Read Online Harley Jean Davidson 03 - Evil Elvis by Virginia Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Virginia Brown
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drink of water. Yogi wasn’t far behind him. “Sometimes the judges are other contestants from previous years, but occasionally we get a celebrity or two as judges.”
She followed him into the kitchen. As she’d suspected, King lay on the kitchen floor with his head in his water bowl. Just his ears and eyes showed above the deep bowl, reminding her of a flop-eared crocodile, and slurping sounds came from his vicinity.
“Like who as celebrities?”
“TV people, news columnists, those kind. Did you drink my root beer?” he asked with his head stuck inside the refrigerator.
“You know I don’t like that organic stuff Diva buys. Where is she, by the way? Burying the pickle jars?”
Yogi shut the refrigerator and twisted open a bottle of peach flavored water. “I think she went to pick up some more supplies. We’ve got a big flea market coming up soon.”
Their main source of revenue. After inheriting his parents’ house when Harley was only fourteen, they’d moved back to Memphis from a California commune. Diva read tarot cards and sold crystal jewelry and dream catchers, and Yogi made metal garden trolls and windmills to sell at local flea markets. They made enough money to buy food and pay utilities and taxes, though Yogi always had to make his annual protest over the latter. Government conspiracy was a familiar theme. He’d never quite recovered from the mindset of the sixties. Not that Harley didn’t sometimes agree with him, but she stopped short of picketing the Federal Building or protesting for animal rights outside the meat packing plants. More than once she’d had to provide her parents bail money and a ride home from the police station.
Since Yogi chose to ignore her references to their banking system of pickle jars buried in the back yard, she gave up for now. It would come up again. She’d make sure of that.
“So is that it? That’s all the Elvis tributes are, just contests and a little prize money?”
Yogi sighed. “After all these years, you’d think you’d have paid more attention.”
“You would, wouldn’t you? It’s not that I’m not interested in you. It’s just that I’ve never been that interested in all the fuss made about Elvis every year. Sorry.”
Yogi looked sad. “There’s never been another one like him, never will be. He created an era all on his own, a poor boy from Mississippi with only his talent and determination. Now he’s known worldwide, and most of the rock music today is here only because of him. I don’t mean that stuff your brother plays, that’s just noise. A waste of talent.”
“We certainly agree on that. And it’s not that I don’t admire Elvis, because how could I not? Every week I tell tourists about how he started out in a two room house in Tupelo before his talent got him to Graceland. And sometimes I tell them that because of my father, I’ve listened to Elvis’s music all my life.”
That pleased Yogi. “You do?”
“Sure. And sometimes I tell tourists about one of the times Diva met Elvis, and how he often got so lonely he’d walk down the highway from Graceland to visit with the night attendant at the Shell gas station. Almost everybody knows about how he had to rent amusement parks and movie theaters to be able to go out and not be mobbed by fans, but not many realize just how lonely he got at times.”
Yogi nodded. “There’s a muffler shop at that Shell station now. My dad worked there a long time ago, when it was still a Shell station. He was a mechanic. The night attendant, Clyde, would tell him how he and Elvis talked sometimes, maybe shared a nip or two, and told dirty jokes. People forget that at heart Elvis was still a small-town boy from Tupelo stuck in a big-time world with too many boundaries. Talent made him, but it ruined him, too. Nobody ever thinks about how much he gave up sharing that talent.”
Now her father looked so sad Harley had to
She followed him into the kitchen. As she’d suspected, King lay on the kitchen floor with his head in his water bowl. Just his ears and eyes showed above the deep bowl, reminding her of a flop-eared crocodile, and slurping sounds came from his vicinity.
“Like who as celebrities?”
“TV people, news columnists, those kind. Did you drink my root beer?” he asked with his head stuck inside the refrigerator.
“You know I don’t like that organic stuff Diva buys. Where is she, by the way? Burying the pickle jars?”
Yogi shut the refrigerator and twisted open a bottle of peach flavored water. “I think she went to pick up some more supplies. We’ve got a big flea market coming up soon.”
Their main source of revenue. After inheriting his parents’ house when Harley was only fourteen, they’d moved back to Memphis from a California commune. Diva read tarot cards and sold crystal jewelry and dream catchers, and Yogi made metal garden trolls and windmills to sell at local flea markets. They made enough money to buy food and pay utilities and taxes, though Yogi always had to make his annual protest over the latter. Government conspiracy was a familiar theme. He’d never quite recovered from the mindset of the sixties. Not that Harley didn’t sometimes agree with him, but she stopped short of picketing the Federal Building or protesting for animal rights outside the meat packing plants. More than once she’d had to provide her parents bail money and a ride home from the police station.
Since Yogi chose to ignore her references to their banking system of pickle jars buried in the back yard, she gave up for now. It would come up again. She’d make sure of that.
“So is that it? That’s all the Elvis tributes are, just contests and a little prize money?”
Yogi sighed. “After all these years, you’d think you’d have paid more attention.”
“You would, wouldn’t you? It’s not that I’m not interested in you. It’s just that I’ve never been that interested in all the fuss made about Elvis every year. Sorry.”
Yogi looked sad. “There’s never been another one like him, never will be. He created an era all on his own, a poor boy from Mississippi with only his talent and determination. Now he’s known worldwide, and most of the rock music today is here only because of him. I don’t mean that stuff your brother plays, that’s just noise. A waste of talent.”
“We certainly agree on that. And it’s not that I don’t admire Elvis, because how could I not? Every week I tell tourists about how he started out in a two room house in Tupelo before his talent got him to Graceland. And sometimes I tell them that because of my father, I’ve listened to Elvis’s music all my life.”
That pleased Yogi. “You do?”
“Sure. And sometimes I tell tourists about one of the times Diva met Elvis, and how he often got so lonely he’d walk down the highway from Graceland to visit with the night attendant at the Shell gas station. Almost everybody knows about how he had to rent amusement parks and movie theaters to be able to go out and not be mobbed by fans, but not many realize just how lonely he got at times.”
Yogi nodded. “There’s a muffler shop at that Shell station now. My dad worked there a long time ago, when it was still a Shell station. He was a mechanic. The night attendant, Clyde, would tell him how he and Elvis talked sometimes, maybe shared a nip or two, and told dirty jokes. People forget that at heart Elvis was still a small-town boy from Tupelo stuck in a big-time world with too many boundaries. Talent made him, but it ruined him, too. Nobody ever thinks about how much he gave up sharing that talent.”
Now her father looked so sad Harley had to
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