Elvis isn’t dead.
Really, he’s not. All of those conspiracy theories about Elvis faking his death are, you’ll be surprised to know, actually true.
He got a nose job, shaved his head and moved to Tulsa. He wears glasses now. The Clark Kent bit actually works pretty well. He’s run a NAPA auto parts store since 1977.
You see, he was a miserable man. Sick in the body and soul, and someone convinced him that he could make more money dead than alive and be free of that which tormented him.
Aaron Preston. That’s how he’s known now. He thought it’d be a bit clever to leave a small hint out there for the devoted to sniff out. I don’t think anyone ever caught on.
He still makes music. Plays in a blue grass band on Wednesday nights for free drinks and wings. He doesn’t actually drink these days or eat the wings, for that matter. The band takes care of his share without complaint.
Someone once said that there are no second acts in life, but Aaron/Elvis sure has created one for himself.
Like I said, he was sick. Sick in his body and his soul. He was sick of us, and of himself. He realized that there was a problem with being the King. There was no way to live up to that except to die. He had become what they call a living legend, except the legend was not him. It was a fabrication, a specter. We poured our hopes, dreams, fantasies and aspirations into him. Onto him. It’s a burden no man can bear. As he’s fond of saying, “Hell, all that even killed Jesus. How was I supposed to carry it around?”.
He wept bitter tears when his former son-in-law succumbed to the weight of that load. Oh, and yes, Lisa Marie has always known. She visits frequently, as does Pricilla.
They came to Tulsa one last time yesterday.
How do I know all of this, you might ask? I know because we laid Uncle Aaron to rest yesterday. He was 77.
The King is dead, long live the King.