By James R. Coffey

Elvis was getting on my nerves. I mean, really getting on my nerves!

It wasn't bad enough that he woke me out of a sound sleep, plopped his fat ass down on my couch and put his boots up on my glass-top table, now he expected me to make him a fried peanut and banana sandwich. 

I admit, at first, I was flattered. But then, not so much.

“That grease hot yet, li'l darlin'?” 

I could feel my nerves begin to jangle. I needed a drink. 

“I'm making a screwdriver. You want one?”

“Fresh squeezed?”

I glowered at him. “Frozen.”

“Ah, come on, now, baby, don't be cruel!” 

Did he really just fuckin' say that? “I never imagined ghosts drank,” I said.

“Elvis does,” he said, referring to himself in third person. “Elvis does whatever he wants.”

I just bet he does, I thought to myself. 

“Suit yourself.” 

For some strange reason I was surprised that he wasn't young and handsome; that Elvis. This was the old, fat Elvis. I plugged in the blender. 

“So, why me?” I asked, dumping in ice, juice, and half a bottle of Stoli.

“Darlin'?”

“I mean, why'd you choose me to haunt? Of all the millions of women —” 

“Oh . . . your mama,” he said matter-of-factly, adjusting his mirrored glasses. 

His arrogance was grating deeper and deeper on my patience by the second. I stood there and waited for a better explanation but he just sat there; his upper lip curled, bobbing his head to some tune in his head, waiting for his fried peanut and banana sandwich to appear. 

“What do you mean, my mama? What's she got to do with this?”

“She sent me, l'il darlin'. Worries 'bout you.”

“What? You know my mother?”

“Sure do, darlin'. Fine figure of a woman, your mama! We're talkin' F-I-N-E!”

The absurdity of it all surged through my senses. I jammed the blender start button.

I was half-tempted to tell Elvis he was full of shit, but instead took a deep breath and said, “Why? Why's she worried about me?” 

I filled a tall glass with orange froth and downed it.

“Thinks you're taking this whole passin' on waaaaay too serious. All this mopin' 'round! Cryin' the Blues! Headin' for Heartbreak Hotel!”

Tell me he didn't just fuckin' say that! 

“What? She's watching me?” (I caught myself looking up at the ceiling, like I was expecting her to be looking down!) 

“We both have! She dropped by a while back to check on you, but . . .”

“She did?”

“Sure did, darlin'!” He unbuttoned a few buttons of his shirt and wiggled his big ass into the couch cushion. “Say, how's that pb&b comin'?”

“Okay . . . but, why send you?” I said, quickly spreading peanut butter. “I mean, why didn't she come herself?”

“What? You ain't thrilled that old Elvis paid you a visit?

“Uh . . . that's not what I mean . . .”

Elvis snickered and shook his head. 

“Would you believe it?! Poor thing can't get the hang of the whole inter-di-mensional travelin' thing to save her life! Makes her queasy!” Elvis threw his head back like he was about to snicker — but just waggled his head. “Say, li'l mama, got any of that Marshmallow Fluff stuff?”

I pretended not to hear him. I dropped the sandwich into the oil and watched it sizzle. Poured another frothy screwdriver and drank it down before the froth settled.

“Okay, let's say I buy all this! What's you showing up here gonna change? My mama's still gone and nothing you say'll change that — unless you can grant me a free wish!”

“Sorry, darlin', Elvis ain't no genie!” he said, snickering loudly, this time. “But he can set your broken little heart at ease — that's what he can do! FYI, your mama's doin' just fabulous! Havin' the time of her life! Says it's time for you to get out and have some fun! Date some fellas!”

“Fun?” I said handing him the pb&b on a plate. “My mother said that? Have fun?”

“No Marshmallow Fluff, huh?” he said, looking annoyed.

“Listen! Maybe if I'd known you were coming!”

“Now, now, this is just fine, darlin! Don't you go frettin'! Last thing I wanna do is add to your misery! Judith would never forgive me!”

“Judith? Who the hell's Judith?”

“Why, your mama, of course!” Elvis said, shoving half his sandwich into his mouth. 

“For your information, ELVIS, my mother's name's Bernice!!”

“Ohhhh . . . Uh-oh!”

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