The Day Elvis Died - short story

It's August 16th, and I just saw the headline: The Day Elvis Died. Though it was forty-seven years ago, I vividly remember what I was doing and where I was when I heard the news. I was thirty-one at the time and had recently undergone a divorce from my first wife, Gail.

I was on a lonely east Texas blacktop road about twelve miles from Linden, where Don Henley of the Eagles grew up. On that day in 1977, I was on the run. From a couple of girlfriends and not the law.

I was single, working as a geologist for Texas Oil & Gas, and experiencing freedom for the first time in seven years (the duration of my first marriage.) As an oil and gas geologist, I developed drilling prospects. I thought them up, put my ideas on paper, and Texas Oil & Gas drilled them.

In 1977, Texas Oil & Gas was the most active driller in the U.S. They had offices in several cities, and Oklahoma City was where most of their wells were generated. In Oklahoma City, I was the number one prospect generator and, at least in my mind, was the Prospect King of the World.

I know! I probably did more damage to the earth than any hundred people. I was very good at what I did and didn't know any better. Did I mention it was the height of the Disco Era? Women were burning their bras; I was on what seemed an unlimited expense account, had a company car, and felt invincible. After seven years of marriage, which included a stint in Vietnam, I was still naïve about relationships.

I had a girlfriend named Carol, a gorgeous blond lease broker who smoked marijuana and was familiar with many illegal drugs. She was also the wildest woman I had ever met. I'm talking sex, riding motorcycles at breakneck speeds-anything dangerous. I was in lust for her.

TXO, as Texas Oil & Gas was known, had many good-looking secretaries. Nowadays, fraternization among employees is not a wise idea and probably wasn't even then. It mattered little because an attractive brunette named Gayle had her sights on me. We finally had a dinner date and ended up at her house, where her two small sons precluded us from anything other than heavy petting. She said she would visit my apartment next night and rectify the problem. Her visit didn't disappoint and left me in a quandary.

Too much water under the bridge precludes me from remembering how Gayle and Carol got crosswise, although they somehow did. Being the coward I am, I fled Oklahoma City for the weekend, hoping things would cool while I was away. My parents lived in northwest Louisiana, and I headed there instead of facing the wrath of two beautiful women. It was on my trip south when I heard the news of Elvis's imminent demise.

Forty-seven years have passed, and Carol and Gayle are in my rearview mirror. Memories are almost forgotten notes in a never-ending chord progression, and I still remember them. Carol and Gayle are like unfinished symphonies whose melodies linger forever in the recesses of my brain.

Authors and prospect geologists have one thing in common: they are both paid liars. And me? I'm still at it, though my days as a bedroom Casanova are now largely in my dreams.

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Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You can also check out his Facebook page.