on in his odd, chewed-up speech.
He sounds just like Elvis, I thought. And his gestures, his hip-positioning, his lower-lip pouting, his disapproving sneer. All of them are just like Elvis. "So, you were an Elvis impersonator, when you were young?" I asked him, when I thought that Jonni had enough sermonizing. Besides, he'd started quoting the gospels mixed up with vintage New Age sayings and stuff about a higher plane.
My question brought him up short. He turned to stare at me. "A what?"
"An Elvis impersonator," I said, just as the weird thought ran through my mind that there had been no impersonation involved. Looking down, I saw that he wasn't wearing any belt buckle, certainly not a huge, gold-and-jewels one. Had I dreamed that, too?
I was so shocked that when I paid mind to Elroy again, he had launched off in another sermon of some sort, this one apparently directed at me, "besides, young lady, unlike some people I don't go through life playing no phony role. It's just that sometimes you're required to be what people need, what people think you should be, and in a way to expiate and to cleanse the sins of who you were or they think you were. For instance, all those ice creams you eat"
"I pay for them," I protested.
"Damn right you do. You can die of overweight, you know. And besides, as my mama used to say"
He had parked in front of the store by the time he finished his sermon. I almost ran out of the car, confused, baffled, feeling like I was having a weird dream and definitely very tired of Elroy's sermon.
Mark was at the counter, on the phone, with a pile of books in front of him and a pricing gun in his hand. He looked up and mouthed at me, "Jonni?"
"She's fine. She's coming in," I said. I wanted to tell him she'd been dead and Elroy had taken on Elvis' form and resurrected her, but then Mark would just tell me I'd been working for Eternal Life too long. And maybe I had.
"Well, ma'am, if you are possessed by a malevolent entity, I'd say you definitely should quit your job with the nuclear power plant," Mark said, into the phone.
I moved in beside him, took the price gun from his hand, determined to start work and forget what must have been a dream, had to have been a dream.
Looking down at the cover on the first book on the pile, I gasped.
Mark covered the mouthpiece on the phone. "Elroy had them vanity published. Isn't it a hoot?"
I looked at the cover again, speechless.
It showed a figure in a white jumpsuit, surrounded by light. On the top it said Elroy Peters. And on the bottom, in black letters, was the title: Elvis Died For Your Sins.
Like Dreams of Waking
I have a Southern friend who talks endlessly of civil war minutia. He happened to mention that Stonewall Jackson was killed by friendly fire. With one thing and another, next thing I knew I found myself writing this story.
(preceding pages rendered illegible through water damage and age) . . .possible that he had been wounded early in the day, more than twelve hours beforehand, and just as possible that all those hours he had lain for dead, in that great butcher-shop that Gettysburg had become.
I'm not sure when he was brought to the hospital we'd established at Plank Farm.
Situated three miles west of Gettysburg, the farm consisted of a good sized building on the west bank of Willoughby's Run. A few of us, medical men, had claimed it early in the morning of Wednesday, the first of July 1863, and since then we'd been disposing sick and wounded where we best could. Beds and mattresses, as well as anything that could be pressed into service as such, had long since been occupied by wretched sufferers.
We had the orderlies bring straw from the barns and spread it on the floor, so that more room might be made to care for afflicted men.
The man I wish to tell you about lay on the floor of the front parlor, upon the already blood-soaked straw, amid scores of wounded, moaning, crying men.
I thought he was dead.
He sounds just like Elvis, I thought. And his gestures, his hip-positioning, his lower-lip pouting, his disapproving sneer. All of them are just like Elvis. "So, you were an Elvis impersonator, when you were young?" I asked him, when I thought that Jonni had enough sermonizing. Besides, he'd started quoting the gospels mixed up with vintage New Age sayings and stuff about a higher plane.
My question brought him up short. He turned to stare at me. "A what?"
"An Elvis impersonator," I said, just as the weird thought ran through my mind that there had been no impersonation involved. Looking down, I saw that he wasn't wearing any belt buckle, certainly not a huge, gold-and-jewels one. Had I dreamed that, too?
I was so shocked that when I paid mind to Elroy again, he had launched off in another sermon of some sort, this one apparently directed at me, "besides, young lady, unlike some people I don't go through life playing no phony role. It's just that sometimes you're required to be what people need, what people think you should be, and in a way to expiate and to cleanse the sins of who you were or they think you were. For instance, all those ice creams you eat"
"I pay for them," I protested.
"Damn right you do. You can die of overweight, you know. And besides, as my mama used to say"
He had parked in front of the store by the time he finished his sermon. I almost ran out of the car, confused, baffled, feeling like I was having a weird dream and definitely very tired of Elroy's sermon.
Mark was at the counter, on the phone, with a pile of books in front of him and a pricing gun in his hand. He looked up and mouthed at me, "Jonni?"
"She's fine. She's coming in," I said. I wanted to tell him she'd been dead and Elroy had taken on Elvis' form and resurrected her, but then Mark would just tell me I'd been working for Eternal Life too long. And maybe I had.
"Well, ma'am, if you are possessed by a malevolent entity, I'd say you definitely should quit your job with the nuclear power plant," Mark said, into the phone.
I moved in beside him, took the price gun from his hand, determined to start work and forget what must have been a dream, had to have been a dream.
Looking down at the cover on the first book on the pile, I gasped.
Mark covered the mouthpiece on the phone. "Elroy had them vanity published. Isn't it a hoot?"
I looked at the cover again, speechless.
It showed a figure in a white jumpsuit, surrounded by light. On the top it said Elroy Peters. And on the bottom, in black letters, was the title: Elvis Died For Your Sins.
Like Dreams of Waking
I have a Southern friend who talks endlessly of civil war minutia. He happened to mention that Stonewall Jackson was killed by friendly fire. With one thing and another, next thing I knew I found myself writing this story.
(preceding pages rendered illegible through water damage and age) . . .possible that he had been wounded early in the day, more than twelve hours beforehand, and just as possible that all those hours he had lain for dead, in that great butcher-shop that Gettysburg had become.
I'm not sure when he was brought to the hospital we'd established at Plank Farm.
Situated three miles west of Gettysburg, the farm consisted of a good sized building on the west bank of Willoughby's Run. A few of us, medical men, had claimed it early in the morning of Wednesday, the first of July 1863, and since then we'd been disposing sick and wounded where we best could. Beds and mattresses, as well as anything that could be pressed into service as such, had long since been occupied by wretched sufferers.
We had the orderlies bring straw from the barns and spread it on the floor, so that more room might be made to care for afflicted men.
The man I wish to tell you about lay on the floor of the front parlor, upon the already blood-soaked straw, amid scores of wounded, moaning, crying men.
I thought he was dead.
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