The Graceland Tales

by Donna D. Prescott

  “I am so sorry,” I sympathize. “A pilgrimage to Graceland seems like a suitable distraction.”

  “Yes, Elvis was so good to his mama,” she says. “He was a generous man with a big heart.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  “Oh, I have as many as the Good Lord gave me,” she says. “I was a good, obedient wife, just as the Scripture teaches.”

  “I talked with a woman earlier named Linda who lost her fiancé many years ago. Perhaps you two can find one another and talk about losing a loved one,” I say. “Now that I think about it, it seems she said she is from north Louisiana, also.”

  “Pardon me, sugar, while I refill my drink,” she says and abruptly heads to the food table.

  As Alice leaves, a Hispanic man and woman quietly move into the space she vacated. This pair look like they get along nicely, so I stay where I am. His name tag reads “John” but she has written her name in tiny, willowy letters that I cannot decipher.

  “Do you mind if me and my wife stand here, ma’am?” John asks.

  “Not at all,” I respond. “My name is Donna, by the way,” I offer. “Good to meet you.” I notice that their clothes are neat but threadbare, he dressed in Dickeys and a button-down shirt with open collar and she in slacks and a simple blouse.

  After a silence I ask, “What brings you on this pilgrimage?”

  John looks uncomfortable. “Actually, we didn’t choose to be here.”

  ”Oh?”

  John’s wife explains, “My husband is a pastor at a small church in Kentucky, near Frankfort. The congregation saved for months to send us on this trip as a surprise gift of appreciation.”

  “We didn’t have the heart to tell them that neither one of us particularly likes Elvis,” John adds.

  “Why did the congregation choose this tour, then?”

  “John mentioned Graceland as a place of refuge for Elvis in a sermon awhile back. He was making a point about finding a safe, comfortable place and how the Lord is an important part of such a refuge.

  “Oh, sort of like ‘Peace in the Valley,’” I observe, “Except it would peace at Graceland, in this case.”

  “Yes,” John says earnestly, “No more sadness or sorrow or trouble. The lion will lay down with the lamb. Elvis believed in that living like that.”

  John’s wife continues, “Someone remembered it and they decided to send us on this trip to Graceland. It was important to them to send us on a vacation. We haven’t had one in many years.”

  “You two must be very dear to your congregation.”

  John says, “We do nothing for our congregation that any man or woman of God would not do. We do our Christian duty.”

  “Plus, it is our 10th wedding anniversary,” John’s wife says.

  “Oh, congratulations! Do you have any children?”

  John’s wife casts her eyes down as John puts his arm around her shoulders and squeezes. I notice his nails are clean but ragged and his hands calloused. He clears his throat. “The Lord has not seen fit to bless us with children yet.”

  “At least, our ministry keeps us busy,” John’s wife says. “My husband is like a father to many boys in our community who need direction, so while we don’t have any of our own, our kitchen is rarely empty.”

  As we talk, I notice Hector hiding in a corner. “It has been a pleasure to talk with you, but I need to talk with that fellow over there,” I excuse myself.

  “I’m sure we will meet again before the trip is over, ma’am,” says John. “God bless.”

  “God bless,” I return as I sidle over towards Hector, not wanting to draw attention to him.

  “Hello, Hector,” I say. “That Bella is quite a woman,” I laugh but Hector grimaces. “Bella told me that you are an Elvis impersonator. Perhaps she is helping you develop your Elvis persona by playing the part of an avid fan.”

  Hector laughs, “Yes, I wish other fans were as crazy about me.”

  “Tell me about this Elvis impersonator bit,” I request. “How long have you been at it?”

  “First off, we are not ‘impersonators,’” he says, with mock seriousness.

  “Oh?”

  With a twinkle in his eye he says, “We’re Elvis tribute artists, also known as ETA’s.”

  I laugh. “Of course. It almost sounds as if you all come from outer space.”

  He continues, “Some people think we do. Anyway, I began watching Elvis movies as a child. Even then I looked a lot like him. It was quite a shock to me to learn that he dyed his hair,” he says. “Whenever I had a chance to sing Elvis songs, I did. In my late teen years, I finally began to try to do some of the outfits and such, but it’s not easy for a poor working Hispanic guy like me.”

  “What is your day job?” I ask.

  “I work construction, so in the summer, I don’t have a lot of time for Elvis tribute work. In the winter, though, I can bring in a few extra bucks through tribute work—not enough to live on but enough to help get me through doing odd jobs to help. There are Elvis festivals all around the country. Tribute artists are a close bunch, helping one another when needed.”

  “Construction work must help keep you in shape as an impersonator—oh, sorry, tribute artist. I saw one tribute artist at the Lake George Festival actually lay down on stage near the end of his set to catch his breath.”

  “Boy, howdy, how right you are there. Many people don’t realize what a workout singing can be. Then you add Elvis’s gyrations and a performance becomes a cardio workout.”

  “You seem to be a very quiet person. How do you find your Elvis voice?”

  “Elvis gives me courage on stage. I get up there in my Elvis jumpsuit and become him. It allows me to be the outgoing, fun-loving person that I want to be in real life but am not by nature.”

  Hector surveys the room. “Uh, oh. Gotta move.” I see Bella the Academic heading our way.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you very much,” I say, as he searches for another hiding place.

  Fortunately for Hector, Rose the Waitress and Oriel the Hotel Manager re-enter our reception space with Adam the Senator’s Aide and Sandra the Senator’s Daughter, close behind. The kerfuffle that follows shields Hector from Bella. Oriel admonishes Rose as they move past the ropes, “Girl, wine is part of the cost of this trip! Why did you need to spend money on alcohol when you could drink wine here for free?”

  Rose says, “It’s not free! It’s part of the cost of the trip.”

  Oriel counters, “Shoot, all the more reason to drink here and not pay for liquor at the bar. And you don’t need to be drinking hard liquor before we board the train, anyway. Or after we board, either, for that matter.”

  As Rose moves towards the wine table with Oriel dogging her, conversation between Adam and Sandra continues the disruption.

  “Like, I only had one,” Sandra says.

  “And I still have a land line and rotary phone at home,” Adam says. “I’m not sure how you define ‘only one.’”

  She grins, “Only one margarita.”

  “And only one what else? Martini?”

  Sandra sighs and rolls her eyes. A copy of Cosmo peeks above the open zipper of her pink floral Kate Spade handbag. A midriff tube top with spaghetti straps reveals a belly-button piercing. Adam gently steers Sandra off to the side near me to prevent her from heading directly to the wine table.

  “C’mon, Sandra. Your mother isn’t asking much of you. She truly wants to spend some quality time with you before the semester starts. Can’t you cut her some slack for these few days? Don’t be cruel.”

  “Then tell her to, like, put her damn laptop away and spend some quality time with me!”

  “Let’s not go there right now. You know this election cycle will be difficult for us. Look. I know you have a blouse in your purse. Cover up for now. Please.”

  “She’s, like, Miss Advocate-for-All-Women. Let her accept me as I am. This is how I am!”

  Adam pauses and asks quietly. “Are you? Are you r
eally?”

  “Look, at least I go to mass with her on Sundays when I’m home,” Sandra says, as she digs through her purse and pulls out a sheer cover-up.

  “Thanks. Let’s go find your mom.”

  As they move away, I find myself standing next to a man whose name tag reads “Ernest.”

  “Egad! What a scene. Hopefully, things will calm down now—the storm before the calm?” I suggest.

  “I don’t know. I enjoy watching people play off one another like that,” says Ernest. “You create tension between people, darlin’, and then become their friend. It builds loyalty.”

  “Sounds tricky, a bit like Iago,” I remark.

  “I’ve managed to make a decent living using that strategy. I’ve fooled men a lot smarter than me book-wise with my street smarts.”

  I make a mental note to be wary if Ernest tries to sell me anything. “How do you make your money?”

  “Darlin’, I’m an investment manager. I have my fingers in a number of pies and could offer you some hot tips. May I ask, do you have retirement savings?”

  “Oh, I’m just an English teacher,” I reply. “I contribute what I can to an IRA, but I don’t have a lot of money to invest.”

  Ernest’s interest in speaking with me wanes with this information. “Oh. Well, I think I’ll get myself another glass of wine, darlin’. Maybe I’ll see you around,” he says and heads away.

  As I stand alone, a gangly man strides towards me, leading with his nose and smiling with his teeth. He wears a bright plaid sports coat and a wide tie. A wispy blond comb-over dulls the glare of his shiny pate. Acne pocks crater his cheeks. He seems youngish, but it is difficult to gauge his age. If it were Halloween and he were on the street, he would scare children. I hope he will pass me by, but he stops beside me. His name tag reads “Dwight.”

  He thrusts out his hand, “I’m Dwight,” and looks at my name tag. “Donna, may I ask if you know Jesus?”

  Taken aback at his direct approach, I respond, “I am uncomfortable, Dwight. I consider my relationship with Jesus a private matter, but I would be willing to talk with you about my recent colonoscopy. Have you ever had a colonoscopy?”

  This time, Dwight is taken aback. Before he can respond, a couple approach us. The woman throws her arms around Dwight. “There you are!” Then she kisses him full on the lips. The man grabs Dwight’s shoulder in greeting. “Sorry we’re late, man. Traffic.” Neither of them wears a name tag.

  The woman says, “Ha! Dwight, you know better. I meant for us to leave the time share right after you, but after you left, OK, Kirk decided he needed a little nookie before we headed over here.”

  Dwight pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket, loudly blows his nose, and replaces it before introducing the woman, “Donna, meet Joyce.” We shake hands. Her grip is limp. She has very big hair, clearly bleached blond and sprayed so that it would not move if a tornado came through.

  Kirk looks at his watch and says, “Looks like we made it just in time.”

  Joyce looks at me. “We—Kirk and I—started a church in Kentucky, Louisville, the Spirit of Love Church. Dwight is a lay minister and helps us out sometimes. Some of our more blessed church members own a time share in Chicago, OK, which they very graciously let us use so we didn’t have to pay for a hotel last night, praise Jesus.”

  Dwight points, “The name tag table is over there. It looks like the caterers are about ready to pack up. If you hurry, you can get some snacks before time to board the train.”

  Kirk and Joyce head towards the food table just as the caterers start taking food away, Gita the Cook carefully observing their movements. As Dwight watches Kirk and Joyce move away, oblivious to the crowd, he sticks his left pointer finger into his left nostril and digs around a bit. He withdraws the finger, examines the residue, and wipes the finger on his pants. At least he did not eat his findings like the chimpanzee at the zoo did.

  At this point, Theresa again picks up a glass and clinks the side with a knife. A wave of “shhhh” spreads throughout the area. “It looks like many of you became acquainted with your fellow pilgrims during this social time.”

  Someone yells, “You need to speak louder.”

  Theresa takes a breath and starts again, “Um, it looks like many of you became acquainted with your fellow pilgrims during this social time. Most excellent! Now it’s, um, time to board the train. Please follow me to the track. We’ll all meet after the dinner shifts finish, um, in our coach.”

  Pilgrims begin milling about, putting empty plates and cups on the tables or handing them to busy caterers. “And one more thing. Um, as I mentioned in the informational material for the pilgrimage, this will be my last one. Um, remember that I asked those who are willing to prepare a story to tell to the group after dinner. I like the idea of taking your stories with me, um, souvenirs, on to my next phase in life. So, um, please do be thinking about a story to tell, if you haven’t prepared one already. Now, let us ride!”

  We follow Theresa’s instructions, managing to stick together as a group as we navigate the crowds heading towards the trains. A few in our group drop bills in the trombone case. The duo breaks into, “Money Honey.” For some reason, I look up and see the red star balloon bobbing against the windows, its string undulating with the motion. Is it trying to escape the artificial atmosphere of Union Station for the firmament outside?

  The City of New Orleans very slowly pulls out of the station, the coaches gently swaying. The dinner shifts go smoothly. I have been assigned the second seating. I notice that John the Pastor and his wife discreetly bow their heads before they begin their meals. As the final dinner shift wraps up, those already finished settle into the coach. Theresa has already claimed a seat at the middle of our coach. I manage to procure a seat across from Theresa, a prime location for the storytelling.

  Alice the Widow chooses an aisle seat near the doors at the rear of the coach by the restroom. Linda the Humanitarian Worker while looking for a seat momentarily catches Alice’s eye. Alice quickly ducks down, sets her purse on the seat next to her, and begins rummaging in a bag under the seat in front of her. A look of perplexity crosses Linda’s face—almost as if she has seen a ghost—before she chooses a window seat two rows in front of Alice. Once Linda settles in, Alice relocates to the front of the coach. She fishes a novel titled At the Church Door out of her travel bag. On the cover is a woman in medieval garb facing a knight in front of open cathedral doors. Alice directs her attention to the book. I will have to ask her about it later. Newlyweds Blanche the Lawyer and Franklin the Real Estate Magnate seem to occupy a single seat across from Alice and the luggage racks at the front of the coach. I hope if they plan to tell stories, that they do it soon and head to their sleeper! At least they are positioned for an easy exit if the need arises.

  Bella the Academic manages to get the aisle seat next to Hector the Elvis Tribute Artist, who has taken a window seat a few rows from the front. He is trying to look at set lists, but Bella keeps talking to him. Rene/e the Transgender Woman in a seat near the middle of the coach is engaged in animated conversation across the aisle with Sean, the Deacon. Hubert the Bishop is in the window seat next to Sean, pouring himself a splash of wine from a bag underneath the seat in front of him. Sandra the Senator’s Daughter sits glumly near the rear of the coach, staring wistfully out the window while Senator Pam in the aisle seat puts down her tray table and opens up her laptop. Across the aisle, Adam the Senator’s Aide has both ear buds in and his eyes closed. He has loosened his tie. Other travelers wander in and settle down, pulling out various means of passing time during the journey.

  During this process Rose the Waitress, seated at the rear of the coach, pulls out a ukulele and begins strumming “Ready Teddy.” Occasionally, she slips out a flask and sips. Oriel the Hotel Manager, in the aisle seat next to Rose, is engrossed in a spreadsheet, either unaware of Rose’s sipping or simply ignoring it. Dwight the Lay Minister, seated in front of Rose and Oriel, extracts his handkerchief an
d honks like a migrating goose before pulling out a book of crossword puzzles.

  Once everyone is seated, Theresa stands in the middle of the coach. The rhythmic clicking of the wheels underscores her words. “Thank you all for sharing with me this last organized tour of my career.” The group breaks out in polite applause. “I’ve done a little of this and a little of that over my lifetime. I’ve met a lot of interesting people in my travels. While I’m ready to settle down, I’m still looking for new experiences, so I’ve decided to buy a campground. That way, instead of me taking travelers places, travelers will come to me.” More polite applause. “As you already know, to mark my last pilgrimage, I proposed the storytelling idea, sort of like The Canterbury Tales, to send me off with some nice stories and let you all get to know one another better. After we get to Graceland, we’ll vote on which tale is the best. The winner will receive a special souvenir from Graceland. I spoke with Senator Pam at dinner and know she has prepared a story, so I asked her to start the storytelling, as politicians are known for their storytelling abilities.” Laughter resonates throughout the coach. “Senator, why don’t you come to the middle here and get the storytelling rolling.”

  As if on cue, the train horn sounds at a rural crossing as Senator Pam makes her way to the middle of the coach to begin her story.

  Pam

  THE SENATOR’S TALE

  SENATOR PAM: Thank you, Theresa. Since the beginning of time, stories have begun ‘Once upon a time.’ The story that I’m going to tell begins that way, too, but it continues, ‘Once upon a time, there was a war.’ George Santayana famously said, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it.’ Sadly, too many people, especially politicians, do not remember the wars that have been fought over the course of civilization. Even in our recent memory, too many wars have been waged—World War II, Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, Iraq, Afghanistan. Too many people do not remember the human cost of these wars, not only in lives lost, but in lives forever crippled by the ravages of war.