Read Online The Importance of Being Ernie: by Barry Livingston - Free Book Online
Authors: Barry Livingston
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mine; a loose strand of his raven black hair, slick and shiny, dangled in front of his eyes. “What do ya think?”
Up close, his skin looked smooth as butter because it was coated with a heavy bronze makeup. He almost looked fake, like a walking-talking wax replica of himself. “I like the TV ...uh ... Elvis.” I said his name tentatively, testing it out to see how he’d react.
He laughed, climbed into the rear cabin, and settled into the leather seat, pushing down on it with his hands, assessing the firmness. Elvis seemed impressed. “I like TV, too,” he said. “Let’s see what’s on.”
He flipped one of the gold-plated toggle switches on the overhead console. The television came alive, making an odd sizzling noise, and then a scrambled black-and-white image on the screen became perfectly clear. I knew it! The picture was better than our crummy old Philco. Not only that, Popeye the Sailor , one of my favorite cartoons, was showing.
“I’m gonna take her for a lil’ test drive ’round the lot. Wanna come along?” Elvis asked.
Hell, yeah, I wanted to go! Just then, my mother’s stern voice popped into my head: Never ride with a stranger, Barry. Then, a different, sneakier voice whispered: Elvis is no stranger. Everybody knows Elvis! He’s probably the most famous guy in the world!
“Ya comin’?” Elvis asked again, snapping me out of my reverie.
I glanced up and down the studio’s bustling corridor. Mom was nowhere in sight. The temptation was immense. A ride with Elvis was definitely a draw, but the chance to watch Popeye from the back of a rolling limo was the clincher. I hopped in.
Seconds later, Elvis and I were cruising the lot as the limo driver kept the car moving forward at a steady five miles per hour. We sat next to each other, transfixed by the action on TV: Brutus molested Popeye’s girlfriend, Olive Oil, until the scrappy sailor, pumped up on spinach, whomped the bad guy’s ass. Popeye’s spinning, muscle-swollen forearm socked Brutus so hard that the bearded villain flew into space, orbited the moon twice, and then returned to Earth, landing in a pile of cow crap in a pasture. Elvis chuckled.
When Popeye began to warble, “I’m Popeye the sailor man,” the singer flicked off the set. I figured the sailor’s scratchy voice probably bugged Elvis, him being the King and all. Secretly, I was a bit irked. I wanted to watch the cartoon until the very last credit rolled. It was his limo, though, so I didn’t whine like I would have if my mom had done such a thing.
Elvis stared out the limo’s window and quietly said, “What are ya workin’ on?”
“ My Six Loves ... with Debbie Reynolds. What are you doing here?”
“ Fun in Acapulco . It’s not as fun as it sounds,” he replied with a sigh. He continued to stare out the window in silence. I was hoping he’d turn the TV back on, but he didn’t.
We continued our slow-speed tour of the Paramount lot, Elvis staring out the window, me staring at the TV’s blank screen.
Eventually, we arrived back at the soundstage, and the limo came to a stop where my amazing journey began.
The limo driver hopped out of his front seat and raced to the rear door, but Elvis had already opened it. The driver, now chagrined and tense, snapped to attention and waited for the King’s next move. “Gotta get back to work,” said Elvis.
“Me, too ... I guess,” I said.
Elvis climbed out of the car, but I lingered in my seat, taking one last look at mobile television. I wanted to be able to describe it in complete detail to all my doubting friends. They could be pretty hard to sway when it came to futuristic inventions, especially electronic devices that worked without being plugged into a wall outlet.
Elvis, now outside the limo, peered back inside the rear compartment where I was still sitting. That sly, crooked grin formed on his lips, and he said, “ Bugs Bunny comes on after Popeye . If you wanna stay and watch it, you can.”
My
Up close, his skin looked smooth as butter because it was coated with a heavy bronze makeup. He almost looked fake, like a walking-talking wax replica of himself. “I like the TV ...uh ... Elvis.” I said his name tentatively, testing it out to see how he’d react.
He laughed, climbed into the rear cabin, and settled into the leather seat, pushing down on it with his hands, assessing the firmness. Elvis seemed impressed. “I like TV, too,” he said. “Let’s see what’s on.”
He flipped one of the gold-plated toggle switches on the overhead console. The television came alive, making an odd sizzling noise, and then a scrambled black-and-white image on the screen became perfectly clear. I knew it! The picture was better than our crummy old Philco. Not only that, Popeye the Sailor , one of my favorite cartoons, was showing.
“I’m gonna take her for a lil’ test drive ’round the lot. Wanna come along?” Elvis asked.
Hell, yeah, I wanted to go! Just then, my mother’s stern voice popped into my head: Never ride with a stranger, Barry. Then, a different, sneakier voice whispered: Elvis is no stranger. Everybody knows Elvis! He’s probably the most famous guy in the world!
“Ya comin’?” Elvis asked again, snapping me out of my reverie.
I glanced up and down the studio’s bustling corridor. Mom was nowhere in sight. The temptation was immense. A ride with Elvis was definitely a draw, but the chance to watch Popeye from the back of a rolling limo was the clincher. I hopped in.
Seconds later, Elvis and I were cruising the lot as the limo driver kept the car moving forward at a steady five miles per hour. We sat next to each other, transfixed by the action on TV: Brutus molested Popeye’s girlfriend, Olive Oil, until the scrappy sailor, pumped up on spinach, whomped the bad guy’s ass. Popeye’s spinning, muscle-swollen forearm socked Brutus so hard that the bearded villain flew into space, orbited the moon twice, and then returned to Earth, landing in a pile of cow crap in a pasture. Elvis chuckled.
When Popeye began to warble, “I’m Popeye the sailor man,” the singer flicked off the set. I figured the sailor’s scratchy voice probably bugged Elvis, him being the King and all. Secretly, I was a bit irked. I wanted to watch the cartoon until the very last credit rolled. It was his limo, though, so I didn’t whine like I would have if my mom had done such a thing.
Elvis stared out the limo’s window and quietly said, “What are ya workin’ on?”
“ My Six Loves ... with Debbie Reynolds. What are you doing here?”
“ Fun in Acapulco . It’s not as fun as it sounds,” he replied with a sigh. He continued to stare out the window in silence. I was hoping he’d turn the TV back on, but he didn’t.
We continued our slow-speed tour of the Paramount lot, Elvis staring out the window, me staring at the TV’s blank screen.
Eventually, we arrived back at the soundstage, and the limo came to a stop where my amazing journey began.
The limo driver hopped out of his front seat and raced to the rear door, but Elvis had already opened it. The driver, now chagrined and tense, snapped to attention and waited for the King’s next move. “Gotta get back to work,” said Elvis.
“Me, too ... I guess,” I said.
Elvis climbed out of the car, but I lingered in my seat, taking one last look at mobile television. I wanted to be able to describe it in complete detail to all my doubting friends. They could be pretty hard to sway when it came to futuristic inventions, especially electronic devices that worked without being plugged into a wall outlet.
Elvis, now outside the limo, peered back inside the rear compartment where I was still sitting. That sly, crooked grin formed on his lips, and he said, “ Bugs Bunny comes on after Popeye . If you wanna stay and watch it, you can.”
My
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