You’ve probably seen Elvis–with that ridiculous hair, upturned collar and sequined jumpsuit–riding his Time Machine up and down Main Street every single day. I’m not sure where in town the guy lives. But he’s out there riding the Time Machine up and down the street and, I’m positive, savoring every minute of it.
Everyone laughs. Many shake their head. That absurd Time Machine is impossible to miss.
Bright silver-painted cardboard panels envelope the rickety little bicycle. It’s like the rocket ship dream of a child–with fins, and a whirling red police light mounted behind the bicycle seat, and flying streamers on the handlebars, and a galaxy of painted stars, and spelled out on the cardboard on both sides in big glittery letters: TIME MACHINE.
Veering with abandon, good old Elvis steers his Time Machine up and down Main Street all the live-long day. Pedaling forward, moving through time.
The traffic light turns green.
The church clock strikes the quarter hour.
The sun moves higher above the horizon.
A woman opens the window shades, breathes in and gazes across the land.
Secret lovers behind the gas station kiss and part.
A boy forgets his school books and sprints back home.
A man remembers how his uncle burned the casserole the night before and laughs.
A wrinkled hand wipes away sudden tears.
A nearby dog barks.
A rocking chair rocks.
Forward through time Elvis travels, his preposterous Time Machine shining brightly like a shooting star.
Back and forth, up and down Main Street he pedals.
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