Graceland
“I just can’t believe it!” Cindy exclaimed, blowing cigarette smoke in my face accidentally. “I don’t understand why he died. I just thought he was gonna live forever, in his white rhinestone suits with that glorious voice of his.” She sat on the counter, swinging her legs back and forth. Barbara counted spare change from the tip jar languidly. The loose coins rattled against the counter as the radio played an Elvis Presley tribute. “Yeah,” Barbara sighed, “and he was only 42. Isn’t that just tragic?” “I always wanted to see him in concert. And now I’ll never get to,” I said. Everyone was talking about it, but it still seemed like he just disappeared, taking his tunes and his jumpsuits with him. “We should’ve all gone together,” Cindy said sadly. “Can you imagine that? I had a dream on
- Writer
