Unknown - Douglas_Carole_Nelson_Cat_in_a_Jeweled_Jumpsuit_Bo

“Neither do I.”

“So that is why you invited me along. You are scared stiff.”

“What is to worry about a bit of ectoplasm? I have already glimpsed Elvis in the non-flesh before, at the Halloween séance last fall. Or … it could have been a dear departed Elvis impersonator. It is so hard to tell the real thing from the sham these days.”

“You ought to know about that. I suppose you had something to do with that brouhaha at the Kingdome. Your roommate was in the newspaper looking like a bride of Dracula, cheek to cheek with an Elvis impersonator. She was identified, but he was called ‘a mystery man’ since he disappeared after his act, even though he was the leading contender to win. This is sort of a Cinderella story with dudes. Maybe he left a lone blue suede shoe on the Kingdome steps.

“This incident and the Mr. Midnight tapes have got the Elvis-sighting machine cranked up to maximum. And your friends and associates are up to their sideburns in it. You know what I would do if we did indeed spot some form of Elvis down in the mine attraction? I would do something more pungent than step on his blue suede shoes. I am not impressed by these dudes that cat around and get away with it. Clear? Are you sure you still want me along?”

“Of course, dear Louise.” I refrain from telling her of my key but hidden role in nailing the Elvis killer by loosing the chimp to find his master, in mid-murder, as it happened. “If we do see something, you will make an excellent supporting witness because you are so skeptical.”

“Okay, pops. Let us shove off, then.”

Unfortunately she is right. The only way to get down in the mine attraction is to take the rickety crate that functions as an elevator.

We wait until the workmen are on a lunch break, all above ground and munching on enough tuna fish to feed a cat colony. Then we dart from islands of shade and finally into the elevator.

Unfortunately, it is firmly anchored in the “up” position, so we must shimmy down the ropes, which are big and rough.

I make a four-point landing from five feet above the floor of the tunnel.

Faint work lights diminish into the dark distance. Iswear I can hear the drip of subterranean water, even though this is desert.

Miss Louise has knocked a yellow hard hat off its rack on the way down; this is not the kit’s usual clumsiness, but part of a plan, I discover.

“If we are going ghost-busting,” she says, “I want to throw some light on any apparition with the nerve to take us in.”

“How do we get it down the tunnel?”

“We take turns pushing. All right by you?”

I privately think this a dim idea; a ghost is supposed to glow in the dark. Who needs light? But together we play kick-the-hard-hat and soon we are down where, I figure, the workmen spotted what they thought was Elvis before.

“Will there not be hologram figures in this exhibit?” Miss Louise asks.

“Yup. Of Jersey Joe Jackson, the founding father of the Crystal Phoenix Hotel when it was the Joshua Tree back in the forties. And maybe of some other noteworthy dead people.”

“Sometimes I think all the noteworthy people are dead.” Louise sits down and looks around. “They already have painted glow-in-the-dark paint on some of the walls.”

“The workmen say that is not what they saw. Nor are the holograms installed yet. They saw a figure in a white suit, shining down the dark tunnel.”

“That way?” Midnight Louise stands and begins walking farther down the passage. “Kick on the chapeau light, Daddy, I am going to see Elvis.”

I do as she says. A beam shoots down the tunnel at human ankle-height. I can see Louise’s swaying hindquarters, tail high, sashaying away into the dark.

I do not think Elvis would hurt her, but I also do not think she is aware what strange forces she flouts. I believe she will soon have a rude awakening, which will be very good for her.

So I curl up around the hard hat—the built-in light provides a nice cozy warmth, and yawn. I expect her back in a sudden flurry of haloed hair and hiss and spit. If ever anyone needed to see Elvis, Midnight Louise is it. I yawn. I am getting sleepy, very sleepy.

Then I hear a faint noise far down the passage. I force my drooping eyes open and try to focus.

A white human figure is swaying in the distance, arms working, left leg buckling.

Elvis is pantomiming one of his finest moments on stage, just for me.

I leap up. It will be a shame to tell this spirit to get lost, but this is a Jersey Joe Jackson attraction, and his ghost has dibs on the venue. Call it ectoplasmic copyright. He was here first, and it would be interesting to discover who predeceased who. I am sure that they have debates about haunting rights in the afterworld.

Meanwhile, though it is impressive to see Elvis rockin’ and rollin’, I grow a bit uneasy about not seeing Miss Midnight Louise. No doubt she has swooned, as so many female Elvis fans were prone to do. I guess I should amble down, now that she has learned her lesson, and make sure the ghost doesn’t turn any of her black hairs white. She would look pretty silly spotted like a Holstein.

I step into the yellow light road made by the hard hat and follow in Miss Louise’s invisible footsteps.

The light fades and the darkness gets thicker as I move along.

I hiss for Louise, but get no answer.

Elvis is still bent over, flailling his legs and arms like a madman, playing the meanest air guitar I have ever not heard.

If only I had this on videotape. I could make a boxcar full, just like the Colonel.

Still no sign of Louise. Looks like I will have to ask Elvis to answer for it.

The closer I get, the more the jumpsuit glows, white-hot, with red, green, and blue sparkles. Elvis has his head dropped down so he can see his ghostly fingers hitting his ghostly chords on that air guitar.

Well, no. Elvis does not have his head dropped down. Elvis has no head! This is not your usual National lnkquirer sighting. This Elvis is not rated PG, but R. Too much for my tender offspring.

“Get out of here, you creep,” I shout, worried for the first time. Ghosts with major missing parts are usually more sinister than the all-there sort.

Of course he does not listen to me. I am now only a few feet away. “What have you done with my daughter?” I demand. “Unhand her, you phantom.”

No answer, not even a pause to recognize my presence and demand. Okay, the Michael Jackson gloves are off.

I spring from my position, shivs extended, planning to hit him in the jerking knees.

My first contact with the incorporeal is the sense of a barrier being breeched, a soft, giving barrier that I push through like the fighting feline I am. In a second, I am right through Elvis and on the other side.

Oops. I hope it is not the real Other Side, like I cannot get back into the living world.

Even as I worry, I land like a bag of nuts and bolts on the cold, hard cavem floor.

Elvis has crumpled into a pale puddle, just like the Wicked Witch of the West went south in a dark pool of ickiness in The Wizard of Oz.

But where is Louise? I stand and call her name, turning in a circle. No answer.

And as I turn back the way I came, I see that Elvis is struggling to rise again. I leap upon his heap of congealing, ethereal atoms.

But Elvis is striking back. I feel the sting of wounds from beyond the grave and soon his jumpsuit is becoming a winding cloth. I spin round and round until I am swaddled and trussed like a turkey.

“Cut it out!” a voice orders.

A familiar voice.

Midnight Louise struggles out from the wadded fabric, which is only too, too solid. It is, in fact, not only material, but a cotton material common to work clothes.

“Here is your Elvis. One of the painter’s jumpsuits. He must have been putting on the phosphorescent paint along the tunnel corridor and got it all over his white coveralls. So he left it hanging to dry down here. Everybody was too scared to come down and investigate.”