“You – in the plaid pajama bottoms, get back over the ropes!” The guard startled me as he reprimanded a visitor for not following museum rules. Everyone knew not to cross the blockade. It was one thing to blatantly disrespect the posthumous King of Rock n’ Roll, but to invade his mother’s personal space was savage. The tour guide told how she would curl up in one of the pink chairs her son purchased for her and play his records. She would only listen at midnight and swore to her husband that the born-deceased twin of their musician child would sit next to her, listening to the tunes.
“Who is he talking to?” I whispered to my friend, Shell. We made the trip to HOPELAND, yearly. The name of the place was perfect because we hoped we could catch a glimpse of the only talked about ghost in town. The spirit of REVIS!
“I don’t see a soul!” She laughed.
“Move away from the Gramophone!” We still had no clue who security was yapping at. The arm raised and gently placed itself onto the vinyl left to personalize the public’s viewing of Revis’ home. Crackling ensued and then the sweet sound of Revis flowed from the speaker.
“Who did that?…. Shell!!!!” I screamed. “Look, it’s the ghost of Revis!!!” Coming in and out of a hazy view, wearing his pj’s, he sat down in one of the chairs and raised a peanut butter and banana sandwich towards his perfectly shaped, ruby lips. I felt faint but fought it. I grabbed my camera, turned on the flash and took as many photos as my little Nikon could.
“No camera’s allowed in Hopeland!” The guard jumped on my back, pushing me to the floor.
I slid the camera to Shell. “Run! We can’t lose that footage!” I shouted.
Leesa Writes 