Elvis has left the building, and entered the county

Elvis stood behind me yesterday. We were queued up at the Dollar General: I was buying cheap detergent, he a can of cleanser. He was in lightweight Hawaiian-style mufti since the weather was practicing for the Spring equinox next week; he saves the white jumpsuit for more formal--and cooler--occasions.

I see him throughout the county. He and his wife work for the Meals on Wheels, delivering dinners to the elderly and shut-ins. Husband chatters to him when our paths cross (Husband schmoozes everybody). Elvis beams when you treat him as the Real Deal, almost wriggling like a puppy dog, combing his fingers through the black-black wig (the sideburns are real).

I wonder what drives him to impersonate a dead man. Is it a case of overwrought hero worship? Or is his own little life so terrible that he wants to be someone else? Rich instead of poor, famous instead of insignificant?

He bundled his purchase under his arm, shuffled to his faded brown Ford, and drove off. Perhaps his car was a white limo in his mind.

Thank you, thank you very much.