On the day the Elvis impersonators came to town it was sunny, just the way it almost always is in this part of New Mexico. There was a slight whiff of dairy cow manure coming in on the breeze, the kind of odor that the old timers say is the "smell of money." There were long sideburns everywhere, there were buckled boots, and there were those little jewels stuck onto shirts, just like the kind I used to have on my childhood six-shooter holsters.
On the day the Elvis impersonators came to town, Miz Teeny, the large shining purple-black lady who lived in the tiny apartment raising all the coffee-colored grandchildren that her daughters couldn't be bothered with, looked out her window to see something that almost made her drop the littlest one, the one she'd just scooped up to nuzzle and change the diapers of.
On the day the Elvis impersonators came to town, Mr. Jimmy, the guy that everyone figured was dealing drugs although they doubted he was really smart enough to make change, the guy that kept that poor old boxer dog chained up in the cement yard like a mental patient, happened to look at the window across the street and catch the expression on Miz Teeny's face, which made him slowly turn his head to look down the road to see what was going on.
On that very day, a small purple Gremlin (the car, not the creature) passed down the road for the third time that morning, playing loud Jesus music with the driver exhorting everyone by way of a rooftop loudspeaker to get saved down at the revival tent that evening. And chasing behind that Gremlin, trailed by little gremlins of her own, was the nice lady who lived alone in the house with all the plants and cats; the kindhearted and sweet lady who had finally, finally snapped.