He disliked Memphis, but He'd been drawn back to the scorching heat with the million or so other moths who stood beside Him, flitting about, sleeves rolled up to let their tattoos breathe. Graceland was once a church; now it was a shrine. He felt uncomfortable standing in a line, waiting to worship Himself. There was enough steam in the August air to generate electricity for a month. His cream colored suit dripped over Him like an extra fold of skin.
His shirt had swelled tight around the neck, strangling Him until He clawed at the top three buttons. They popped off with a burping sound, but now He looked more casual, like the others. He smiled to Himself because He hadn't worn His shirts open in years. How he looked down on them. They were Elvis impersonators; He was impersonating them.
Unfortunately, that distinction had never helped Him get a job.
They waited in line for their chance to sing in the outdoor amphitheater built for the anniversary celebration of His death. Strains of guitar music floated above the thick layer of haze wafting toward Him. He recognized the music and tried to tune it out, but the melody: Imagine, circled inside His head like spun sugar.
The sidewalk was so hot that His rubber-soled shoes melted to the cement and He looked around for some cool grass on which to stand. He noticed a sweet olive tree growing along the road and bent to smell the scent of the blossoms.
The air was so thick His nostrils pinched shut. He had to pluck a stem, practically stuffing it up His nose before the fragrance--freed by the heat--began to rise.
He remembered the story His mama had told Him about sweet olive. In the good old days, when a person died, his body was kept inside the parlor until the funeral. During the summer, the odor grew so strong that mourners broke off branches of sweet olive to wave them before their noses like smelling salts. Without sweet olive, one could not bear to view the deceased.
He slipped the branch inside the pocket of His wrinkled jacket, closed His eyes, and took a deep breath of the hot stale air. It was His meditation, His way of readying Himself before a performance. He waited until He felt a sense of calm drain through Him before opening His eyes to the day.
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