The Stranger

He was a lot like Elvis, in a nylon shorts and running jacket sort of way. He danced right on up to her while she was watching yet another Elvis perform. The number one Elvis impersonator in the country, in fact. Later, this irony would not be lost on her. The irony of impersonation, of unidentifiable identity, of pretending to be, or masquerading as.

She was celebrating 4th of July. "The Best Fourth in the North," it was billed as, and this was certainly shaping up to be a good one. She was camping with a group of friends, the weather was fine, and the boy she was sharing a tent with, her ex/best friend/person best to be with when all else fails, seemed to be ok with her blasé attitude toward their relationship. In some secret place, the tip of her sandal, the strap of her bathing suit, the pages of her journal, she knew he wanted more, but she just didn’t feel that way. Enter Elvis.

He came out of nowhere. Bounced, literally bounced, onto the scene in a body hugging midnight blue track suit and Tevas. The spotlight behind him was meant for the singing Elvis, but he walked right through it as though it were meant to welcome him. He was tan and muscular. His whole body smiled, eyes to toes. He was the preamble to the fireworks to come. Like good old Saint Nick, he went right to his work, not a word did he speak. He danced with her. He danced around her. He undressed her with his eyes, then put her clothes on again so she wouldn’t be embarrassed. All the while, the number one Elvis crooned on.

She forgot all about her tent mate. She danced all night. She danced the sun down. She found a spot under the stars to watch the fireworks with the man who was like an explosion himself. She got his story. He was just passing through. He had just come from the prison up north where he was visiting his brother. He had driven there from Florida, but before that he lived in North Carolina. He was a teacher. A dreamer. She gave him her number. The fireworks began.

He called her from Brooklyn. It was the age of The Celestine Prophecy. All was magical, mystical, meant to be. The universe had thrown them together as surely as they were soul mates. Without knowing his current address, phone number or birth date, she agreed to meet him in the Poconos. She drove five hours through a hurricane to reach him. The furthest she had ever driven alone. Such a daring plan, she had told no-one where she was going. It was the age before cell phones. She was a woman on a mission.

He had promised hiking, picnics, romantic dinners, talking the sun down, the stars up. It was one night. They never ate. They never left the darkened hotel room. It was the loneliest weekend she had ever spent. The sun shone only as she pulled out of the parking lot, alone.