didn't let anybody have alcohol around for a long time, or do no cussin'. But then I got used to the hard life of the road, and ever'thing slipped. It seemed like fun. It seemed like I was somebody."

“You were the King. You were everything you weren't in high school, right?"

“Right! It was fun. I couldn't keep 'em away. They loved it. Got to be wearin' on a guy. Too much to live up to. A lot of the time we didn't do anything. Heck, a lot of the girls I was with for a long time before we did anything serious."

“Kind of like in high school, huh? Necking and games, but nothin' you could get in real trouble for."

“Yeah. But you're right. My mama like to kill me if she knew all the messes I got into on the road."

“Maybe she did. Maybe that's what killed her."

“Don't say that! I thought you were listenin' to me. I thought you were one of my guys! There's loyalty, and you don't be loyal to me and say things to tear me down. To bring me down. Damn it.”

Breathing, labored, came over the line.

Matt wasn't watching Leticia, or the clock. He wasn't seeing anything but the dark tabletop in front of him. His ears were tuned to his caller's every nuance, every breath. This was a man on a tightrope over a mental chasm, stretched as taut as an overtuned guitar string.

His history was national knowledge. His life was a national resource. His death was history.

He may be delusional, but the delusion was reality-based. If he thought he was Elvis, he was Elvis. He had to be treated as Elvis.

Treated as Elvis. Not just handled, but counseled. Helped. No one could save Elvis the first time around. Did twenty years of psychobabble make it possible to do now what couldn't be done then? Was "Elvis" finally ready to be saved, or was this Elvis clone ready to die like Elvis? Inevitably? Publicly? Pathetically?