Viva!: A Short Story About Elvis, Flying, and One Man’s Quest

It was exactly 2:15 p.m. when Herbert checked his economically designed and aerodynamically perfect digital watch. He scanned his schedule. Omaha, Nebraska between 2:13 and 2:29. He looked down. It looked like Nebraska; it was flat and there were cornfields, at any rate. He would have to presume that he was on track: he had accidentally dropped his compass at 11:36, somewhere over Ohio. He hoped the Coalition wouldn’t leave without him if he were a few minutes late.

His morning had started well, as mornings go. His wife Sheila made him eggs, sunnyside-up with a dash of pepper, just the way he liked them. There was fresh orange juice in the refrigerator, and she put some in an airtight thermos so he could avoid dehydration during the descent. She worried about things like that. He worried more about his false sideburns coming undone during the initial fall.

After breakfast, he began a precise ritual that he had developed over months and months of these drops. First, the inspirational underwear: briefs (he had found that boxers allowed for too much movement) emblazoned with silk-screened images of peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches. Next, the fake paunch, a padded bodysuit Sheila had sewn for his thirty-first birthday, which served both as costume and as some amount of protection. The sideburns. The white silk suit. Finally, when everything else was done, the shoes: beautiful brushed suede. He sprayed them with leather protectant every night before retiring them to the closet. He ran pomade through his hair so it puffed back into a shiny pompadour, polished his aviator sunglasses on his shirt, and headed for the car, kissing Sheila and swiveling his hips to make her giggle as he went out the door.

The drive to the airport seemed longer than usual. He was jumpy, nervous in a way he hadn’t been since his first flight. Well, he rationalized, it was a big day, but that was no reason to be acting like an amateur. The men he was meeting were the big time, his entrance into a world he had previously only dreamed of. He had been working on his creation for nearly a year when he happened upon a Paul Simon song that changed the entire direction of his life. He was sitting in his living room, scrolling through the channels on the radio, when it came on, wafting out of the speakers like an invisible prophet: “The Mississippi Delta was shining like a national guitar…” It was fate, he was convinced of it. He rose out of the leather recliner and ran to his study, where he stayed for the next seventy-two hours. Sheila brought him meals on a tray. He wrote feverishly, drafting and redrafting his drawings until he had just the right balance of propulsion and wingspan, then finally collapsed, exhausted. Sheila found him the next morning, his head wedged between a glass paperweight and a book of da Vinci’s sketches.

The first thing he did was contact the CPE, or the Coalition, as he had come to call it. They had him fax them his drafts, then wired him a cash advance to start building. From what Herbert understood, things didn’t usually happen that fast. The Coalition was in a slump. Some of its opponents were beginning to say it was becoming obsolete. They needed new concepts, new blood. They got Herbert.

He arrived at the airport at 8:17 a.m. and met Paul at the hangar. Paul had been there from the first experimental run, and served alternately as pilot, therapist, and bartender. He looked a little like the Colonel too, which didn’t hurt.

“Morning, Paul.”

“Morning, Herb. Ready for the big day?”

“I think so. Got the jitters though.”

Paul reached towards Herbert’s face and tugged on his hair. “Your ‘burns are crooked, man.”

Herbert looked at his reflection in Paul’s mirrored sunglasses. They were. “Damn. I’ll fix them in the plane.”

The two headed for Paul’s pride and joy, the Teddy Bear. She wasn’t the flashiest plane around, but she flew like nobody’s business. Herbert climbed into the main chamber and settled himself in one of the seats. There was a dollop of white goo on the seat next to him. He took out his handkerchief, wiped it off, and sniffed it. Cheese. Paul turned around from the cockpit.

“Flew this couple yesterday. Wisconsiners. Real nice. Guy was going to some convention, brought me some brie.” That explained it.

They took off. Herbert took out a copy of the Times and tried to read it, but he was too tense. He only noticed that his hands were shaking when the newspaper was jiggling so much that his eyes couldn’t focus on the words. He took a deep breath and checked his watch. 8:41. Good. If all went according to plan, he would land in
Memphis at precisely 5:22 p.m., giving him eight minutes to prepare for the meeting.

“We’re at three minutes,” Paul called back. “Go ahead.”

Herbert got up from his seat and went to the back of the plane, where his equipment was lying in a heap on the floor. He untangled the cords from the backpack and put it on, buckling two of the big straps across his chest. One of the cords, a clear plastic one, led to a canister of gasoline. He strapped that to his left arm. He took a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase and slipped them into the front pocket of the backpack. He was ready.

“Thirty seconds,” said Paul. Herbert walked to the door and opened it. A blast of cold air hit him in the face, making his eyes water. He wiped them with the back of his hand, being careful not to dislodge the gas can. He braced himself against the doorway and waited for the countdown.

“Five seconds…four…three…two…one…GO!” As Paul spoke the last word, Herbert closed his eyes and jumped. For a moment, he felt nothing at all, then the pit of his stomach dropped out as he began to fall. He desperately wanted to pull the tab right away, but knew that he had to wait it out. The sky was a blur around him. He counted backwards slowly from fifty, and when he finished, he pulled the ripcord and the parachute ballooned up from his knapsack.

He floated down for two or three minutes, then turned the nozzle on the canister. Gasoline flowed through eight clear tubes. Around the perimeter of the dome, eight propellers began to spin. It was daylight, so he couldn’t see if the lights were working, but he presumed they were.

He made good time crossing the Midwest, and was happy to turn south when the time came. He was tired of looking at corn. To pass the time, he played word games. A, my name is Adam, and I like applesauce. B, my name is Belinda, and I like beetles. Or Beatles. He chuckled to himself. He loved puns.

He checked his watch again. 4:58. Time to begin the descent. He reached into his pocket and took out two clamps. He placed one on each of two of the tubes. Two propellers stopped. He waited ten or eleven minutes, then withdrew two more clamps and put them on. He could make out buildings now, and tiny cars moving down narrow streets like multicolored ants. Ten minutes. Two more. He could see the landing pad coming into view, and aimed himself towards it. A crowd of men was waiting along the edges of the runway. As he got closer, he clamped the last two tubes and floated gently down. He hit the ground running, until his legs gave way and he collapsed onto his back. Instantly, the men were around him, helping him up, shaking his hand, patting his shoulder.

A middle-aged man in a blue velour jumpsuit stepped forward and held out his hand. “Larry Wallace, President. We’ve talked on the phone.”

Herbert shook his hand. “President Wallace, it’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“The honor is ours, Herbert, believe me. You are bringing new life to the CPE. We couldn’t have scheduled this launch without you.”

Herbert grinned. “So when do we get started?”

They led him to the limo, then to the convention center. Banners adorned the front of the red brick building, reading: “The Eleventh Convention of the Coalition for Parachuting Elvi Welcomes Herbert Overmeyer, Inventor of the Jet-Propulsion Parachute.” Herbert was overwhelmed. He had never seen his name in print before, and it was stunning.

Inside the convention center, there were Elvises everywhere: tall, fat, short, young, black, Asian, old, skinny. There were more spangles than Herbert had ever thought possible. His blue suede shoes looked scuffed under the fluorescent lights, and his white suit looked cheap, he thought. There was a man walking around claiming he was wearing the original aviator sunglasses. He wasn’t alone; over the course of the evening, Herbert heard the same claim at least a dozen more times.

He was the celebrity of the night. Everyone wanted to talk to him, thank him for breathing new life into their organization. He spoke in front of three thousand people and only stuttered twice. They laughed at his jokes. No one ever laughed at his jokes, not even Sheila, who loved him, and here was a room full of silky, sparkly strangers falling all over themselves to get near him.

He was whisked into another limo at 10:49 and sipped champagne with Larry Wallace and two Priscilla Presleys who kept bumping their beehives on the ceiling of the car. They arrived at the gates of
Graceland at 11:20. It had been opened at night especially for the occasion, and floodlights illuminated their path as they made their way towards the main house.

When he stepped in the front door, Herbert gasped. It was magnificent: lavish and humble at the same time. He walked from room to room, marveling. This was where he strummed his guitar and sang gospel hymns to his mother. This was where he ate. The best was his television room: three color TV’s and three mustard yellow couches. Herbert glanced back at Larry. “May I?” Larry nodded.

Tiptoeing across the shag rug, Herbert went to one of the couches and ran his hand across the top. Little fibers clung to his fingers, and he stared at them, turning his hands over and over. He sat on the couch, sinking down into the overstuffed cushions. He closed his eyes and wondered what the man himself would say if he could see what was about to happen.

Larry’s voice broke his reverie. “11:54, Herbert. Time to go out.”

They left the building and moved to the front lawn, where most of the convention had congregated. The sea of people was neverending. Someone jostled his elbow, and he looked down to see a dwarf Elvis muttering an apology and trying to get by.

He heard chimes, twelve of them. It was midnight. A hush fell over the crowd, and the sound of an airplane engine came drifting through the night air. He looked up and saw dark figures streaming out of the sky. They fell in silence for a few moments, and then, with a brilliant flash, their parachutes simultaneously burst open. Tiny white lights twinkled on each parachute, blinking on and off in different patterns. The overall effect was something like Vegas. The propellers began to turn, and they glided over the crowd. Herbert felt tears prickling the backs of his eyes at the beauty of it all.

They hovered in the air for a few minutes, then turned west. They were due in
Nevada first thing in the morning. Larry placed his hand on Herbert’s shoulder and squeezed. No one spoke; there was no need for words. And the Elvi saluted as they passed out of sight, moving through the night like a hundred hip-swiveling fireflies.