Cheyenne was going at in the bathroom when he peeked his head around the corner. Hairspray was thick like a fog, and he coughed in spite of himself.

“Can I help you with somethin’?” She asked, not for a moment ceasing the cyclonic movement of spray can and hair pick. “You know it takes me at least two hours to get ready to go out to Denim and Diamonds. I don’t need your interruptions.”

“Now, baby, put down the spray for just a second, alright?”

“Dalton, if you make this hair fall like some bad soufflé, I will never forgive you.”

“Alls I want to know is if the chaps are too much…or just enough.”

He took a step out from behind the bathroom wall. The chaps were denim, and slightly darker than the jeans he wore under them. Above them he wore a black and purple western print shirt, pressed to perfection and off-set by a rattlesnake’s head bolo tie.

“Do a little twist.” Cheyenne said, spinning her index finger around in a circle. “Like you’re doin’ a line dance.”

She smacked her gum as he did the turn.

“Nah, just right. Makes your tush stand out.”

Memphis Note
Denim and Diamonds was a western-themed nightclub that opened up in the mid-90s to cater to the Garth Brooks line-dancing set. Catch was, it opened up in a neighborhood that was on the way out, and after not too long the white clientele they catered to were too scared to show up. Demin and Diamonds didn’t make it out of the 90s.

The cars were a giant white python, sliding down the center of the street, all things parting before it. Bone white Cadillacs following in the wake of the hearse. Darting motorcycle cops kept the monster of death on track.

He stood in the parking lot of the Coleman Taylor Transmission shop, smoking a cigarette, watching them all roll past. There was a crowd gathered closer to the curb. He could see a young girl sobbing on the shoulder of her mother. He took a final drag off the smoke, then flicked the butt to the curb and dug the pack out of his cover alls.

The spectacle of it all made him sick. The mourners who didn’t even know his songs, the gawkers looking to be part of history, the press trying to sell the whole thing back to you. He’d taken the afternoon off from his janitor job, ridden three buses and walked another two miles to watch the passing of the King. He respected the man, respected his music. All of this turned his stomach.

He lit his next cigarette before sliding a comb through his jet black pompadour.

He had his own way of remembering the King.

Memphis Note
I’ve always wondered where Elvis impersonation came from. I like the idea of one guy standing up and saying “No, I don’t like what you’re doing. THIS is how I’m going to remember him.” then breaking into Viva Las Vegas or something. People like that make the world a better place.