The Window, The Painting, and The King

The Johnson’s shoved their last box of belongings into the cramped corner of their new residence. It was a switch from their old apartment, but they had scrimped and saved for the last five years to buy a place of their own.

The new residence was very small. It had a large room that doubled as a kitchen and living room, one tiny bedroom, and a bathroom that was even smaller. The house was located right next to a busy interstate and the buzzing of cars and semi’s could be heard from inside. A struggling artist who just never quite made it had once owned it. It seemed he and his art were so misunderstood that he finally went mad, spray painted a suicide note on the towns water tower and jumped off. Mr. Johnson had been reading the obituaries and discovered the story. That is how he found their new home and got such a great deal.

As Mrs. Johnson opened the closet to store some of the boxes, she gave out a shriek.

“What is it my dear?” asked Mr. Johnson.

“This board fell out and hit me in the head,” she replied, holding her knob and sitting down on the floor.


Mr. Johnson picked up a square piece of plywood from the floor and examined it. “This isn’t a board at all, dear. Why, it’s a painting or some sort.”

On the board was a painting of a man dressed in a blue suit coat, black hat and black sunglasses. He was holding a microphone and it looked like he was singing some sort of song.

“Why I believe it is a picture of a blues man,” said Mr. Johnson. “But I’m not quite sure what this is.”

Mr. Johnson studied the rest of the painting. Beside the blues man there was a cloud of gray and black smoke.

“It is a mystery to me,” said Mr. Johnson. “It looks as though a child has painted it. That artist that committed suicide must have painted it and placed it in the closet. As a matter of fact, he did, there’s his name signed at the bottom.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Johnson, “I can certainly see why he never sold anything. His art work is terrible, not to mention dangerous.”

“You’re very right my dear. Let me help you to the bedroom you must get some rest. It has been a long day and a knot is starting to come up on your head and you know how unattractive I find that.”

Mr. Johnson took the painting and placed it in the front window to block out the passing headlights coming from the interstate and helped his wife off to bed.

As the Johnson’s slept in their new bedroom, they dreamed of the new life they would have in their new home raising 2.3 kids, a dog and possibly an Alpaca Lama. Yes, they were happy dreams, but soon they were interrupted by knocks on their front door.

“What is the meaning of this?” said Mr. Johnson. “It’s two o’ clock in the morning. Who would be coming over at such an hour?”

“I hope it’s not heroin addicts or someone pumped up on speed,” said Mrs. Johnson, hugging her blanket close to her.


“Well, we’ll just see about that. I’ll tell them we have no narcotics at this house and send them on their way. How rude to disturb someone at this hour.”

Mr. Johnson threw open the front door of his home only to be greeted by an old couple standing on their front step.

“Hi, we’re the Jenkins’ and we were passing through and saw the wonderful window effects you had. We just had to stop and find out more about it,” said the old woman.

Mr. Johnson looked at their RV parked out front and rubbed his eyes. “What effects? We don’t have any effects in the window, just this old painting I put up to keep the lights out.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be pulling our leg,” said Mr. Jenkins. “Why it was almost like he was there in person. It was so real.”
“Like who was there?” asked Mrs. Johnson. “You two aren’t on speed are you?”


“Why heavens no,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “ If you folks really don’t know what we’re talking about I think you should step out and see for yourself.”

The Johnson family stepped outside with the Jenkins’ and looked into their front window at the painting. As they looked on, the blues man began to sing into his microphone; sweat beaded up on his head as he put his whole soul into the song. Suddenly, the smoke in the painting began to swirl and the image of a man began to walk out. The man came into full view. He was wearing a black jumpsuit studded with rhinestones; he was very tan and had jet-black hair. Looking at the couples, he placed his hand on the windowpane and with a snarled lip, blew a kiss to the ladies. Then suddenly, he turned and walked back into the cloud and the blues man stopped singing.

“Was that who I think it was?” asked Mrs. Johnson grasping at her nightgown and taking a big gulp.

“It certainly was,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “We saw him in person once when we were dating. That is the real Elvis Presley and he’s in your window.”


Mr. Johnson ran inside, examined the painting then looked at the window.

“Just as I though,” he said, “the window is signed by the same artist who did this painting. It must be a trick, an optical illusion of some sort.”
“I think it’s a miracle,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “ A real life miracle.”

When the Jenkins had left in their RV, Mr. And Mrs. Johnson tried to make sense out of the situation but could not, so they decided to get some sleep instead. Just as Mr. Jenkins was about to enter the dream where he tosses the football to his 2.3 children, there was another knock at the door.

“Well, I’ve had just about enough of this nonsense,” he said, tying the belt to his blue robe. “If this is another Elvis sighting, I’ll use that painting for firewood in the morning.”

When Mr. Johnson swung open the door, there was a yard full of people. All of them were standing at the front window and one of them had their hand pressed against the glass.

“You there!” shouted Mr. Johnson. “If you smudge my window I will be forced to have you wash it.”

“He’s trying to tell us something,” said one of the people, pointing at the window.

Mr. Johnson stepped out onto the lawn, being very careful not to trip over the very unusual lawn ornaments the previous owner had left behind. When he peered into the window he saw the man in the black jumpsuit whispering something at the crowd. He couldn’t be heard but the excited people on the Johnson’s lawn were hanging on every movement of his snarled lip, and just as before, the blues man was singing with every fiber of his soul into the microphone.
“He’s telling us the secret to life,” said a lady.

“No, he’s telling me that I should heal my broken relationship with my father,” said another lady.

“He’s telling you all that the owners of this house need to get some sleep!” shouted Mr. Johnson. “Now I think the courteous thing for you to all do is get in your vehicles and go home.”

“Oh, we’re sorry,” said a great big trucker man. “What are your business hours?”

“Business? We have no business here,” said Mr. Johnson.

“Well, we’d be glad to pay what ever you normally charge for visitors,” replied the Trucker man.

The crowd all agreed and began handing Mr. Johnson money. As he walked back into his home, he locked the door and counted the money. “ Oh dear,” he called to Mrs. Johnson.

“Yes?”

“I think we are about to become very, very rich.”

Mrs. Johnson smiled and hugged her husband, but soon had to sit down due to the dizziness of being conked on the head with the painting earlier.
Several days had passed since the Johnson’s had moved into their new home and it was becoming more like a museum everyday. Every morning at 7 a.m. the tour busses would arrive and the people would stand in line for hours just for a glimpse of the window.

As the blues man sang his soulful song, The man in the black, rhinestone jumpsuit would appear from the cloud, whisper something, blow his kisses, and then the ladies would scream and pass out on the Johnson’s front lawn.

Soon the Johnson’s had acquired enough to purchase all the land in their area; most of it was used for bus parking of course, but there was still room enough for a snow cone stand.

A black curtain was placed in front of the window along with a sign that listed the viewing hours of the painting. People were pouring in everyday by the thousands. There were Japanese Elvis fans, American Elvis fans, and the Johnson’s were very surprised at the huge Amish following that Elvis had.

“Oh dear?” said Mrs. Johnson, walking in the living room wearing her new mink coat. “I was just wondering if I could talk with you about something?”


“Why of course,” said Mr. Johnson, counting his money. “You know I am always here to listen.”

“Well, I was just wondering, since we are making all this money, why don’t we buy a bigger house?”

“Nothing doing,” snapped Mr. Johnson. “Don’t you realize how big this thing has become? If we move, someone will break in and steal the painting, or perhaps use our own personal bathroom instead of the port a potties outside. I won’t hear of it!”

“It was just a thought,” said Mrs. Johnson looking at her diamond studded fingers.

Mrs. Johnson was growing weary of living in the small cramped home. She was a woman who was acquiring a small fortune and longed to live in a larger home, besides, she was running out of space to store her mink coats. She would have to be firmer with her husband and insist that they move.

Over the next few weeks, there was more tourist than ever. The town even awarded the Johnson’s the key to the city for their tourism efforts and recycling program they developed at their home. Not everything was peachy keen though. The tension between Mr. and Mrs. Johnson was growing more intense. Everyday, Mrs. Johnson would come in the small living room/kitchen and complain about how she longed to move into a larger place, and everyday, Mr. Johnson would tell her to shut up. The relationship was defiantly taking a strain.

One night everything finally came to a head and the Johnson’s had the biggest argument ever.

“If you don’t buy me a bigger home and move out of this place, I’m going to leave you. I’ll take half of everything, including your precious painting,” Mrs. Johnson said sternly.

“It’s not my style to strike a lady, but if you go near that painting don’t be surprised if I slap your hand. And believe me, when I slap a hand, it stings,” replied Mr. Johnson, wrinkling his forehead and crossing his arms.

Mrs. Johnson broke down in tears and ran out the front door. She sat down in the middle of the yard and looked at the painting through the window; it was the whole reason for all this trouble and she was beginning to despise it.

The tourist had all left and the stars were shining in the black sky. It was actually pretty peaceful; you would have never known that just a few hours earlier thousands of people had been standing there.

“What am I going to do?” Asked Mrs. Johnson, talking to herself. “My marriage is falling apart.”

Suddenly, the front window caught her attention. The blues man began to sing again, this time it looked like a slower song as he leaned back and sang into the microphone. The clouds in the picture began to swirl and out stepped the man in the black, rhinestone jumpsuit. He walked to the window and stared at Mrs. Johnson. He looked like such a kind man and she was sure he could feel her pain. He placed his hand on the window and gave her a smile.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” she asked.

The man moved his lips and with a slow motion, pointed to her.


“You are trying to tell me something. Do you have the solution to my problems?”

The man nodded his head yes and began to move his lips again.

Mrs. Johnson could hear nothing through the window and wasn’t a very good lip reader so she placed her ear up to the glass. Still nothing.
“If I could just hear you,” she said, trying desperately to read his lips. “I know you could help me.”

Mrs. Johnson picked up one of the lawn ornaments; it was in the shape of a small ladybug with horns coming out of its head. She lifted it up and began to tap the glass. She knew if she could just peck a small hole in the window she would be able to hear what the man had to say.
As she pecked away, the man began to speak more rapidly and move his hands about.

“I hear you. I know you are trying to tell me something. Don’t worry, I’m going to break though.”


The mans lips moved faster as he was desperately trying to tell her something.

Inside the house Mr. Johnson was rudely interrupted from counting his money as his wife banged harder and harder on the window. He rushed out his front door and quickly confronted her.

“See here, woman! Drop the lawn thingy this instant! You have gone far enough!”
“He’s trying to tell me something!” she shouted. “Can’t you see that?!"

Mr. Johnson looked at the window and the man was waving his hands and excitedly trying to communicate with Mrs. Johnson.

Suddenly, there was a crash. The lawn ornament had busted the window and the sound of the blues man could be heard singing a sad sorrowful song. The Johnson’s stood facing the few large pieces of glass left hanging in the window frame. There in one of them was the man in the rhinestoned suit, with the jet- black hair, staring back at them.


Mr. Johnson looked in horror. His heart sank into his stomach. Mrs. Johnson walked over to the window, with her mouth hanging open and looked into his eyes.

“It is you? I mean, you are Elvis aren’t you?”
The man nodded his head yes and snarled his lip into a smile.

“What was it you were trying so hard to tell me?” she asked.

The man straightened his collar on his jumpsuit, took a step back and said, “I was just tryin’ to tell you to be careful, Momma, you’re gonna break the glass.” With those words said, the man walked back into the cloud, the blues man stopped singing his song and he was never seen again.

Over the next few months, the Johnson’s got a divorce. Mrs. Johnson had her name changed back to her maiden name, so she is no longer Mrs. Johnson. The county seized the property, took back the key to the city and Mr. Johnson moved into a tiny apartment in town and took a job with the local phone company.


One night, distraught from the divorce and once again being poor, the former Mrs. Johnson climbed to the top of the water tower, took a deep breath, and tossed the painting over the side. I hear she now lives somewhere in Pueblo, Colorado.

Just the other day while on his way to install someone’s phone lines, Mr. Johnson passed by the old house. He stopped his telephone truck and gazed out at the overgrown yard. Suddenly, the morning farm report he was listening to on the radio was drowned out by an Elvis song trying to cut in on the station. Now Mr. Johnson could have taken this as a sign. He could have drifted back in his memory and thought of the window, Elvis, Mrs. Johnson, his 2.3 kids and the Alpaca lama. Yes, he could have taken this as a grim reminder of the life he once had and the life he once dreamed of, but he didn’t. Mr. Johnson tuned the station back to the farm report, took a drink of his coffee and drove the phone truck off into the sunrise, never to think of his old life again.