Read Online Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis by Virginia Brown - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Virginia Brown
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year it’s August eleventh through the sixteenth, right up until the candlelight vigil.”
“Why is it called ETA? Shouldn’t that be EP something?”
“Elvis Tribute Artists.” Yogi missed a step and slid backward on the treadmill, barely catching himself before he fell. King watched intently from under the dining room table, muscles quivering as if he intended to jump on it, too. Maybe that was a good idea, in light of the fact the dog was so high-energy.
Harley turned her attention back to her father. “So what does the winner get? A lifetime supply of fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches?”
Yogi gave her a reproachful look. “There’s a cash prize as well as the prestige of being the grand champion.”
Aha. Motive. “A big cash prize?”
“It’s not the cash prize that’s the most important. If he wants, the grand champion gets a lot of gigs during the next year, and appears at the annual ceremonies the next year to present the trophy. It’s a big honor. And I intend to win.”
“Just because you feel the money isn’t important doesn’t mean everyone does. Y’all hide your money in pickle jars instead of keeping it safely in a bank. You’re just asking for trouble.”
Yogi stopped to look at her but the treadmill kept going. He fell forward, caught himself, then went backward, staggering as his arms pinwheeled. Harley tried to catch him but missed. He landed on his butt with a heavy “whoof!” The empty treadmill kept going, and King took advantage to jump on the moving black band. While the dog kept pace with the treadmill, Harley helped Yogi to his feet.
“Are you all right?” she asked when she got him upright again. He looked dazed. His eyes were the bright green of a traffic light, and he kept blinking them.
“I think so...” he finally got out, sounding breathless.
“You need to work on your dismount technique. You’re supposed to turn the machine off first, and then stop walking. It’s much easier that way.”
“Maybe so.”
“Well, at least you now know how to exercise King on rainy days. He thinks he’s a race horse.”
Yogi sat down on a dining room chair and wiped his brow with a paper towel he pulled from his pocket. “King gets on it more than I do. He loves it. I hate it. But I don’t want to insult Elvis’s memory by being too fat or busting out of my jumpsuit. If I could lose enough weight, I’d wear the same black leather he wore at his comeback in sixty-eight.”
Harley sighed. It was beyond her comprehension. Not even in her days of intense worship of Steve Perry from Journey had she idolized a singer as much as her father worshiped Elvis. Of course, she recalled dressing up like Stevie Nicks once, layered dress and boots, long hair loose around her face, singing Stand Back while Cami used her parents’ Super 8 camera to film it. All traces of that humiliation had since been destroyed, she hoped. So maybe Yogi wasn’t so alone in his rock star adulation after all. He’d just kept at it too long after adolescence.
“I understand,” Harley said to her father when they both knew she really didn’t.
He smiled. “Thanks.”
She smiled back at him. He really was a great father, even with this insanity he indulged in every year. And really, everybody had their quirks, didn’t they? It just seemed that her family was a bit more blessed with them than most, or maybe it was just that they didn’t mind keeping them unapologetically out in the open.
“So tell me what goes on at these competitions,” she said. “Like how many contestants there are and who the judges are, that sort of thing.”
“It varies from year to year by how many contestants show up, but only twenty-four are in the finals.” Yogi got up and turned off the treadmill. Sweet silence filled the dining room. King hopped off the treadmill when it stopped and went into the kitchen, presumably to get a
“Why is it called ETA? Shouldn’t that be EP something?”
“Elvis Tribute Artists.” Yogi missed a step and slid backward on the treadmill, barely catching himself before he fell. King watched intently from under the dining room table, muscles quivering as if he intended to jump on it, too. Maybe that was a good idea, in light of the fact the dog was so high-energy.
Harley turned her attention back to her father. “So what does the winner get? A lifetime supply of fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches?”
Yogi gave her a reproachful look. “There’s a cash prize as well as the prestige of being the grand champion.”
Aha. Motive. “A big cash prize?”
“It’s not the cash prize that’s the most important. If he wants, the grand champion gets a lot of gigs during the next year, and appears at the annual ceremonies the next year to present the trophy. It’s a big honor. And I intend to win.”
“Just because you feel the money isn’t important doesn’t mean everyone does. Y’all hide your money in pickle jars instead of keeping it safely in a bank. You’re just asking for trouble.”
Yogi stopped to look at her but the treadmill kept going. He fell forward, caught himself, then went backward, staggering as his arms pinwheeled. Harley tried to catch him but missed. He landed on his butt with a heavy “whoof!” The empty treadmill kept going, and King took advantage to jump on the moving black band. While the dog kept pace with the treadmill, Harley helped Yogi to his feet.
“Are you all right?” she asked when she got him upright again. He looked dazed. His eyes were the bright green of a traffic light, and he kept blinking them.
“I think so...” he finally got out, sounding breathless.
“You need to work on your dismount technique. You’re supposed to turn the machine off first, and then stop walking. It’s much easier that way.”
“Maybe so.”
“Well, at least you now know how to exercise King on rainy days. He thinks he’s a race horse.”
Yogi sat down on a dining room chair and wiped his brow with a paper towel he pulled from his pocket. “King gets on it more than I do. He loves it. I hate it. But I don’t want to insult Elvis’s memory by being too fat or busting out of my jumpsuit. If I could lose enough weight, I’d wear the same black leather he wore at his comeback in sixty-eight.”
Harley sighed. It was beyond her comprehension. Not even in her days of intense worship of Steve Perry from Journey had she idolized a singer as much as her father worshiped Elvis. Of course, she recalled dressing up like Stevie Nicks once, layered dress and boots, long hair loose around her face, singing Stand Back while Cami used her parents’ Super 8 camera to film it. All traces of that humiliation had since been destroyed, she hoped. So maybe Yogi wasn’t so alone in his rock star adulation after all. He’d just kept at it too long after adolescence.
“I understand,” Harley said to her father when they both knew she really didn’t.
He smiled. “Thanks.”
She smiled back at him. He really was a great father, even with this insanity he indulged in every year. And really, everybody had their quirks, didn’t they? It just seemed that her family was a bit more blessed with them than most, or maybe it was just that they didn’t mind keeping them unapologetically out in the open.
“So tell me what goes on at these competitions,” she said. “Like how many contestants there are and who the judges are, that sort of thing.”
“It varies from year to year by how many contestants show up, but only twenty-four are in the finals.” Yogi got up and turned off the treadmill. Sweet silence filled the dining room. King hopped off the treadmill when it stopped and went into the kitchen, presumably to get a
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