Sure, I could blame it on the newest batch of meds, but I prefer to think in some space-time continuum Elvis and I connected.
Elvis Stojko. He has not left the building, as far as I know.
As in: That Elvis. Don’t step on his blue suede figure skates.
It was the happiest dream I’ve had in months, my peeps.
He was in some outrageously elaborate figure skating show, and the rink was the length of, four, five, football fields.
(Yes, I just used the words ‘figure skating’ and ‘football’ in the same sentence. Yes, I recognize there are stiff cosmic penalties for that, and there does seem to be some sort of hooded black-hole creature hovering outside my window. I’ll deal with that when I let the dogs out in a bit. But right now, I want to tell you that Elvis Stojko and I COMMUNED. We CONNECTED. And it was good and wholesome and pure and sweet, better than couples’ skate at the roller rink when you’re 13.)
Back to the show: I saw in the dream that he was dragging costumes in and out of doors and backstage areas and struggling to get in and out of these insane costumes. It seemed he was putting on a Queen-inspired rock opera on skates. Whatever the case, he had no one helping him.
This seemed wrong. So I wound up leaving my seat and following him from green room to green room to help him into his various costumes. I kept thinking someone would tell me to take my seat again, but no, it was all cool, man. Because Elvis and I were meant to BE.
He smiled as I showed up to help him through each costume change, and we made cute, nervous small talk. He was short, sure, but I’m no skyscraper myself. His hair was redder than it seemed on TV, and I felt mighty proud to be standing in the wings, watching him do his Elvis Thang. Land that quad jump, Elvis! YESSSSS! Your Bohemian Rhapsody outfit STAYED ON! ROCK IT, ELVIS!
His mom seemed to sense I was helping in some way. She gave me a sweet smile, stood by my side. She and I, well, we didn’t talk, but it was all good, I could tell.
When the show was over, and all the skaters and audience members began filing out of the massive venue with its four zillion changing rooms, I lost sight of Elvis and his mama. My heart! Where had he gone?
I asked someone official where Elvis had gone, and they pointed me to Room 7, which was really a rickety ladder that descended into a dark rat maze of strange basement rooms. I couldn’t find him. My peeps, the devastation was great.
Finally, I lapped my pride up off the floor and headed back up the ladder, out the venue doors, into the sunlight.
And while I stood on a grass sidewalk strip, waiting to cross the busy road to…well, to what? Elvis Stojko appeared to my right. And he smiled most fetchingly, a slow, shy, Yes, I’m a champion men’s figure skater, but I’m not gay, not that there’s anything wrong with it smile.
He said, “Would you like to go on a date sometime?”
I said, “A date?”
He nodded. A date.
I said, “Why, yes. Yes, I would.”
We beamed at each other.
I woke up then, smiling. No, it wasn’t Clive Owen, or my usual celebrity boyfriend, John Krasinski. But Elvis’s request for a genuine, old-fashioned date made me happy, and happy’s been in short supply of late.
I like to think that, this morning, Elvis Stojko was frantic. I picture him scrolling down his BlackBerry contacts, trying to find the cute, glassy-eyed American brunette he dreamed of last night, the one who didn’t peek as she helped him into the ridiculous outfits.
It’s okay, Elvis. I’m here. Your peeps will find my peeps, and you can give me a call, and you can show me that quad. The jump. I’m a nice girl, after all.
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