So I Done Me Elvis

The kids were all watching me from the other side of the road, so I done me Elvis. This always cracks them up, although I doubt the younger ones know who I'm supposed to be. I've always been good at impressions and Mr. Presley has always been one of my better ones; I may be getting on a bit, but I can still gyrate the old hips like a man half my age.

I curl my lip a little longer than usual before I swagger out onto the road, holding my sign out to let them cross. There are times when I get so carried away with my performance that the kids are late getting to school; but not today. Mr. Wilkins, the head-master, has had a word and I don't need telling twice.

Just watching them amble over in that awkward way youngsters have, all perfect toothpaste smiles, makes this job worthwhile. It's not as if I do it for the money, and don't get me started about the uniform, but even in winter, when my hands are burnished claws and each breath a razor, I don't mind; not if I can make the nippers laugh. Never had any myself you see, and I guess, silly old sod that I am, I treat this little flock as my own.

I see they get to school and back, ask after their well- being and even teach them road safety; a very valuable asset in this day and age. I am there for them every morning to brighten their day. That's a lot more than you can say for some so called parents.

My dedication is unwavering due to one simple fact: I love kids. I've always maintained that if adults had

brains they'd be children. Sure, there are times when I can't abide them, but these days they are few and far between. Now, as I watch them pass, their schoolbags beating a raucous tattoo on their bony knees, such times have never seemed so distant.

`Hi Tina' I say, still using the King's famous drawl, `Love your new shoes lil lady.' The secret is in the details, you have to take an interest or they'll never trust you. `Say Tony, you've grown a whole inch taller over the weekend my man!' Like the sentimental old bugger that I am, I pat each one of them on their velvet heads as they troop by, until I am struck by the most angelic face I've seen since Elizabeth.

Her eyes are beaming up at me; she is a tiny stranger sent from Heaven. The anxiety of a first day at a new school is nullified by her spill of laughter; I am the cause of that. I tower over her with pride. `Well, well, well and what would your name be ma'am?' She laughs, an innocent tinkle that almost makes me cry. `Christine.' she says, `You talk funny.' `Well, I sure do, don't I ? My names Harry but today I'm Elvis and that's why my voice is kinda,' I give the old hips another workout, `All shook up!' `Can I have a lollipop?' She proffers one well-scrubbed hand in the direction of my pocket. For a moment I don't understand, but then I twig.

`Ah sorry love,' I say, using my Harry Jay voice for the first time, `I'm called a lollipop man because my sign's shaped like one,' I waggle it in front of her and she grins, `And you'd break your teeth trying to eat this beauty.'

I make a mental note to fill my pockets tomorrow with lollipops and crisps and fudge, just for her. Anything to make her smile again.

`C'mon Christine.' For the first time I notice the boy behind her, urging her on. He is much older and is wearing the more severe uniform of the Junior High just down the road. He pushes her roughly, `Hurry up! I promised mum you wouldn't be late.'

I assume this whining brat to be her brother; we are all tainted by our families. Forgive me my bluntness but this boy radiates uncouthness, and I'm positive he'd be up for all manner of backchat. Unlike the little angel he is dark; his rat-like features indicate a slyness in his budding personality. His face is awash with acne and I'm tempted to stand back lest it bursts. This white coat is hard enough to keep clean without vile teenage afflictions erupting all over it.

`Ah Kevin' she moans as he maneuvers her on. The rest of the kiddies stroll by, faces strained for another burst of Hound Dog, but the Elvis has been knocked out of me and I'm grateful when they disappear through the school gates. I watch as Christine's brother drags her all the way, belittling her in front of her new classmates. She stops a moment and gives me a tentative wave, then he slaps her and she is swallowed by the incoming tide of pupils.

The brat loiters awhile to antagonize me but I pay no heed to him. As he leaves he makes a most unsightly gesture in my direction. I will not tarnish my account with the specifics, suffice to say I'm no prude, ex-army man that I am, but it shocked me in one so young.

I start off toward the town library, putting my coat in a bag but leaving my hat on; I like to think some people will mistake me for a policeman. I have been intending to get a book on ventriloquism as I have this fantasy of having my sign converse with the children, but because of Kevin my heart isn't in it and by the time I get to Doris's to leave my sign. She offers me a cup of tea.

Doris is a fine old hen who bakes a lovely scone. She only lives a few minutes from the Primary School, so even if I get sidetracked entertaining her with my numerous impressions, as I frequently do, I can still make it back in time for the kids' dinner break.

I think she may have a notion of me, today she has laid on her best china, but I'm always the perfect gentleman. That's one of the things my dad beat into me. I blush at her unwanted attentions feeling the stammer, so hated by my parents, fizz on my tongue. Doris means well, but her needs repulse me. When you've measured out as many years in single teabags as I have you lose respect for that need. She hands me fresh cream cake on a dainty rose plate and this is too good an opportunity to miss; so I done me Lord Snooty. With my little finger raised I nibble at the exquisite fancy, `Sweet lady, your baking is matched only by your beauty' I ponce and get a laugh.

As usual time flies and she reminds me of this with a stern look at the clock, `Don't forget about the kiddies Harry, you don't want them roaming about round that road what with all the goings on lately.'

I know she means well, but her nagging tone of voice makes me want to slap her. That reminds me of

Christine and I hurry out, having no wish of leaving her to her wicked brother's devices. By the time I reach the school I have to walk carefully as my bladder is swollen with cheap tea. I make it just in time for the youngsters coming out and they all laugh at my gait, as if my waddle is a new act; so I done me Daffy Duck. That's what I call using my head, the mark of a great entertainer. You either have it or...

There's no sign of Christine. I ask a few of the others, but when I say her name they stare at me blankly. I figure she hasn't had a very good day, made no impression, made no friends. Sometimes children can be so cruel. It is at times like this that I can't abide them. I go hunting around the bike sheds although my astute mind reasons her mum may have already picked her up. I sure would like to see the mare that sired that belting little foal.

I find Christine crying behind the chained skeletons of various mountain bikes. It's sad that children feel the need to lock up their possessions; a greedy, selfish, ugly habit. I firmly believe that the boy who locks up his bike will grow into the man who beats his wife.

But I'm glad that Christine is bawling as it gives me the chance to comfort her. I've been around and I know how to deal with fear and pain. You ignore them. You bottle them up until they just burn themselves out, and before you know it, you wake up one day and they're gone. It's always worked for me, well nine times out of ten, and that's not a bad ratio I can assure you.

`Hello Chrissy,' I say, seeing her eyes swell with embarrassment, `Tell old Harry what's the matter.'

`N-n-nothing,' she stammers and I squeeze her face a little harshly, not out of malice, she should not pick up any habits that stain the beauty of her glory years. `Now come on, no-one never cried over nothing. Anything you tell me is confidential. Do you know what that means?'

She shakes her pretty golden bob in the negative, `It means you can tell me anything and it's still a secret.'

She thinks awhile on this, but when she looks back up at me I can tell she is still contemplating keeping the truth from me, so I done me Roger Moore and lift one inquiring eyebrow and she splutters, one word tripping over another, `It's Kevin I hate him, I'm hiding from him and I'm so scared he'll find me, he'll be so mad, I hate him!'

I can see the hate she speaks of nestled deeply in her eyes and it shocks me with its intensity. When I was younger my brother used all manner of ploys to scare me; he's dead now and I can't help feeling the good Lord paid him back. One of his favorite scams was to wear a large paper sack that stretched all the way down to his spindly ankles. He would paint a cruel demon face on it and rustle his way into my bedroom in the dead of night, frightening me into bed-wetting. But always, just as I was about to scream loud enough to wake Mummy, he would tear off his satanic disguise and reveal that underneath it was just Roy, my mischievous and twisted sibling.

Christine I realize sadly, like all kids, is the opposite of the paper monster. Her goodness is the face she paints on to fool the world; her real witchery lies hidden beneath.

`Why are you hiding from Kevin love?' `He's a big bully.'

Remembering my morning's encounter with the little skitter I can well believe that.

`Well,' I tell her, 'You don't need to worry about Kevin today. He's been in a fight at his new school and they've knocked the bullying right out of him. They punched his zits until they all burst. He looks rabid.' She makes a startled little 'o' with her precious lips. 'C'mon sweetie, he asked me to take you home. He told me to tell you he's really sorry. I suspect he'll tell you himself when we get you there.'

As I walk her across the deserted schoolyard, over the road and into the darkening woody lane, I feel like her father and in a funny way I hope someone will see us and think, Oh look at the doting Dad and his angelic daughter, but there is no-one about. `I don't like the trees,' she says when we've tramped halfway up the leaf strewn lane and are totally surrounded by their imposing majesty. `Why ever not?' I marvel, 'Trees are wonderful.' `I s'pose,' she says in a tiny voice, 'But..' `But what?' `But they scare me.'

I laugh a little at her naivety, children can be so touching. So much to fear in this world and yet they

pick the strangest things; the dark, brothers, trees. `There's no need to be afraid of them,' I soothe, 'here, I have something that'll take your mind off them.' `What is it?' A smile appearing on her lips for the first time. `A lollipop,' I say, watching her darling eyes light up before I club her deftly on the side of the skull with my sign, marveling at the cherry squirt of her untainted blood. She lay before me, little smile still on her face, eyes gazing nowhere. She looked as if she was waiting expectantly for my show, and I hate to disappoint. So I done me Jack the Ripper. I exposed her warm, moist heart to the cold afternoon and draped her tender neck with her malleable intestines. I swear I could see her soul rising in the steam from her entrails, a last stolen breath rainbow-like in the bare branches of the trees. But then again, I always see that.