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.
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.