4 Elvis and Edna, sitting in a tree . . .

Picking his nose so engrossed John Guss while he waited for a blueberry smoothie that he didn’t hear the Mayor of San Anselmo express “Like . . .” with a heavy helping of sarcasm.
John silently said, “Winner!” then found a sure adhesive niche under the table. His ears were warm and pink from gratification, and the rest of the mayor’s pronouncement was clear: “. . . San Anselmo really needs another restaurant.”
He thought it was insider information. It was just the thing, of all things! He needed to do something fast with the bequest he’d gotten from The Crazy Lady. For a few years he’d hung around her house close to town – as filthy an abode as the ramshackle Guss habitat which was, as stated, a disgrace, the anathema of avenues Alder and Yolanda – letting the crazy old bat cook meals for him, loan him coffee change he never repayed, and give him the keys to her late model Saab convertible for drives by himself to the taverns of west Marin. He also had convinced her that he was Elvis.
“I love Elvis!” she said.
“Then . . .” said John, twisting his wrist, beckoning for the obvious conclusion as he leaned closer to the old lady, who had no other friends.
“You’re Elvis? You didn’t die? Can you still sing ‘Love Me Tender’?”
“One thought at a time, Edna. You love Elvis, so . . .”
“I love Elvis so. Yes. Indeed. Yes indeedeedoo.” She hummed.
Maybe harmony instead of logic, John mused. He hummed along until she switched without a clue to “When The Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin’ Along.”
“I never performed that one. Not even in Vegas.”
“Huh? That hearing aid you sold me isn’t all you cracked it up to be, John.”
“Elvis.”
“Elvis?”
“You were saying about Elvis, that you love Elvis . . .”
“I do love Elvis.”
“And who am I? . . .” he crooned. “And who are you? And who am I? And who is Elvis?” John would have swept her into his arms and off her feet for a waltz around the room, but The Crazy Lady was as plunked into her chair as Granny Guss was back home. “Elvis is who? Who am I? I am Elvis. You are Edna. Elvis and Edna. Edna and Elvis. And so, and so, and so . . . And so?”
“I love Elvis.”
“And so!” he crooned still, with Sergio Franchi-like phonemes to drive the case home. John knew The Crazy Lady was basically pre-Elvis – all the Perry Como music he’d endured waiting for his ham and cheese sandwiches to come to completion with Edna’s trademark Thud! when she cut the slices of gluten bread in half.
It went on interminably, his crooning, his waving, rolling hand, his studious proximity, and John thought he was going to be late for baby Andrew’s, his son’s, christening party.
But finally she said, “I love you!”
“And I love you, Edna! You’re the mother I never had! Oh, I love you, too!”
Liar! Granny Guss lived and swatted, by some local lore lived to swat, bugs just a ten minute walk away. But the brief renouncement paid the vast dividend of half a million dollars cash, plus the Saab, bequeathed in Edna’s will to John Guss (an assumed name, he had assured her, in order to protect Lisa Marie).
Long standing ambitions thus could come true.

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