Two Kings In A Caddie
The high desert at night is solitude. The velvet blackness holds wondrous things.
The “57” Caddie pulled away from the gas station, spewing gravel. The old man who had filled it up a few minutes ago watched until the tail lights disappeared down the highway. Two twenty-dollar bills for ten dollars of gas, go figure. A two-dollar bill was mixed in the bills; TCB was printed on the front. What did that mean?
The most comfortable place in the world for the aged singer was sitting behind the wheel of his beloved white Cadillac.
He was not the sleek crooner in size thirty-six sport coats anymore; he didn’t care to be. He was comfortable in his own skin. After decades of dieting, he surrendered to the siren’s call of biscuits, gravy, and his beloved peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Everybody gets a little heavy as they age, he told himself, and after seeing an old girlfriend in a supermarket trash magazine, he felt better about his expanding looks. The once sleek red-headed dancer was now as portly as himself. It’s a shame he couldn’t call her up. But then again, she loved the man he used to be, and he loved the girl she once was.
The decision to disappear in the late 70s was his way of escaping the hell he had created for himself. Drugs, alcohol, guns, crazy-ass women, and an army of hangers-on. The whole scene was sucking what life he had left from him. Realizing that if he was going live incognito, Las Vegas, Nevada, was ground zero. Every casino on the strip had Elvis impersonators. He could hide in plain sight.
To stave off boredom, he worked at one of the cheesy late-night wedding chapels for a while, imitating himself. He loved the irony of it all: having the wedding party cry and gagging with laughter, telling stories only the real Elvis would know. The patrons appreciated his stories and one-man karaoke performance, and he could still make a few young brides swoon.
At times, he became bone-weary and yearned to go home, but he knew that could never happen except in dreams. These long rides in the desert calmed him and allowed sleep without prescription drugs. He was clean now and was damn – straight going to stay that way.
The Caddies headlights illuminated the figure of a man standing by the roadside, thumb in the air. Elvis never picked up a hitcher, but a tingling feeling in his scalp told him he should stop for this one. Pulling over, he waited for the stranger to approach the car. The door opened, and a figure slid into the seat beside him. He turned to introduce himself.
An old man sat in the glow of the dash lights. His long gray hair was tied into a ponytail, and a neatly trimmed gray beard filled his face. He wore a loose-fitting red running jacket with matching sweatpants. His gold lame running shoes shined like bars of gold.
Elvis studied him briefly and then asked the old man, “I know you, mister, I’ve seen you on TV, aren’t you, Willie Nelson? What are you doing out in this desert this time of night?”
The old man turned and said, “No, I’m not Willie Nelson, and that’s a fine compliment, to be sure. I’m not going far, and it’s nice to meet you, Elvis.”
Speaking his first name as if he had known him forever, and his voice made him squirm. He hadn’t introduced himself.
In a slightly scolding, fatherly tone, the old man addressed Elvis,
“Young man, I’m shocked that a Christian boy like yourself from a first-class Baptist church in Tunica, Mississippi, would not recognize me. Don’t you find it strange that I know who you are? In fact, my boy, I know everything about you from the day you were born. I’m a little hungry, can I have one of those peanut butter and banana sandwiches hiding in your glove box?”
Elvis told the old man he was welcome to one, and there’s an ice-cold Pepsi in the cooler sitting on the back seat.
The old man pulled a soda from the cooler and then pushed the caddie’s glove box button. The door dropped down with a clunk. From inside came an angelic light that illuminated his face in a soft glow. Elvis stared into the most striking blue eyes he had ever seen. Endless in depth, filled with kindness and forgiving, but tinged with a bit of sadness. The old fellow looked as old as dirt, but in that light, his features were as soft as a pastel portrait.
The old man sighed and, in between bites, said, “I appreciate the snack. It seems like I’ve been working for an eternity and have missed a lot of meals. All I do is go from one place to another, convincing folks to follow Dad and granting miracles. I was out here last week waiting for you, but that case of heartburn brought on by that Red Baron pizza laid you up for the night. You really shouldn’t eat that junk. Look at me, trim and healthy, all because of the Mediterranean diet. Can you imagine all those gals shooting themselves up with that Ozempic stuff just to stay thin?”
The old man smiled, reached over, touched Elvis’s shoulder, and said,
“ I’ve got someplace to be, and I want you to go with me. We can have a little visit along the way, a counseling session of sorts, no charge, it’s on the house. And by the way, when I’m down here, in this realm, I prefer to be called just plain old Sonny; it’s less frightening…puts people at ease.”
After driving for a while, Sonny turned to Elvis and said, “You know son, I play in a band when I’m home, and your name comes up often, the guys are always asking me when you’re coming up to join them.”
Elvis said, “That’s nice, sir; who might your band members be?” and where, exactly, is home?”
“Well, home is where my Father is; Heaven. You know, the pearly gates and such, sitting on clouds, the weathers good all the time, all of that stuff you read about.”
“You mean streets of gold and everyone lives in their own temple type of Heaven?” asked Elvis.
Sonny replied, “Well not exactly, the streets of gold were a real maintenance nightmare, so we went back to Jordanian river – rock. The temples were a little small, so we made some major changes right after Frank Lloyd Wright came up. Everyone now has a nice little place with a view of the garden…everyone’s equal in Dad’s eyes you know. Your Mamma and Daddy’s place is an exact copy of Graceland. Bet you didn’t know that!”
Elvis swallowed hard and said, “You’ve seen my Mommy and Daddy?”
“Well of course I have you nimrod. Didn’t I just tell you who I am and where I live. Don’t you listen!” replied Sonny.
Sonny clapped his hands on his knees and said, “Now, back to my band for a minute. It’s made up of the best musicians that ever lived. Your old buddies Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash just recently joined up, and I’ve got Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, and George Harrison on guitars, and Gene Kruppa and Keith Moon on drums, and I’m looking forward to Ringo joining up pretty soon. There’s Count Basie and Mozart on keyboards, Roy Orbison, Bobby Darin, Buddy Holly, and Old Blue Eyes on vocals. Man, that Orbison can hit those high notes…really ticks Sinatra off. Frank has a bad attitude about everything, always wanting to get the Rat Pack up and running again. Dad always sends him “down below” for a few days to keep him in line.”
Elvis struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. He knew all those dudes when they were alive, and Bobby Darin was a running buddy back in the day.
On a bit of a roll, Sonny continued, “Myself, I play a little bass sometimes if Noel Redding is busy greeting the British arrivals down at the gate. John Lennon still claims it wasn’t Yoko that broke up the band; he swears it was McCartney’s doings, and old Ed Sullivan already has a Beatles reunion show planned, just waiting for the other two to show up. I told him it wouldn’t be too much longer, but it wasn’t a deal if he had that stupid little mouse puppet Popo Gigio on the bill. I just wanted to squeeze him until his little eyes popped out. Puppets make me uncomfortable.”
Looking at the road ahead, Elvis was sweating like a lawn sprinkler. His mouth was dry as cotton, and he couldn’t catch a good breath. This was too much for him to digest at one time. Here he is, giving a ride to the Son of God. “Is this the way it’s supposed to be?” he thought, “Aren’t you supposed to see a white light and your loved ones coming to meet you?” Not the Lord telling you he plays in a rock band full of dead musicians and hates mouse puppets. Maybe he was having an LSD flashback.
Sonny turned to Elvis and said, “No, Elvis, you’re not having a flashback, and you don’t always see the light…and yes, I can read your thoughts. Really, this is pretty much the way it happens. I make special provisions for people as needed, and you are a special provision type of fellow, so enjoy the evening. I’m not saying it’s your time to come home to “my place,” but who knows. Take the next right up here; you’re going to like where we are going.”
Elvis turned the caddie down the dirt road and, after a mile or so, came to a ramshackle tin building. The exterior looked like an old military barrack, and over the door was a cheesy neon sign that read “Sonny’s Place.” No cars parked in the lot or tire tracks in the sand. This joint was really out of the way.
Sonny escorted Elvis through the front door, greeted by a kindly lady sitting behind a counter. Elvis noticed her name tag read “Patsy C.” When she saw Sonny, she said, “My Savior, how good to see you again; everyone’s been asking if you were going to come by tonight, who’s your pal?”
Sonny replied, “This is the famous Elvis Presley darling, but he’s not here officially yet, he’s just visiting for a spell, slap one of those silver wrist bands on him please.”
Elvis interrupted, “Excuse me sir, what’s the silver band mean?”
Smiling, Sonny said, “Oh, it means you can’t have the top-shelf drinks, can’t use the nice restrooms, and most of all it means you’re not dead yet…dig.”
Elvis understood all right, and that was okay with him. As long as he had not assumed room temperature.
When they walked into the main room, thunderous applause greeted them. Sonny humbly waved and nodded, and Elvis, slack-jawed and gob-smacked, stared at all the dead musicians and singers he had known.
On stage, Bobby Darin was kicking off “Mack The Knife,” accompanied by an all-star band of Jimi Hendrix, George Harrison, Mozart, Charlie Bird, Gene Krupa, Glen Miller, Harry James, and an entire horn section. Bobby saw Elvis and gave him a big smile and a thumbs up.
When the song ended, Bobby directed a spotlight to the small table occupied by Sonny and Elvis, and in that “oh so cool voice,” he announced, “Ladies and Gents, in the crowd tonight we have the one and only, my good friend, Mr. Elvis Presley, stand up and take a bow, E.”
The crowd went wild. Everyone was on their feet, applauding, and from the back of the room, a chant was growing, “Elvis..Elvis..Elvis.” A shaking, teary-eyed Elvis stood as best he could and acknowledged his peers….his dead peers.
Sonny touched his arm and said, “Go on up there, my boy, give it all you got.”
When Elvis walked onstage, the band came over and gave him a hug. His old friend Bobby held him the longest. Elvis grabbed the microphone, turned to the band, and yelled, “Viva Las Vegas in the key of G.”
Strutting, gyrating, not missing a note, the crowd dancing in the aisles, and Elvis was putting on the show of his life. His heart was so full of joy that he felt it would burst, and then it did.
As he floated backward, he felt hands engulfing his body, lowering him to the stage. He was aware of people standing around him, and then he saw a beautiful bright light, and from that light emerged his parents, who were leading him through a heavenly garden to a lovely copy of his beloved Graceland.
The musicians formed a circle around his body, heads bowed, quietly praying.
They parted when Sonny came on stage, and he knelt next to Elvis’s body. With his hand on Elvis’s forehead, he said, “Wake up Elvis, you’re home now.”
Notes From The Cactus Patch 