We found Elvis between the rusted ’67 Ford and the fender-less Citation. He wore his gold jumpsuit. Pink and turquoise stars exploded from his cape. His knees were bent in dance, and one hand held a microphone to his unnaturally wide mouth. His eyebrows were definitely not the same size - hell, they weren’t even located in the right places. Even in his worst years, when the end was near, Elvis never looked as bad as he did spray-painted on the back of the Sun Tours Express.

He seemed to be saying, “Run as fast as you can and don’t look back. Never look back!” I interpreted the monstrosity as a sign and urged Jessica to heed the warning, but she put a camera in my hand. “He’s perfect,” she whispered. “Take a couple of pictures.”

I obediently centered Elvis on the camera screen, and took a few quick snaps. The whole scene made me ill. Pink and turquoise paint had been slathered over the rusted chrome. Behind cracked windows, the interior décor was just as bad: age-stained seats and a layer of grime coating the ceiling. Shuddering, I turned from the bus.

Pete’s Pump ‘N Pack might not be the rendezvous point for every Memphis-bound tour, but for the Sun Tours Annual Fourteen-Day Elvis Extravaganza there could be no other.

However, Jessica and I had little time to admire the view. The Annual Elvis Extravaganza was due to launch from Pete’s at 12:09 p.m., the 9 being no accident, but a minute painstakingly selected by Marion Common, the tour coordinator, to represent Elvis’s Life Path Number.

Jessica murmured into her recorder, “First impressions. After trudging through the slums of Minneapolis, we found Elvis. Refer to pictures. All this gas station needs is a stick of dynamite. That mud better come off my suitcase.”

“It’s not mud.”

“What?”

“It’s not mud.”

“Great, just great.”

A woman driving a maroon Volvo pulled into Pete’s. She wore a navy blue, Fifties style polyester suit complete with heels and red lipstick.

She waved in greeting. “Hi, I’m Marion Common, your tour guide. You must be Stella and Jessica from Olympus. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Actually, I think we’re early,” Jess said as she glared at me.

“I was worried we’d hit traffic and miss the bus,” I explained and returned Jess’s stare. I wasn’t going to ruin our one chance at professional redemption.

“Oh, I understand. I’m the same way,” Marion said. “I’m so excited to have you both on the tour. Imagine, two big-time travel journalists covering our little adventure. Give me a couple of minutes to organize my things.” Marion turned to go, but stopped and asked, “Would you like to meet Pete?”

“You mean there really is a Pete of Pete’s Pump ‘N Pack?” I asked. I gestured for Jessica to flick on her recorder again, but it was already running.

“You really should meet him,” said Marion. “It all started with Pete. He was part of the Flying ELVI in Las Vegas. He moved to Minneapolis after he retired to be closer to his daughter and her family. He missed being Elvis, so he bought an old bus from Grey Hound, renovated it, and that’s how the Fourteen-Day Elvis Extravaganza came to be.”

We followed Marion into Pete’s, which was a typical gas station and convenience store save for the pictures of Elvis on one wall and Pete’s awards on the other.

“Pete?” Marion shouted. Her voice was so loud I wondered if Pete was in the store or in the next state. “He’s an older gentleman and moves a little slower these days,” explained Marion. Apparently ‘an older gentleman’ meant someone born during the time of Christ. The man who appeared from the men’s room and made his way inch by agonizing inch down the chip aisle couldn’t have been more than three feet tall or weigh more than one hundred pounds soaking wet.

“Pete,” yelled Marion, “I’d like you to meet Stella Smith and Jessica Bernard from Olympus. They are the reporters I told you about.”

“Who?” asked Pete.

Marion screamed louder, “Stella and Jessica. The reporters.” Pete stared blankly. With veins popping out of her neck, Marion bellowed, “Stella! Jessica! Reporters!”

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Pete. Marion smiled as if she finally got him to understand who we are, but everyone knew he didn’t have a clue. We shook his hand gently; it was as delicate as a bird’s skeleton.

“Well, we’d better get going. Lots to do. Just wanted to meet you.”

“What?” asked Pete.

“We have to go now. The Annual Elvis Extravaganza starts today. Remember?”

“What?”

Marion pointed at the three of us and screamed, “We,” then pointed at the door, “must go,” then pointed at her watch, “now.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Pete. His head bobbed a little, either in farewell or because he had palsy.

Marion held the door. The sun turned her black hair red revealing a poor dye job. She led us across the cracked asphalt and into Cybill’s shadow. “Well, here she is. Did you know the actress Cybill Shepherd actually dated Elvis briefly?” Marion didn’t wait for an answer. “That’s where the bus gets her name. You will probably want a picture of the back. A local artist painted a really nice mural of the King.”

“Who was probably drunk when he painted that piece of crap,” Jess muttered behind me. Louder, she said, “We already got a picture of the back. You’re right, it is nice.”

“Oh, well then maybe a picture of me at the door,” Marion giggled. “At my post, if you will.”

“Sure,” I said and stepped back to photograph the enthusiastic creature called Marion. She had fastened a large pin of Elvis’s head to her collar and “I’m Elvis’s #1 Fan!” was opposite her “Hi! I’m Marion, Your Favorite Tour Guide!” nametag. She posed in front of the camera looking like she just kissed Elvis in front of Pricilla and didn’t care.