By Tina Dybvik

Deliver Me, Elvis

Van Leer Ray was the weekend route trainer. We were introduced in a predawn drizzle at the distribution site. He took one hard look at my scrawny biceps and suggested a career in phone sales. I was negotiating with his dog, Pete, for shotgun seat and dodged the suggestion of more suitable work. "I'm tired of desk jobs," I said without looking at him. It was only half the truth. During my school days, I'd envied the franchise of paperboys. I wanted to know what I'd missed. Like lesson number one according to Ray: "Just ignore those extra instructions on the route sheet." I had written enough instructions to suspect they mattered to someone. At last, I knew the truth; they only mattered to the writer. With that in mind, the cross-town deliveries were soon completed. Then the van turned off the strip and headed in to my old high school district.   "This is the area where I grew up", I said--the first personal information I'd shared. "Ahhhh so you're from the South side," Ray replied knowingly. "I once saw Elvis jogging in that neighborhood. 'Course, that was before he got out of shape." But...I wasn't really listening. We'd just passed the high school campus. I watched nervously for former classmates and was beginning to waver on my mid-life identity. What judgment had passed to make me insecure in the perception I was a papergirl? What life story would I tell at the reunion? Perception was most of what mattered in the career I'd just left. Even Ray said perception was everything, because "memories are all you got as you get older." His context, as usual, was unclear. "Like that song Elvis sang," he added helpfully, and he crooned a few bars of "Memories" for me. The King again? I finally turned to take a good look at Ray and noticed his thinning pompadour. It was the only visible remains of a jailhouse rockin' youth. "You know a lot about Elvis, don't you?" I asked, and Ray saw that I understood him. Then Pete chose the moment to snap at my leg in a snarly return to reality. He was ready to ride shotgun again. "Guess I must have kicked him," I offered weakly--to ease the awkward moment, right? "Yeah..." came the reply. "Nobody can tell me a dog has no feelings. Pete spent the first three years of his life on a houseboat, so he don't mind riding in the van all day. He likes growling at the other dogs out on the street." Well, I understood the instinct. I hadn't been very friendly, either. Like Pete, my life was changing, and there was no going back. Note: Ray was last sighted at a mini-mart.

©2008 Tina Dybvik