I had a dream last night that Elvis and I went to a ballgame together. There was no "maybe" about who it was; it was Elvis, the "young" Elvis. We were both wearing blue chambray shirts. He acted like the two of us were old friends. We left early because our team was so far ahead. As we walked out to the parking lot, there sat my '97 Dodge Stratus (it and I are really old friends). As we pulled out of the lot, I noticed that the car would only go 10 mph. Folks were honking at us and throwing that mean ole middle finger and stuff. Elvis said Hell, don't worry. I thought that was rather cool of him. Once they saw who was riding in the passenger seat, they stopped doing that stuff. So we drove through a downtown cityscape going 10 mph, waving at folks like we were the kings or something.
Suddenly, out of nowhere in dreamland, I realized Elvis was sick. Then I got sick as well. We were both sweating bullets and grabbing our stomachs. I said Elvis, where's the hospital? and he motioned up with his arm, kinda like he does when he sings in dead life. He must've been too sick to speak. "Up" meant we had to take an exit ramp that went entirely vertical (trust me, this gets more strange). We began a 10 mph climb up what felt like the face of Kilimanjaro. Once we arrived at the top, we came to a "T" in the road and had to turn to the left or right (yep, have to make choices, even in dreams). I asked again Which way? and the king was doubled over in pain. I turned left. There, right in front of us, was the hospital from St. Elsewhere.
I pulled up, as fast as my Stratus would go, and asked an attendant if this was the right hospital (not sure why) and he said Not really, but aren't you sick? Before I could answer, Elvis was getting out of the car, stumbling towards the ER. I left the Stratus where it stood, with the keys in it and the engine running (I'm probably going to do that in real life some day). As I stepped inside the building, all these people came rushing towards me with assistance. Nobody was helping Elvis. I was placed in a wheelchair and rolled into a waiting room. Elvis walked behind my entourage. His chambray shirt was sweat-soaked.
The attending nurse looked just like my daughter's kindergarten teacher, but she had a southern accent. Ya'll feel sick? Here, you should eat somethin'. She handed Elvis and me red crockery plates full of pot roast. Elvis started wolfing his down. I picked at mine a little; the meat was tough. I guess I started feeling better because I said Alright, we've got to go. Elvis had cleaned his plate, but I still had some left. He said Bring that with us. So the nurse who looked like my daughter's teacher helped me "box" it up and said Honey, just keep the plate. We thanked her for the help and asked if she thought the car would still be there; I had left it in an "no parking" zone. She said Hell, don't worry; it'll be there. Then the nurse suddenly changed into Keri Russell wearing that outfit she had on in Waitress. I really wanted to kiss her, but the king had already left the building and I felt the need to catch up. So I didn't. Damn Elvis.
Then my alarm went off.