Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (63 page)

Then I hear a faint noise far down the passage. I force
my
drooping eyes open and try to focus.

A
white human figure is swaying in the distance, arms working, left leg buckling.

Elvis is pantomiming one of his finest moments on
stage,
just for me.

I
leap up. It will be a shame to tell this spirit to get lost,
but this is a Jersey Joe Jackson attraction, and
his ghost
has dibs on the venue. Call
it ectoplasmic copyright. He
was here first, and it would be interesting
to discover who
predeceased who. I am sure
that they have debates
about haunting rights in the afterworld.

Meanwhile, though it is impressive to see Elvis rockin'
and rollin', I grow a bit uneasy about not seeing Miss
Midnight
Louise. No doubt she has swooned, as so many
female
Elvis fans were prone to do. I guess I should
amble down, now that she has learned her lesson, and
make sure the ghost doesn't turn any of her black
hairs
white. She would look pretty silly spotted like a Holstein.

I step into the yellow light road made by the hard hat
and
follow in Miss Louise's invisible footsteps.

The
light fades and the darkness gets thicker as I move along.

I
hiss for Louise, but get no answer.

Elvis
is still bent over, flailling his legs and arms like a
madman, playing the meanest air guitar I have ever
not
heard.

If only I had this on videotape. I could make a boxcar
full,
just like the Colonel.

Still no sign of Louise. Looks like I will have to ask
Elvis
to answer for it.

The closer I get, the more the jumpsuit glows, white-
hot,
with red, green, and blue sparkles. Elvis has his head
dropped down so he can see his ghostly fingers hitting
his ghostly
chords on that air guitar.

Well, no. Elvis does not have his head dropped down.
Elvis
has no head!
This is not your usual
National
lnkquirer
sighting.
This
Elvis
is not rated PG, but R. Too much for my tender
offspring.

“
Get out of here, you creep," I shout, worried
for the
first time. Ghosts with major
missing parts are usually
more sinister than the all-there sort.

Of course he does not listen to me. I am now only a
few feet away. "What have you done with my
daughter?"
I demand. "Unhand
her, you phantom.”

No answer, not even a pause to recognize my pres
ence and demand. Okay, the Michael Jackson gloves are
off.

I spring from my position, shivs extended, planning to
hit
him in the jerking knees.

My first contact with the incorporeal is the sense of a
barrier
being breeched, a soft, giving barrier that I push
through like the fighting feline I am. In a second, I am
right
through Elvis and on the other side.

Oops. I hope it is not the real Other Side, like I cannot
get back into the living world.

Even as I worry, I land like a bag of nuts and bolts on
the
cold, hard cavem floor.

Elvis has crumpled into a pale puddle, just like the
Wicked Witch of the West went south in a dark pool of
ickiness
in
The Wizard of Oz.

But
where is Louise?
I stand and call her name,
turning in a circle. No an
swer.

And
as I turn back the way I came, I see that Elvis is
struggling to rise again. I leap upon his heap of congeal
ing,
ethereal atoms.

But Elvis is striking back. I feel the sting of wounds
from beyond the grave and soon his jumpsuit is becoming
a winding cloth. I spin round and round until I am swad
dled
and trussed like a turkey.

“Cut
it out!" a voice orders.

A
familiar voice.

Midnight
Louise struggles out from the wadded fabric, which is only too, too solid. It
is, in fact, not only material, but a cotton material common to work clothes.

“
Here is your Elvis. One of the painter's
jumpsuits. He
must have been putting
on the phosphorescent paint
along the tunnel corridor and got it all
over his white cov
eralls. So he left it
hanging to dry down here. Everybody
was too scared to come down and
investigate."

“Great.
I always thought this was a purely natural phenomenon. What would Elvis be
doing down a dark hole, anyway? All we have to do is drag this suit down by the
elevator, and even the dimmest bulb should be
able to
figure out what happened, just as we have."

“
We. Right. Start dragging, Dad, and save some
strength for the upward climb. I did hear you refer
to me
as your 'daughter,' did I not?
When you thought I was
missing?"

“
I was, ah, calling for
wa-ter.
Not daughter. I thought
you
might have fainted."

“
Yeah, sure. Well, at least your roommate will have
seen the last of Elvis on all fronts.
I would definitely say
that Elvis has left the building.”

cannot
disagree.

We set off down the long, dark tunnel to the elevator
shaft.
It reminds me of a birth canal, though I do not often think of things like that.

We are halfway there when my left ear flicks back to
catch a distant murmur of "Thank you, thank you verra
much.”

I glance at Louise, whose sour puss is pointed dead
ahead,
ears unperked.

Naw

Tailpiece

How
a
Cat
May Look at
the King

If you ask me, Elvis, the world's most famous draftee,
may have been A-1 to the army, but he was 4F in life:
literally crushed to death by fame, fans, floozies, and
flun
kies.

I have detected several similarities between the King
of Rock 'n' Roll and my kind of cat, least of all our pro
pensities to hang out in a streetlight in front of all and
sundry and cut loose with sound, motion,
and our natural
erotic appeal to females of
all ages, stages, and wages
of sin.

First,
we share very humble origins, but extraordinary pizzazz at making ourselves
beloved by others. Elvis was
never a street
person like myself, but we were always
loners
with a vision of how we could rise far above our
kind to become an idol
and inspiration to millions. Okay,
-thousands
and thousands in my case, but I am not done
yet.

Natural talent can be such a curse, always in danger
of exploitation by others. Like myself, Elvis had
touching
trust in those
who purported to assist him in his meteoric
rise to fame and fortune. (Okay, so my rise is more me
diocre
than meteoric; close enough.)
Elvis had his
mysterious Svengali, a self-created illegal
immigrant who put on a pseudonym and airs, Colonel Tom Parker. The
so-called Colonel commandeered the
King's
career at an early stage and helped himself to a
much bigger share of the take than a reputable manager
would.

I have my so-called collaborator, Miss Carole Nelson
Douglas, who signs our contracts and handles the purse
strings and catnip dispersion. It is assumed I have no
interest or aptitude for the distribution of my own
wealth.
In fact, I am
treated something like an ignorant and minor
child,
who must be "managed" for my own good.

Although our associations with our respective "part
ners" have been necessary and good for us at the
onset
of our careers, as
time goes by our Svengalis have ex
ercised
far too much artistic control of our high-energy
brand of performing genius that requires constant chal
lenge lest it become boring servitude. Elvis was
indentured to films and concert tours. I have my books and
book tours, although my front woman takes over even
there.

And then there is our endless attraction to the ladies.
We cannot help that. We were born with that, although
Elvis helped it along by adopting my hair's own natural
ebony coloration. So there we are: bigger than life,
black,
and beautiful. Add
in our natural athletic ability and urge
to take the spotlight, and you have a potent variety of
catnip
for dolls of all persuasions.

Speaking of nip, we even share the same failing. I too
am
mighty fond of a legally prescribed medicinal sub
stance, which, if taken too intensely, can change my kittenish, lovable
side so appealing to my friends and fans into cruel, predatory moods during
which I lash out and
bounce off the
wall. I cannot help it any more than Elvis;
it is a genetic
predisposition.

Elvis always wanted to be a helpful authority figure.
Early in life, he wanted to be a policeman, which
accounts
for his later
habit of hanging out with the police and col
lecting badges—even via President Nixon, during one fa
mous Elvis incident when he was pretty well smoked—
and major personal armaments such as guns. Despite his
own
medication dependence, Elvis hated kids using
street
drugs and wanted to serve as an example to them.

I, of course, help homeless members of my own spe
cies through my Adopt-a-Cat tours. And I too am drawn
to police work, although I walk the PI side of the legal
beat, not being much of a dude for regulations, just
like
Elvis. Just like
Elvis, I am often loaded with concealed
side
arms, only mine are of the edged variety.

In karate, which he loved for both its defense and mys
tical side, his fighting name was Tiger, and for a while
he
carried a cane with a ruby-studded
head of a Big Cat.

Then there's our shared mystical side and penchant
for Eastern religion. Elvis was interested in the
Autobi
ography of a Yoga
and Kahlil Gibran's
The Prophet
and
such. I am a follower of Bastet, an ancient and powerful
goddess of the Egypt of the pharaohs,
where the hot text
is
The Book of
the Dead. We
both have been ridiculed
for exploring fringe religion, but the impulse is
sincere,
and that is all
that is called for in religion. Unlike Elvis, I
do not see any necessity for standing up and preaching,
but then I have never had access to the amount of catnip
he did. Personally, I prefer to keep the mysteries of
Bastet
just among us nonhillbilly cats.

Alas, I do not share Elvis's enthusiasm for motorized
vehicles, although I will resort to them when I must.