“Tell It To The King” a short story

        It was Thursday, eleven fifty.  I had just finished with my classes, because it was spring, which meant I'd scheduled my classes early in the morning so I could enjoy the afternoon sun.  I had begun to drive home in the family station wagon--it was one of those station wagons you see mothers loading groceries into at the QFC--at least, that's what my mother always used it for.  It's American.  I don't think any foreign companies make station wagons anymore.  They're not very practical overseas.

           I was driving off campus along the aptly named 'University Boulevard', which is pretty much a straight shot home for me, and I was day dreaming about what I could do this afternoon, when I thought I spotted Dave Lear walking along the sidewalk.  I hadn't seen Dave in over a year, so at first I wasn't sure whether it was him or not.  He was heading in my direction, so it was one of those things where you spot them from behind, and you say, "Is that him?  That can't be him.  That is him!"

           Our eyes caught as we passed--I think it's a law of physics, where you look at everyone you pass, and where you have to look at everyone who passes you.  I don't know why I'm always compelled, I guess I'm just curious.  Either that, or I'm just easily distracted.

           I pulled over.  We had always been pretty good friends, so I was interested in what he'd been doing in the last year.  He was running up to the car, but before I could roll down the window, he had opened the passenger side door, hopped in, and buckled himself in.  I was astonished, but I guess I should have expected it:  I never use the electric locks.

           I was about to ask him how he was when he asked me, "Do you always pick up strange hitchhikers?"

           A very Learian greeting.

           I agreed with the strange part, but not so much with the hitch hiker part, and I told him so.  He laughed, and I pulled back into traffic.  I had the time, so I might as well drive him where ever he's going.

           I kept looking over at him.  He was quiet--more so than I expected him to be, and his eyes were constantly studying me.  I wondered if I'd changed much in a year.  He kept smiling.

           Dave had a sardonic smile.  It always seemed to say, "I know something, but I'm not going to tell you what."  I suppose if it didn't bother me so much, I might actually think it was cute.

           "So where are we going, Megan?" He asked.

           "To my parents house."

           "Good.  I think it's about time I met your parents."

           "You've met my parents."

           He smiled his little smile again.  "Well, I suppose we could always drive out to the country to your grand parents.  I haven't met them yet."

           "That's over an hour away, and anyway, I don't think they're home."

           He kept smiling.  "Where am I taking you, anyway?" I asked.

           "Anywhere.  You lead.  I'll follow."

           Dave's eyes kept studying me, as if he wanted to know something.  His mouth was poised in that smile.  It's always been impossible to get a straight answer out of him.  I wondered what was going through his head, or if I'd ever know.  God, I wish he'd tell me.

           "So what have you been up to, Dave?  How's school?"

           "You know, I had a feeling I'd be seeing you soon."

           "You did?  Why's that?"

           "I don't know.  It was just a feeling.  Clairvoyance: It's a gift."

           "Mr. Rational. You believe in clairvoyance?  How about the stars and fate?"

           "You should never mock science--especially cracker box science.  It's the most dangerous, you know."

           "Dave?  Where are we going?"

           "Well, since you asked, I was thinking we catch a show, have a late dinner in this cozy little Italian restaurant I know, and then catch a one o'clock shuttle to Vegas where we can have Elvis officiate over our nuptials."

           "What?"

           "Okay, so it won't really be the King, since he's dead, but some impersonator.  I hear they're pretty good.  They even sing."  Dave sang:  "Love me tender, love me sweet, love me like a ton of bricks, love me 'til I'm beat."

           "Actually, I  meant 'where am I taking you?'"

           "well, let's see?  Do you need to pack?  I suppose you do.  You'll probably want to tell your folks you're going away for the weekend.  Maybe even call work.  I wouldn't want us to come home from our honeymoon and find my wife's been fired.  How would we make ends meet? So I guess we'll want to go to your house while we get ready."

           "I'm serious, Dave."

           "Of course you are, Megan.  You always are.  But I've been Gustave Flaubert for an entire week, trying to think up the right words.  I got a thousand bucks in my pocket which says we fly to Vegas and get married tonight."

           "You do not."

           "Well, I will if we can stop by my bank.  It's first mutual."

           "If you're so set on thin, where's my ring?"

           "Okay, I swear this is the truth: It's in my other coat."

           "How can you propose to someone and not even have the ring?"

           "Well, we can stop by and get it, honey.  I certainly don't plan to marry you without it."

           I remember thinking that this was ridiculous.  I hadn't seen Dave in a year, and here he was proposing to me.  I've always liked Dave, but marriage?  Why would I marry him, when all he can do is make me laugh?  Yet, why shouldn't I marry him, when he always make me laugh?  I certainly didn't think I'd be contemplating marriage when I got up this morning.

           Instead, I kept thinking that I had homework to do, and that I didn't have time to get married.  I had all these reasons why I couldn't do it.  I kept thinking how weird it was, right up until Elvis asked me if I did.  And I did.

THE END