Viola Weinberg

Viola Weinberg is enjoying life as a suburban hermit after a long career in metropolitan radio and television. Last year, she won the Mayors Award for the Arts in Sacramento. The following won the 1991 Way Out West award. You can write to her at -- neruda@pacbell.net

The Last Time I Saw Elvis

Elvis came to me in a shower of light as I drifted helplessly in the shark-infested waters of a used car lot in Puyallup, Washington. I had been driving from California, thinking about my Œ86 and a half Pontiac Grand Am with the big magnesium wheels. My nearsighted daughter had hurled it in front of a truck before I left for the Northwest, creating a terrible wound in the right rear wheel well. It tore the gray plastic trim from the body, and left a strangely malformed depression in the cinnamon metal-flake paint.

I flipped on the radio, and immediately heard a commercial for Not-at-All-Tall Paul¹s Used Cars in Puyallup, ³where our short, but well-trained staff can help you select the car of your dreams--lovingly cared-for, low mileage beauties with lots of life left in them, and style, style, style.² The DJ announced that the car lot was having a drawing for a genuine Œ57 pink Cadillac convertible with raging red seat covers. ³Just pull off the highway in Puyallup, and sign up.²

Soon, I saw billboards with high-haired Paul Œs smiling face and enormous forefinger pointing ³The Way to Value². I exited and drove a few blocks to the car lot which was ringed with festive lamé suit coats flying on a line 20¹ above.

A few people were roaming the lot, closely followed by a sales fleet of Elvis impersonators. I parked on the street and made my way to the card table to sign up for the contest. It was then I heard a murmur go up behind me.

To my astonishment, I saw people kneeling at the damaged fender of my Grand Am. ³It¹s Elvis,² cried one of the salesmen, ³Elvis hisself². Dozens of Elvis lovers appeared from no where, shuddering and humming ³Blue Hawaii.² Overhead, clouds broke apart and brilliant light fell on the Pontiac.

I felt a touch on my shoulder, and it was the King himself, probably, in a pink and black suit, smiling benevolently, a toothpick whirling in his full lips. He spat it out and kissed my hand, dissolving into the crowd at the hub of the Grand Am. I have not seen him since, but I know he watches over me in my Pontiac, and I have taken a vow to never, never, never have it fixed.

Viola Weinberg