The day I met Elvis, I also lost my virginity. I know. You don’t believe me, and you are right. I did not lose my ordinary virginity as in the every day’s virginity: that has been abandoned in an attic in Bucharest. I lost my religious virginity. I’ve become a believer.
But first, let me tell you about Elvis. I was walking north on 6th Avenue. It was 8:30ish. I was going to work. In a loose manner of speaking. I live in the East Village side of the town, and that portion of 6th Avenue was in the West Village section, though roughly equally far away from my work.
I was walking. It was a beautiful morning and I was thinking, which I usually do after I live home, ride a bike and have a cup of coffee.
I was thinking about why I stopped being an atheist, and whether I had to seek a religious belief to replace my abandoned ideas. I did not think it necessary or immediately necessary, when I spot Elvis. He was waiting for a store of theater props to be open. He had a long wait ahead of him, as stores, others than pharmacies or groceries, or coffee places, do not open earlier than 10 AM.
This Elvis had the King’s side burns, his height and his slouch. In addition he had a shyness that the King never owned. (I guess when you are not the real thing you tend to be shy.)
I passed by him and when I crossed the street away from him, I remembered by phone. I decided to take a photo of the spot where he lent his figure to the morning passer-by in search of a myth. He noticed me taking a couple of pictures, and he always shied away. His want I guess is as powerful as anything else.
When I finally decided to leave all I could think about was:
“What would happen next today? Would I remember everything the way people remember what they did when we landed in Normandy?”
That day I am sure I remembered everything with clarity. Now, a few days removed, I am glad I have the picture to remind myself of the day I met Elvis.
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