Elliott's Afternoon

            Elliott wanted out. His chair at the small table was facing the front entrance windows, and he couldn’t help glancing out that way, through the parted orange-plaid curtains to the falling snow and growing mounds outside. He wiped the slow-falling sweat from his forehead on the long white polyester sleeve of his Elvis Presley costume and took a breath, trying to hide how badly he wanted out of the stuffy hot café and to go run out amid the snow and icy wind that would surely bring some cool relief to this hot and sticky air he was baking in now.

            It was quiet around their small polished table, the only noise was a small radio playing from the bar, and the ticking pendulum of a hanging clock by the door. The café owner was wiping down the wood-and-gold espresso machines and didn’t seem at all aware of the tense four-top square table where Elliott was sitting.

            To the left of Elliott was John Lennon in one chair, and although he seemed wispy and hollow, it paled in comparison to his relaxed demeanor, and he would tilt his long greasy hair from side to side as if acknowledging a melody only he could hear. Across from Elvis was a static-seeming Richard Nixon, sharp in his 70s suit, but nevertheless old with his drooping skin and large pores. He did little more than take in his surroundings with lips pressed tightly together, eyes keenly taking in each movement. He seemed to study Elliott the most, and be the most offended when Elliott glanced outside of their company. To the right of Elliott was a life-sized, shiny, candy-red lobster comfortably upright at the table, curling down the chair with his tail propping him up from the floor, his large bubble eyes atop long stems, claws happily pinching around coffee mugs and water glasses. Elliott guessed that the lobster was partaking in the novelty of sitting at a human table, but he didn’t know what to make of the linked gold chain around the lobster’s neck, heavy with a solid gold banana charm hanging down the front. And then there was Elliott at the head of the table in white Elvis pantsuit, gold glasses and stiff black hair, sweating and trying to contemplate a quick exit into the Albuquerque winter desert. He glanced at the center of the table where his beloved thin chrome flashlight sat atop their small pile of bettings, with John Lennon’s small circle-frame glasses, Nixon’s red telephone, and the lobster’s claw bands, which had to be cut off by Elliott himself for the lobster to wager. Anything would be better than this right now. Anything would be better than losing his flashlight. The heat was making him irritable, and he didn’t feel that he had much left to lose. He grew bold.

            “Look guys, I never wanted any trouble. Please just let me take my flashlight, and I’ll get out, and we’ll call it a day,” Elliott pleaded, running his hands through his hairsprayed hair with a crunch.

            “No Elvis, you’re not getting it a’tall. We don’t want to call it a day, mate,” John Lennon said in his wilting English voice.

            “We want you,” Nixon began in a deep throaty voice, “to give up writing your book. You are dividing your effort up. You’ll fail at everything at this rate. We’re trying to help you.” He pointed harshly, which gave Elliott the impression of an Uncle Sam poster.

            The lobster lifted his glass toward Elliott, apparently in agree with the other two.

            “Your attachment to material things is so very disturbing Ellie man,” John whispered. “Look at you. What do you dress like Elvis for anyway?”

            “It’s- it’s my job,” Elliott retorted. “My father was an Elvis Impersonator, and I promised him I’d carry on the legacy. It’s what we have to our name. It was his dream, and my dream. I’m making it real. And I was just going to document it with a story. I’ve been out doing research for this book, it was going to celebrate my father’s entire life. And he gave me that flashlight, when I told him about the project he told me it would always light my way!”

            “Is it lighting your way now?” Nixon asked point-blank. “You gave it up for our bet. Our bet that we could outsit you, and if you won you would take everything, and be able to be everything you ever wanted. But if the flashlight is so important, why would you risk it to have nothing?”

            The lobster made some sort of cooing sound and pushed a mug of coffee to a corner. His eye blinked. Or at least Elliott thought that’s what a lobster blink might look like.

            “You know,” Elliott said, gaining courage, “my daughter used to pray every night that Harry Potter might come true, and I thought it would be a good idea, but I think I forgot how awful boggarts are!”

            “Hey! You watch your mouth sonny,” Nixon shouted, offended.

The lobster snapped his claws in anger.

“Ah, come on now, you don’t really mean that,” John Lennon said.

“I do! I do!” Elliott screamed. “Boggarts are horrible and they are your worst fears, and they mess you up!” Elliott slowed down and he realized the error in his afternoon. “Oh my God,” he said. “Boggarts mess you up. You guys are trying to mess me up! How did I forget that? You’re not helping me! You made me think you were helping me, but you’re not! You voiced my own insecurities and I was so desperate for an answer to my life’s problems that I listened to any solution you offered me, but you are wrong! I can write this book, and I can impersonate Elvis, and I can be a good father! I can do all these things!”

Elliott grabbed his flashlight back from the pile and moved to stand up, but only found he was immobilized in his chair. He could not separate himself, he was stuck in seat, sweat pouring freely now, while the three boggarts sat calmly and blank-faced, looking back at him.

“Elvis liked something enough, my man,” John Lennon said through an emotionless face. “Elvis liked something. If you were so good an impersonating him, you might know what it is. And set yourself free to go write your book and be an Elvis father. Is that what you wanted, do I have that right?”

Elliott’s mind was racing. Elvis liked something? We all like something. What did Elvis like? Music, of course. Guitars, girls, Tennessee. What did that mean? Just then, Elliott’s stomach grumbled. After all these hours of sitting, he was hungry. Elvis would probably eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich. That’s it! Elliott thought. The banana!

Quick as a karate chop, Elliott grabbed at the gold banana charm hanging around the lobster’s neck and yanked hard, while the lobster’s claws circled wildly in fear, and John Lennon and Richard Nixon were shouting “No!” and jumping toward Elliott, but it was too late. The gold chain broke and at the same time, all three of the boggarts exploded into a puff of air, Elliott screaming in fear from all the commotion, falling back into his chair, this time alone at the table.

“Alright, alright, I hear you, no need to shout!” the barman came bumbling over to Elliott with pen and pad ready.

Elliott was flabbergasted. “Um… uhh…” he took a breath, bewildered, looking about himself with wide eyes.

“Could I… may I… think you could do a uh, a peanut butter and banana sandwich?” he asked.

The barman hesitated a moment, rolled his eyes, coughed, and then grunted out a yes before turning away and heading to the kitchen.

“And can you open up a window in here already?!”