I met Elvis this afternoon. My friend Pam tells me that he spends a lot of time hanging out on the corner — in front of the McDonalds. On nice warm, sunny days, he brings his stereo so he can play music and dance, apparently trying to win back the unconditional love and adoration (and screams from beautiful young women) that he once enjoyed. But today it was cold, so he had to settle for passing the time at the local sub shop, where we happened to be having lunch.

Pam and I were stuffing our faces with gigantic, messy sandwiches, the contents of which were spilling out all over the table. Between bites, we were covering one of the typical female lunchtime conversations — dysfunctional families or childbirth or something like that — when Pam paused.

"See that guy?" she whispered and tilted her head toward the door of the restaurant.

I turned to look. In the general area toward which she'd pointed, there were about five guys. Two were carrying trays, on their way to a table. One was seated at a table by himself... I kept glancing around the room.

"The guy with the black hair — and the black coat," Pam told me. "By the door."

And that's when I saw him. The King himself. His black hair hadn't been properly styled, so it flopped in his face a bit. And he wasn't wearing a sequin jumpsuit, either. But I recognized him right away.

"He does some kind of Elvis impersonation," she told me.

"I bet he does," I replied. I kept looking at him out of the corner of my eye—studying his hair, this wardrobe, his smile... That's when Pam explained his warm-weather McDonalds ritual to me. I told her that I couldn't wait to get home and call my family—to tell them that Elvis wasn't hanging out in a Burger King in Kalamazoo after all. Instead, he's passing his days in the sub shop in the next town over. We had a good laugh, and then we went back to our discussion.

But The King took an interest in Pam and me. As we were sitting there, he walked up and tapped Pam on the shoulder. "Stop moving around so much—it's messin' with the TV's reception," he told her, pointing to the TV mounted on the wall behind us. Pam and I gave each other puzzled glances and broke into laughter. Elvis smiled his big, unmistakably-Elvis smile and chuckled along. "I like you," he said. Then he turned and walked away, shuffling in a manner that I can imagine a somewhat arthritic Grandpa Elvis of the New Millennium walking.

But he didn't leave us alone then and continue on his tour of Massachusetts sub shops. Instead, he returned a few minutes later. He picked up a salt packet that was on the floor beside our table and commented, "Look, you dropped this... That's a ten-yard penalty, you know." I grinned and pictured Elvis sitting in his living room in a not-so-good part of northern Massachusetts, wearing his polyester pants pulled up over his belly, a T-shirt that says "Graceland" on the front, and an old bathrobe and slippers — while cheering on the Patriots.

And that's when The King gave me a flower. He set it down on the table in front of me. I smiled and thanked him. I thanked him very much.

Do you hear what I'm saying here? The King gave me a flower. Me!

Then he said, "Your boyfriend doesn't even do that," and shuffled back to his position by the door.

I looked down at the flower in front of me and told Pam that he was right—my husband had definitely never given me anything like that before.

"Is it fake?" she asked.

I poked it. "Yep."

"But Elvis gave you a flower," she pointed out and told me that I should be honored. "You should put it in your hair."

I smiled and poked the flower in my purse as we got up to leave. The King was no longer standing by the door, so I couldn't say good-bye—he had disappeared. Or maybe, I considered, he had never really been there. Maybe he had just been a figment of our imagination—a sub-sandwich-induced hallucination.

We got into Pam's car, and she groaned. "I'm getting a little sick of Elvis," she said. I looked up to find that The King hadn't disappeared after all. He was standing on the sidewalk, just outside the strip mall that housed the sub shop and a few other stores. And he was staring into the car.

I realize that you might not believe me—after all, this is The King I'm talking about here—but I'm quite sure that Elvis was ogling us.

I laughed and waved, and he smiled that big Elvis smile one more time and waved back before he walked away.

Pam promised to take me back to the sub shop when it's once again warm and sunny out—and Elvis is dancing on the corner. Maybe then I'll bring my camera and take some pictures—because my family will never believe me when I tell them that I met The King.

You might not believe me, either. But I know for a fact that Elvis is alive and well (and perhaps a little bit crazy) and living in Massachusetts.

And I've got the flower to prove it.

Kristin can be contacted at kdk@nightsandweekends.com.