The Small Adventure of Popeye and Elvis Read Online Free Page A

this might be our small adventure.”

7
    EDWARD III, RICHARD II, Henry IV, Henry V . . .
    Popeye ate cereal at the kitchen table while Velma tried to keep from cracking up.
    When she got to Elizabeth II, Popeye said, “Me and Elvis are gonna be back yonder at the creek today, okay?”
    Velma pulled a couple of squishy pink curlers out of her hair and tossed them into the fruit bowl on the table. “Don’t you be going too far into them woods, you hear?” she said.
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œThere’s snakes and I don’t know what else back there.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œAnd you keep your eye on that boy Elvis,” Velma said. “We don’t know nothing about them people.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œSeems to me like they oughta be gettin’ that big ole trailer out of here, if you ask me.”
    â€œIt’s a Holiday Rambler.”
    Velma ran her fingers through her thin gray hair. “Who in the world ever heard of folks living like that, anyway? Them kids wouldn’t be so wild if they lived in a house like normal folks.” She shook her head and made a
tsk-tsk
noise. “Running around here like a pack of stray dogs.”
    Popeye put his cereal bowl in the sink and said, “They
like
living in a Holiday Rambler.”
    Velma made a little
pffft
sound and flapped her hand at Popeye. She shuffled across the floor in her ratty old slippers and poured herself another cup of coffee. “Maybe if Dooley’d get off his dern lazy behind and help those people, they could get that contraption out of here and be on their way.”
    Popeye felt a little knot growing in his stomach at the thought of the Holiday Rambler driving away with Elvis and all those kids inside, leaving a bigempty space in the road and a whole summer full of boredom ahead.
    â€œCome on, Boo,” he called, and hurried out the front door. He hopped down the steps and raced to the silver motor home. The shiny gold lightning bolts on the side glittered in the morning sun.
    He stood on his tiptoes, trying to see into the windows. He wondered if he should just stand there and wait or if he should go up onto that little platform step and knock on the narrow metal door. He sure was busting to get inside and check things out.
    â€œWait here,” he said to Boo.
    He climbed onto the step and knocked on the door.
    Walter’s face appeared in the window. “Elvis!” he hollered. “That skinny-headed ding-dong kid is here.”
    â€œWalter Jewell!” a woman yelled from somewhere inside. “If you’re needin’ some soap in your mouth, you say that again.”
    The door of the motor home opened.
    â€œI got to get my shoes on,” Elvis said.
    Popeye tried to peer around him and see inside. Then, as if the good Lord had sent an angel toanswer his prayers, Elvis’s mother snapped, “For heaven’s sake, Elvis, invite the boy in.”
    Elvis stepped aside, and Popeye climbed up into the Holiday Rambler and found himself in a world of wonder. All around him were kids and shoes and pillows and towels and cereal boxes and paper cups and dirty dishes and piles of clothes and magazines and board games. On one side of the motor home a bed was folded down out of the wall and heaped with blankets and scattered with playing cards and potato chip bags. On the other side was a table with booth-style seats, like in a diner. Giant plastic soda bottles and paper plates with half-eaten hot dogs and puddles of ketchup littered the table.
    Beside the booth was a tiny television, strapped to the wall with a bungee cord. Behind it was a tiny stove and a tiny sink and a tiny refrigerator. Popeye felt like he was inside a dollhouse. He didn’t say a single word, but in his head, he was saying, “This is awesome, and Elvis, you are so lucky. Trade places with me. Go live in my house with the heart-shaped water stain on the