Read Online Elvissey by Jack Womack - Free Book Online Page A

training John and I daily monitored, drenching ourselves in image, studying eleventh-generation footage; vizzed fuzzedged clips stolen from a black and white
youth, eyed midcareer films so faded as to limn his skin
orange, his hair blue. Vids shot during his penultimate
months most disconcerted, ambering onstage moments
when-as went the word of Elvii-holy spirit so infiltrated
his being that, mid-song, he would segue into drooling glossolalia. In those most special moments E did appear possessed; by what, I hesitate to say.
    Yet in his essence was a mystery barely theological. E's
musical expressions-the sole hard reality we had of him,
however secondhand-were consistent; but never in either print or image did the same E twice appear. Both the Elvii
and those opposed advantaged this, timeover. That the am-
bulatorially-unabled might walk, the visually-challenged
see, the speech-inhibited shout when he beheld them
seemed, to many Elvii, undeniable; skeptics viewed him as
the Confederacy's final, and most effective, blow against the
Union. Those needing E most-including Dryco-came to
him freighted with preconceived notions of his anatomy,
that they might thereupon fashion a skin most preferable to
lay over those unavoidable bones; an act of creation not so
dissimilar from fetal art, it occurs to me now.

    Does a beloved's actuality matter, while the image carries
comfort enough? In such circumstance is actuality ever admitted, or even recognized? Who suffers profoundest regret,
then, when truth rears ugly head: the worshiper, or the
worshiped?
    John and I disbelieved in E's divinity; doubted even his
worth. That served as demonstrable asset when Leverett assigned us. Still, during our training, while E's presence was
daily extruded into our lives, it unavoidabled that we be
baptized in his flood, however unwillingly. Feeling myself so
drown, my surety sometimes wavered: it uncertained,
whether if in so unyieldingly admitting my chosen messiah,
I'd needlessly lost the grace of others more saving; I wondered whether my messiah as chosen had the look I wanted,
or the one I needed.
    John's eyes no longer held any look; could either of us still
save the other? Did we still want to? Pick messiahs, and
spouses, with care.
    "How powered?" John asked, standing with me that afternoon as we examined our trip's transport; the garage was
several levels beneath a generating plant, five blocks off
Pelham Park Boulevard. Tak, the engineer-a slender man,
Korean-descended, who evidenced only teenage years opened the auto's hood, that we might admire his work, and
placed his hands into a shiny box to let its air shake loose
their grime. The engine seen was a relic, agleam with mirrored flatware, with gray metal spotted and dabbed with
white ceramic, spaghettied round with blue and red wires.

    "Employs standard batteries set, normally moded," said
Tak. "In third gear, mainline engages, assuring full thrust.
Speed one-twenty, top. Miles, mind, not k's."
    "The potemkin's single-batteried," said John. "It's car-
buretored. The look's Smithsonian."
    "You're vizzing style sans substance. Actual motor secludes beneath in order to fool casual onlookers. Doubled
weightload resulting, so adjust as needed when circumstanced, as on wet roads."
    The car's diamond eyes and metaled smile recalled an
idol's look; I considered the sacrifices that must once have
been offered unto it. As I circled its shell to open the driver's
door, I gazed at the roofs parabolic slope, the chromestreaked sidewalls and black leatherette innards. "It's a total
recreation?" I asked.
    "Only within," Tak said, wheeling himself within his
handiwork. "1953 Hudson Hornet body, provided from the
Dryden collection. Steel, coldrolled. Two tons' fun. Rustproofed. Reconditioned especially for the trip."
    "And bedecked in Brazilian funeral colors," John said.
    "Huescheme's reproduced from period ads. Blame's not
mine." The car was duotoned