The day Elvis came to our house, I was in a pissy mood because my husband had forgotten to close the garage door the night before and when the yard sprinklers turned on at oh-dark-hundred, the sprinkler that I'd driven my truck over last year and twisted all cattywompus sprayed like a firehose right through the garage door and in my truck window, which I'd left open because I'd spilled a cup of Dannon's yogurt on the passenger seat the day before and the thing needed a good airing out. I had also picked up my slinkiest black dress with the dry cleaning and left it on the front seat, still in the plastic bag, because my friend Tina had asked to borrow it for a party she was going to that night.
Well, the water got inside the plastic and ruined the dress, so you can see how I would be in a really pissy mood, and the absolute last person I wanted to see at the door right then was Elvis.
"Damnit Elvis," I said, the annoyance spilling into my voice, "you couldn't have called first? So what's up? You been scaring the checkout girls at Safeway again?"
"Now that's not my fault, Carole," Elvis replied, crestfallen. He was sensitive about that stuff, which ok, I admit wasn't totally his fault. He'd had to give up his part-time job at Harold's Chevron because of it. Of course, it's not like he needed the money anyway, but when you love the smell of gasoline as much as he did, you somehow find a way.
"Well, come on in and have some coffee, Elvis," I said. "And where on earth did you find those darling blue shoes?"