Elvis Has Left The Building by Ryan J. Gross He fell asleep in the late morning cutting across southern Illinois. The sun had risen above the fields to his left and shone light blue on his face through the tint of the tour bus window. The hum of the wheels racing across I-64 sang him to sleep, as it had for most of the elderly passengers, bringing them dreams of Miami Beach and the Bayside Marriott, their ultimate destination. He was dreaming of the salty sea breeze, rum that flowed like water, and fish that look like royalty. He was bound for the Keys. It was nearly three when the young woman shook him back to consciousness. Her name was Brittany. Toward the front of the bus, Cindy, who had assumed the dominant role of the three young tour guides, was making some sort of announcement. “Due to some mechanical problems with the bus, I’m afraid we’re going to have to make a little stop on our way to Miami Beach. It shouldn’t take more than a couple hours to repair, and luckily, I’ve called ahead and it looks like we’ll be able to hop on a local bus and take in a little tour of Graceland. So grab your medications and get ready for a great time.” He tried hard to contain the sudden wave of panic that had just swept over him. He pulled down on his John Deere hat and looked at his faint reflection in the tinted, late afternoon window. “Graceland”, he said softly. It was a shame, really. He had successfully avoided Memphis for so long. It was the sole criteria on which he had selected this package. Non-stop to Florida. No weekend in Branson, the inevitable Branson. He always found it sad. All those careers dragging on, not knowing that they’d been dead for the last twenty years. It was all in the timing. And Memphis was avoided simply on principle. And as for Graceland, Elvis was dead, and that was that. But try as he might, every senior’s tour was routed straight through Memphis, this Mecca for the old, this geriatric Jerusalem. He reached across the aisle just in time to catch Brittany’s sleeve as she was striding past. “I’m not feeling so well, Sugar. Would it be alright if I waited in the bus until we took off?” “I’m afraid not, sir. We can’t leave anyone on the bus. Company policy.” Her voice overflowed with the soothing, patronizing tone that seemed to follow him everywhere since he’d turned fifty. “Darling, I’d be happy to wait in a truck stop. I just don’t care for all that walking around. Hard on the hips, you know.” He patted his left thigh. His smooth Kentucky drawl was coming out thick now, hoping to coax her onto his side. “It’s not much walking, sir. And besides, you just can’t miss Graceland. It’s part of our cultural past.” She turned and continued down the aisle before he could say anything else. By the time they caught him hiding in the lobby, half the tour was already over. They dragged him just in time to catch the jungle room. The rush of emotion caught him by surprise. It had been twenty five years since he had seen the leopard skin rugs covering the floor and the lion’s mane hanging over the bed. Even the smell was the same. It made him think of the safari that he and Pricilla had taken in Africa. How impressed she had been when he’d brought back such big game from the hunt. The days they’d spent decorating. The nights they’d enjoyed there in the dark. It also took him back to that night in Vegas. When the celebrity impersonator had dropped dead in the bathroom of his hotel suite. A bottle of Southern Comfort shattered under his left knee and half a bag of Quaaludes still clenched in his right hand. He shuddered for just a moment. He remembered the panic, the hurried getaway, the stolen car, the drive to Northern California stoned out of his mind, the campsite where he lived for almost a year. He remembered the years that followed, full of trailer parks and old pickups; five years driving a truck, seven more in a steel plant. The close calls and tabloid pictures. All of it whirled around like a tornado, sucking up the super star, ripping it to shreds, throwing it a thousand miles in every direction. He woke from his conscious dream just in time to catch the group as they shuffled out into the next room. It was a hallway that had been redecorated with blown up newspaper clippings of his career. It began with the early days: the gold jackets, the white shoes, the screaming girls. Then the days in the service, starched uniforms and autograph sessions. As he walked further, he watched himself grow old. He saw the pills and the liquor and the years that brought their toll. The progression was slow, but no gloss or airbrushing could temper the decay. By the end of the hallway, four cardboard cutouts in shiny sequined jumpsuits swaggered and karate chopped their way into a lather so real it was almost frightening. He faced forward. He had thought about it occasionally, about coming home. Showing up at the Sands in Vegas on some random Tuesday night to finish the show that never happened. He was thinking about it again when they entered the final room of the tour, the new Elvis Extravaganza Convention Center. He kept thinking about it until the house lights went down. He was on the verge of writing a set list on a cocktail napkin when he was nearly blinded by the spotlight as it dawned upon a figure in a stunning gold jacket strutting across the stage. He had seen quite a few impersonators in his years of self imposed exile, but this had to be the best. The makeup was flawless and the moves were tight, almost too tight. The room fell quiet as the hips pulsed perfectly with the windmill motion of the arms. The lips curled with every breath. He couldn’t take his eyes off the young prodigy. It was at that moment that the footlights came on, illuminating the banner stretched across the back curtain. ANIMATRONIC ELVIS : THE FUTURE OF ENTERTAINMENT Brought To You By The Walt Disney Co. He walked out alone, ahead of the crowd. He could hear Florida calling. He hoped they would still be serving dinner on the bus. He could really use something to eat.