Crazy Little Thing by Saxon Bennett, Layce Gardner Page B

billiard room had interesting wallpaper. She could stare
at it for hours. That’s how she got separated from the group. Ollie found her
staring through the doorway into the Jungle Room.
    Ollie tapped Claire on the shoulder. “Are you all
right?”
    “Yes. I’m just enjoying the scenery.”
    “We’re inside.”
    “The inside scenery.”
    “I’m pretty sure it’s referred to as décor,” Ollie
said.
    “You know what I mean,” Claire said, waving her off.
    “You’re going to get lost from the rest of the tour
group,” Ollie said. “Even the old people are ahead of you.”
    “Just go. I’ll catch up. I want to get my thirty-four
dollars worth.”
    “Thirty-seven,” Ollie corrected.
    “I’d like some alone time if you don’t mind,” Claire
said.
    “Okay, but I’m only giving you ten minutes to catch
up.”
    Claire flapped her hand at Ollie like she was
shooing away an annoying fly. Ollie left, but reluctantly.
    Claire peeked through the doorway of the Jungle
Room. Its décor – as Ollie had snootily reminded her – was leather, wood and
heavy on the shellac. Green carpet stretched across the floor and was also on
the ceiling. That gave the room a weird funhouse effect. Which way was up?
    Claire looked both ways and when she didn’t see
anybody watching her, she stepped into the room. “I know you’re in here,” she
whispered.
    There was no answer.
    “I can feel you. Come on out.”
    No answer, but this time she did get a whiff of
peanut butter.
    “Quit hiding. Let me see you.”
    “Hey there, little lady,” said a voice sugarcoated
in a lazy Tennessee drawl.
    Claire shivered involuntarily. “Where are you?”
    “Right behind you.”
    Claire slowly turned. And there he was. Elvis was
decked out in black leather pants and a black leather shirt with a bright red
handkerchief wrapped loosely around his throat. He had on black boots so shiny
she could see her own reflection in them. His hair was so black it was almost
purple. It was styled in a tall pompadour with the ever-present curl in the
middle of his forehead.
    “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered.
    His laughter covered her like thick maple syrup.
“You’re not bad your own sweet self.”
    Claire pointed one finger up and asked, “Why is
there carpet on the ceiling?”
    Elvis shrugged. “I had some left over after the
floors. I was raised poor. I don’t like things to go to waste.”
    “How do I know it’s really you?” she asked boldly.
“Maybe you’re an impersonator that they hired to pretend to haunt the house.”
    He showed her his famous lopsided grin and replied,
“How do I know you are who you say you are?”
    “You looked different last time I saw you.”
    “I appear however you want me to. Last time you
wanted fat Elvis. This time you wanted skinny Elvis.”
    “Are you real?”
    “Are you?”
    “I don’t know.” She choked back a sudden urge to
cry. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” Claire said. She plopped down on the
sofa.
    “I know what you mean,” he said, sitting beside her.
    “You do?”
    “Oh, sure. After Priscilla left me I was like a boat
out in the middle of the ocean during a big storm. I was tossed every which way
but loose. Priscilla was my port in the storm and I let her get away,” he said
sadly. “Everything went to hell in hand basket after that. Pardon my language.
I didn’t know what I had ‘til it was gone.”
    Claire watched him closely for a moment.  “If you
don’t mind me saying, Elvis… I thought you… never mind.”
    “You can say it,” he prodded.
    Claire shook her head. “It’s really none of my
business.”
    Elvis’s blue eyes pierced hers. “You were going to
say I was a playboy. That if I loved her then why didn’t I treat her better?
Weren’t you?”
    “Something like that,” Claire said.
    “I was the King of Rock ‘n Roll,” Elvis said, “but
that didn’t make me a good husband or father. I was piss-poor at both of those
things.”
    “Oh,