He wore a white suit with the evening sun shining behind him as he strummed his white plastic Fischer Price guitar. The suit was trimmed with gold, and the guitar with red, blue, and yellow.

We drove past slowly. Not to stare, but because that’s how fast the cars were going. But stare I did.

He played, and he was singing along. His guitar was missing strings, but it made no sound anyway.

As he sang, he moved his head with some unheard beat, his inconsistent mane moving with it, and the small jewels set into his huge white sunglasses sparkled, and set fire to his forehead.

In front of him sat a guitar case. Black and road-worn, it was a bit large for the small plastic guitar, and more than a little too big for the intersection, triangular for no apparent reason, hanging over the gutter into the street. The small divider near the signal should have been a hub for crosswalks, but there were none to be found.

This Elvis played, and nobody stopped, and nobody heard. But we drove by slowly.