Passion over Presley
Written and Published by: Rachel Martin
Published by J&R Publications
Copyright 2012 Rachel Martin
This Book is dedicated with Love To:
My family and to
~Myles and Jared, My Inspiration~
Presley
Presley’s mother always told him that despite his continuous experiences with failure, he would never learn. “Nice guys always finish last, Presley.” She told his father the same phrase the day he left home for the last time. Presley would sit on the porch watching his father slurp down the second, then third bottle of gin and toss the trash on the front lawn. The bottles sat on the grass scattered and complacent, as if they were meant to be there. His father would just keep drinking until his mother’s voice faded into the air.
“And you could take your son with you for once. John, that boy has been waiting to visit with you all day and you have yet to take him for a visit.” She would always talk under her breath, loud enough for everyone to hear. To this day she did not stop to care who heard her mouthing off, as long as it was not a nun. Presley’s father would chug his drink and fill his lungs to capacity and wave his hand around stumbling over the sidewalk.
Presley had hoped the man would come back this time, it was his usual routine. Even if it was for money and another round of physical fun with his wife, he would still come back. Not this time. And he certainly wasn’t taking Presley anywhere with him, not even a discussion.
He would chuckle down the street yelling obscenities at his mother and Presley only watched in wonder from day to day at how his life functioned. It was a mutual agreement between the three of them. Dad would get drunk, mom would yell, dad would leave, mom would yell some more. Presley would wait, his father would eventually return, mom would give him some money, dad would get drunk and start the cycle over again.
That was 20 years ago, today Presley found him at the closest and cheapest funeral home in the city. All of his father’s usual friends cluttered around John’s dead body, as it lay in a closed casket full of embalming fluid and false glory. Presley’s father was a figure to be recognized in these parts because there were other winos, but Drunk John was the worst addict. He would forget his own name from time to time, and even forget that Presley (his only son) even existed. John was only familiar with two things, drinking and cheating and it didn’t really matter what order it came in.
Sometimes Presley found himself wondering how John didn’t have a few fatherless children stashed around the funeral crowd. Unfortunately for Presley, the only bit of comfort he received was imagining his mother sitting beside him in the vacant space on the church pew. Presley could imagine her gritting those pearly white teeth, trying not to laugh at the “sorry excuse for half-a-man.” She always knew how best to insult her husband, and taught everyone in the room how to do it correctly.
The crowd was small, consisting of haters and coworkers, John’s usual women and the rest of them were his drinking partners. The elder yet obnoxious misfits all gathered around the funerals of their piers but neither one of them changed their ways afterward, deciding to live a decent life in memory of those that have passed. Instead these forty-something’s would leave here and go celebrate John’s death with more drunkenness, and then someone else would drop dead. Presley remained seated and nodded with the rest of the crowd as the uplifting sermon made the ice melt between the gatherers so that one and all could pay respects undeserved to a man Presley knew as father but not as family.
The reverend went on and on with his shenanigans, pretending to hold some spiritual TV show and did everything except backflip in front of the crowd. He preached for five minutes before sweat began to pour from his head and gather at the neck of his shirt. Then it was the finale of John’s existence as a good man, Presley began his speech to ascend his father’s soul.
“My father was a good man.” It was the first line of his speech. Presley tilted the large glasses on the end of his nose and looked over the pulpit at the crowd still surprised so many cared enough to come. “My father was…a good person.” Well hell this was going wonderful. “Honestly I don’t know who the hell my father was. All I ever saw was the back of his head as he walked away or the bottom of a bottle as he chugged it down his throat.” Presley looked up from the scribbled words, the lies he nearly told.
Presley could hear the silence in the room. Maybe the visitors were expecting a more fabricated speech. Presley looked around the room and noticed a beautiful familiar face. His heart began to speed up and his knees became a little weak. He finished the speech as quickly as possible and tossed a solid fist towards his father’s coffin-a signal of triumph that his father would give him every day as he walked away from his responsibilities. There was a small yet strange applause and his eyes captured hers, then Presley led her outside the church to the front steps.
“Michelle!” Presley was so excited to see her that he threw his arms around her shoulders and hugged tightly. “I haven’t seen you in a long time, what are you doing here?” Michelle smiled at him and tossed her hair to the back of her neck. She was skinny and her face looked rough, as if the world had gotten to her and spent more time beating her down rather than helping her up.
“I’m great Presley. I heard about your father threw the vine and, well I had to come. How are you?” She looked up at him and placed a hand on his arm in a comforting manner. It truly wasn’t needed since Presley was not exactly grieving, but how could he ignore the gesture?
“I am fine Michelle. It wasn’t totally unexpected. My father didn’t take very good care of himself, and frankly my mother is turning over in her grave right now at how many people came to the funeral. Not even half of the people in there cared enough to yank that bottle from his lips.” Presley sighed hard and looked away from her glancing towards the street. “My mother was an angel sometimes, and cared about her family before herself. No one came to her funeral, whereas my father treated us like dirt and he gets a going away party.” Presley pulled his shades from a front pocket and jogged down the steps motioning for Michelle to follow.
Presley walked Michelle back to her car and waited for her to step inside. They began to talk about the good old days; it had been so long since the two enjoyed conversations with one another that Michelle decided on having dinner together before leaving for Memphis. It was a good feeling to know that she was happy and safe in a new homeland. Her past was also dark and unfortunate, but that didn’t mean they had to show it or wear it like new high fashion clothes.
Michelle appeared happy, but Presley could easily tell when something was wrong with her. Michelle was the only thing to “family” that he had, and Presley would not let her leave without knowing how much he cared about their friendship. This was a quality he learned early, seeing as his father was always absent physically and mentally.
“I can meet up tomorrow around six. Does that sound good?” She said after stepping behind the wheel of her tiny car. Presley nodded and closed the door for her then waved her down the street. So many memories came into his head from seeing her face and he realized she was Presley’s first love. Work seemed to keep piling up, and if he wanted some free time with Michelle it was time to wrap up the funeral and open his schedule.
Presley
The day was hot and long. Presley became accustomed to the heat the day the air conditioner went out at his mother’s first apartment. She had resorted to ripping up all of their clothes and told him, “It’s so you can breathe better.” Presley
had left that explanation alone. Yes, he was the laughing stock at school, and sometimes his favorite teacher Miss Riley would supply new clothes that he was only allowed to wear during school hours so his mother would not “fix” them also.
That is why Presley decided to go into the music business and eventually created his own fashion line under his label’s title before moving to bigger business in music. Presley was tired of going to the store and finding pants that fit so tight around the crotch, trying on the clothes would give him diaper rash. Instead of buying the top brands of men’s clothing Presley created a new line of men’s fashion. Presley did not start out with a degree but instead worked himself up the ladder and in a very short amount of time made it big enough to go back for a degree in music arts.
Presley had a nice house, a nice car, and he could afford whatever was desired or needed on his current salary. Presley had a sizeable paycheck from sale, which was enough to purchase an uppity condo outside Beverly Hills, and his car could toot with the best BMW’s around. Unlike the other people Presley knew, he lived in music.
Presley was not the best at singing, but he was good at critiquing. There’s just something about talent and skill that drives his membranes wild. Presley