It was as good a town as any for semi-retirement.
On the surface, Linden looked quiet. But like most small towns, it buzzed with characters. The sheriff was known as Beer Belly - “Beer” for short - and he answered to Judge Pee Wee, a man so fond of drinking he required a police escort more often than not.
By nightfall, I wasn’t new anymore.
I hadn’t introduced myself. I didn’t have to. Somewhere between unloading my bags and walking into town, I’d already been named, placed, understood. New fella from up north. That was enough.
Privacy wasn’t exactly the local currency. Neither was surprise. Not anymore.
There was no bar, but the gas station did double duty. Picnic tables out front for beer, gossip, and weather reports. Shopping options were limited: a Food King, a video store, the B&H diner, The Rusty Hook if you wanted catfish—and Crazy Fay’s, where you could buy Confederate memorabilia and black velvet Elvis art in the same transaction without anyone batting an eye.
The weekly paper was my other joy. It read like Mayberry with footnotes. Headlines drifted between the mundane and the surreal:
Ella Mae Sudbauer was visited by her sister Mildred from Murfreesboro.
The Nelson twins, Gavin & Bubba, took first place in Saturday’s mud bog.
Every so often, there’d be a line tucked low on the page. Easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.
Elvis seen near market.
Service to be held Sunday.
No headline. No detail. Just the lines.
Always in the same place. Bottom right corner.
Like they belonged there.
---
The first time I saw him, I thought it was funny.
Polyester pants. Faded blue dress shirt. Jet-black Elvis wig. Sunglasses.
Standing in the market like he had nowhere else to be.
I stopped mid-step.
Did I just see Elvis buying toiletries?
Some old friends had come to visit. My buddy saw him too. He ran outside to grab his wife - a big Elvis fan. She came in half-grinning, already expecting something worth telling later. By the time she reached the aisle, the man was just...there. Turning a bottle over in his hand. Reading the label.
No one else looked at him.
Not even by accident.
It wasn’t avoidance.
It was absence.
Like he didn’t belong to the same version of things.
---
“That’s just Elvis,” someone told me later.
Just Elvis.
No name. No joke. No explanation.
---
Over time, I saw him often enough that it stopped being funny.
Same outfit. Same slow walk. Same places.
Same bottle of shampoo.
Same dent in the label.
I never saw him buy it.
I never saw him leave.
---
People talked about him, but only in passing.
“Anyone seen Elvis today?”
Casual. Like checking the weather.
“Yeah. Down by the market.”
And that would be enough.
Always enough.
---
Sundays were different.
Not in any obvious way.
People dressed a little better. Not formal - just...respectful. Like they were going somewhere that mattered, even if no one said where.
I asked once.
“Church?”
“Something like that,” came the reply.
That was as specific as it got.
---
At the gas station, Beer said it like advice.
“Town like this,” he said, not looking at me, “you either help keep things running… or you don’t stay long.”
He took a sip of his Budweiser.
Said it like he was talking about fixing fences.
---
The paper kept its own record.
Same line.
Same place.
Different years.
Elvis seen near market.
Service to be held Sunday.
I started checking older stacks. Didn’t mean to. Just… happened.
The pages changed.
The names changed.
The line didn’t.
---
Once, someone said Elvis hadn’t been seen for a couple of days.
No one reacted at first.
Then Beer spoke up.
“He’ll turn up,” he said.
A pause.
“He always does.”
Another pause.
“Has to.”
---
That week, a storm rolled through. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to knock out power, flood a few roads, make people sit a little quieter than usual.
Two days later, someone at the diner said they’d seen Elvis again.
There was a shift in the room. Shoulders loosening. Conversation picking back up.
Like something had been corrected.
---
I started noticing how people looked at me.
Then looked again.
Like they weren’t sure.
At the Food King, a woman nodded...then hesitated, her smile faltering just slightly before she pushed her cart past me.
At the gas station, a man raised his hand.
“Hey...”
He stopped.
Squinted.
“Sorry,” he said. “Thought you were...”
He didn’t finish.
---
I checked my reflection.
Same as always.
Wasn’t it?
---
A few days later, I caught myself in the glass at the market entrance.
Something off.
Not wrong.
Just… closer.
Darker, maybe.
My hair.
The light shifted and it was gone.
---
I stopped asking questions.
You learn to.
---
I never saw Elvis on a Sunday.
That should’ve been enough.
It wasn’t.
---
The one time I followed, I didn’t have to go far. Just far enough to notice people weren’t heading toward town.
They were heading away from it.
Past the last scattered bunch of houses.
Past the fields.
Into a stand of trees I hadn’t paid much attention to before.
No one spoke.
No one acknowledged me.
But no one stopped me either.
---
There was a clearing.
Not large. Not dramatic.
Just… used.
By the time I got there, most of them were already gathered. Standing in loose clusters. Quiet. Patient.
Like they’d done this before.
---
It took me a minute to notice the dogs.
Not because they were hidden.
Because no one was looking at them.
Half a dozen, maybe more. Hound dogs. Lean. Quiet.
Sitting just beyond the clearing.
Watching.
---
I didn’t see him at first.
Then I did.
No wig.
No sunglasses.
No… anything that made him Elvis.
Just a man.
Standing where everyone else wasn’t.
---
For a second, I thought that was what made him look different.
Then I realized -
whatever he’d been...
it was already gone.
---
No one announced anything.
No one stepped forward right away.
They just...arranged themselves.
Small shifts. People finding where they were supposed to be.
Like they’d done it often enough not to think about it.
---
Someone moved.
I didn’t see what they used.
I didn’t need to.
I just remember the sound.
Not loud.
Not sudden.
Just… final.
---
No one reacted.
No one stepped back.
No one turned away.
They just...waited.
---
That’s when the dogs moved.
No command.
No hesitation.
Like they’d been waiting for it.
---
No one watched.
They didn’t need to.
---
Someone stepped in with a rag.
Not in a hurry.
Just part of it.
---
I didn’t hear him anymore.
I realized I hadn’t heard him at all.
---
I don’t remember stepping forward.
But I remember when they noticed me.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Like they’d been expecting it to be me.
Like I’d taken longer than I should have.
---
Someone handed me something.
I didn’t look at it.
I didn’t need to.
I already knew what it was.
---
I didn’t go back the next Sunday.
I didn’t need to.
---
By Monday, everything looked the same again.
That was the part that mattered.
---
I stood in the market, turning a bottle over in my hand.
Didn’t need it.
Didn’t know why I’d picked it up.
---
I caught my reflection in the glass.
The sunglasses weren’t mine.
I don’t remember putting them on.
But they fit.
---
Outside, Beer sat in his cruiser.
He looked at me.
Held it a second longer than necessary.
Then nodded.
Once.
Like something had been settled.
---
From behind me, someone said it.
Casual.
Certain.
“Seen him near the market.”
---
I didn’t turn around.
I didn’t need to.
---
Town like this, you help keep things running.
That’s how you stay.
---
No one said his name.
They never do.
---
Because there can only be one.
copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger
For long-time readers, you might (barely) recognize this from a much earlier piece I wrote. For those interested, you can find the original HERE
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