In the late 1980s, when I was a cub reporter fresh out of J-School in southern Indiana, a wave of Elvis Presley sightings was reported in the U.S., a disturbing thought considering The King had presumably died on the toilet in Memphis in 1977.
Top journalistic publications like National Enquirer, Weekly World News and others profited from the mass hysteria of the moment by resurrecting Elvis and making him a news rag cover king once again. I scoffed at such lowbrow reporting until …
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I fished with Elvis yesterday.
That’s what he does a lot now.
He fishes.
Said he likes to spend time in the outdoors, away from everybody, away from it all.
I know what you mean, I said. It’s why I fish.
I offered Elvis a beer. He declined.
Said he doesn’t touch the stuff anymore.
If I died, I probably wouldn’t touch the stuff either, I said.
He laughed. A joke between Elvis and me.
I was fishing for catfish. I put raw chicken livers on large hooks. Elvis wasn’t fishing for anything but peace. He had nothing on his hook but water.
Said he doesn’t go to bait stores anymore. People have started recognizing him out in public more and more.
Said this upsets him a little because he likes to fish.
Peace is fine though. He had a stringer full of peace now. He showed it to me, an empty stringer dripping with water.
Elvis, I said. The cats aren’t biting, but you are welcome to use my liver.
Thanks, he said.
I ended up putting the slimy stuff on his bare hook for him. He couldn’t get it to stay on properly. He was out of practice – a long time had passed since Tupelo … and Memphis for that matter. Every time he cast his line, the liver would fly everywhere. Some dropped to his shoulder and oozed down his Red Man T-shirt.
I baited a hook for Elvis yesterday.
Elvis really didn’t say much. Unless, of course, to answer questions. I don’t think he really wanted me around. But what the hay, this was The King, and although I didn’t like his movies, I felt it was my duty to keep this lonely man company on the riverbank.
I asked him to sing “Hound Dog.”
Said he can’t. Said he doesn’t sing the old songs anymore. Otherwise, it gives him the itch to end this whole charade, return to the stage and to the lights and to the adoration. And to the women. Lordy, the women. Don’t get me started on the ladies, he said.
Said if he ever returned to that madness, it would kill him all over again, once and for all.
How about a little “Heartbreak Hotel?” I asked.
I can’t, he said. I don’t expect you to understand.
I understand, I said.
What do you do for a living, Elvis asked.
I told him. Without thinking, I told him that I’m a reporter.
Elvis looked away.
Look, I’m not with the Enquirer or any of those crap publications, I said. I don’t go around writing about four-headed snake women from Mars … although I did date one once. And I won’t go around saying Elvis is alive when he really isn’t.
I think I dated one of those once too, he said. Wait, I thought she was from Venus.
Elvis felt a big tug on his line, but it was just the river’s current, not a mud cat, messing with him.
So what do dead people drive, I asked.
Said he drives one of those big trucks that stand about 20 feet in the air. Gunrack on the rear window. Skoal bumper stickers. Southern Indiana camouflage.
I can’t believe it, I said. Elvis is disguised as a redneck.
Hey, it has worked for the most part, he said.
But his disappearing act was wearing thin. People were starting to catch on. Once again his face was looking back at us from the magazine racks of drugstores and supermarkets, bringing The King back to life.
Does it bother you, I asked.
Elvis began reeling his line in. Said it’s time to go back to his truck and keep one foot ahead of the press.
He stood up from the muddy bank, but before calling it a day, he let me in on a secret.
Said he knew I was a reporter all along. Said he has been in the area for a couple of weeks and had seen my columns. Said I have the ability to write stories that no one knows whether they are true or not. Said he likes that about me.
He yawned. I’ve got to get to bowling league, he said.
He stood. Said, you know that question you asked me? Do I mind all these stories being written about me again?
Yes, I said.
It’s nice to be remembered, he said. Do me a favor though. Don’t write about this fishing trip, OK?
Don’t worry, Elvis.
He winked. I winked.
I lied to Elvis yesterday.
He knew I would.
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