Tamara Smith sliced open an eggplant. The seeds were arranged in the likeness of Elvis’s profile. “Oh, my God!” Tamara screamed. She was The King’s biggest fan. She had all his CD’s and all the DVD’s of his movies. She knew everything about the artist from Mississippi. She had been to his birthplace and to his memorial—Graceland—in Memphis. She had never actually seen him live, yet she worshipped him. She felt that she was his soul mate, because they were both born on January 8.
She always claimed that Elvis would be alive today if she could have contacted him that fateful day. She had had a strange feeling that morning in her own bathroom. She sensed that there was danger for Elvis in his bathroom. She suspected that he might slip in the tub, or maybe accidentally electrocute himself with his hair dryer. But she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that Elvis must not use his bathroom that day.
She dialed Memphis 411, but Information told her that his number was not listed. She called the Memphis police, but they said she would have to get in line behind all the other crank callers. She called her cousin who lived in Memphis, but her cousin was out.
She almost died when she saw the TV news that night, August 16, the saddest day of her life. I was right, I was right, she kept repeating to herself. If only she had gotten through to poor Elvis.
Now she had this eggplant. It could mean only one thing—Elvis was trying to communicate with her. She wrapped the eggplant in saran wrap and put it in her refrigerator. The next day she was going to visit Mabel, her palm reader / medium / manicurist, to have a séance.
