213 The Night Elvis Left the Building

"Elvis," she announced. "His name's Elvis."

"Is that what his tag said?" I asked.

"No, just the name I gave him."

"You mean...just now?"

"Maybe," she answered, "a great name. We can fight about this for days or just agree right now and save our marriage."

Elvis stuck.

Elvis had been feral, and it was lucky my wife found him when she did, because Interstates and dogs don't mix.

He'd often disappear from our yard to visit the neighborhood abroad. I'd drive around looking for him. When I rolled up and whistled to him from the car window, he'd come running. An open door invited his leap into the passenger seat, restoring responsible ownership. Sometimes I thought we'd have to lock up the house without him, but he'd always saunter back in the walk of shame later.

One night Elvis went off but hadn't returned at a reasonable hour. My wife insisted I drive the streets in search, and off I went. When I came back an hour later without him, we set back out, together.

I never called out to him; he always had responded to the sound of my car idling or, at worst, a whistle. My wife deemed it an emergency enough, however, to scream his name. Loud enough to carry through as many streets and suburban blocks as possible. It was not lost on me that it was after midnight.

"Elvis!" she yelled. Repeatedly. "Elvis, where'd you go? Where are you, Elvis? Elvis! We want you back, Elvis."

"He's dead!" some man shouted back. "Deal with it."

"Oh, my God!" my wife cried. "He's dead?"

"Not our Elvis," I reassured her. "The Elvis. We must sound like idiots yelling for Elvis Presley."

"Yea, he's dead!" another man shouted. "Accept it."

"Elvis!" she hollered again.

"He's left the building--go to bed!" yelled a woman from another house.

"Shh..." I shushed my wife.

"Elvis!" she kept shouting.

"Try Memphis!" someone shouted.

"This ain't Graceland, lady!" another woman added.

Before long, we were both shouting for Elvis.

We found him but garnered quite the reputation in our neighborhood--the nuts pining for the King. It could have been much worse. We could have named him Jesus.

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AUTHOR'S NOTES:

About this story: My very first "Top Story" on Vocal, years ago. Here, repurposed and truncated to meet the 366-word count limit.

For Wednesday, July 31, Day 213 of the 2024 Story-a-Day Challenge

366 WORDS (without A/N or PS)

Title-accompaniment photo was AI-generated but the "hound dog" was not.

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THIS CHALLENGE GRINDS ON, 366 WORDS AT A TIME...

There are currently three surviving Vocal writers still participating in the insane 2024 Story-a-Day Challenge:

• L.C. Schäfer, challenge originator

• Rachel Deeming (a broad, currently abroad)

• Gerard DiLeo (some other guy)

Read them. Support them. And remember to howl at the blue moon.