The Graceland Tales

by Donna D. Prescott

GITA THE COOK: I like this story.

  SANDRA THE SENATOR’S DAUGHTER: Too bad you don’t have some ladies to bring your sweetheart to you. (GITA sighs and turns to gaze out the window.)

  ALICE: Percy didn’t have much time to prepare. He wanted to get some white lilacs to bring but didn’t have time to get them. The next night, he took a cab to La Pomme d’Or, arriving fifteen minutes early, hoping to greet the lady when she arrived. However, when he got out of the cab, a man came out of the restaurant and said that he would escort Percy to a private room, where the lady awaited him. In the room, the lady, elegantly dressed, already had a bottle of wine open. Soon after Percy sat down, an appetizer of fried green tomatoes with house made pimento cheese arrived.

  ‘Lady, I’m honored to see you again,’ he said. ‘I’ve been unable to sleep or eat. I’m afraid I‘ve become mighty fond of you.’ She smiled and gestured towards the food. ‘Please, eat.’ Percy lost track of time. They ate—okra gumbo followed the appetizer and thick steaks followed the gumbo. They drank and talked about his job and how he was struggling to adjust to this strange land where he now abided. The lady spoke of how she, too, came from a different place and how soothing it was to pass time with a fellow traveler. Finally, the lady told him it was time for him to leave. She told him they would not meet again for a while after that night, that she had to go away, but she would be back. Before he left, she had some gifts for him.

  She handed him a small golden apple. ‘First, apples are a symbol of love. I have a special connection here at La Pomme d’Or. If you ever need something while I am gone, come here and show the maître d’ this apple. He will make sure you get what you need. In addition, please feel free to entertain clients and co-workers here. It will all be taken care of. However, there is one condition: you must tell no one about our love.’ Percy was amazed. Next, she handed him a penny, pressed with the shape of a lilac on it. ‘Second, remember the lucky penny you gave me?’ Percy nodded. ‘I had that penny pressed with this lilac on it, inspired by the white lilac you gave me in the park the first time we parted. It represents youthful innocence. Keep this penny with you to follow your hopes and dreams.’ Percy went to the lady and kissed her and held her tight. He said, ‘Lady, if you’re going away, take me with you. I’ll die if I cannot see you again soon.’ He kissed her again and again.

  (ADAM THE SENATOR’S AIDE, with one ear bud tucked in and one hanging, quietly hums, ‘Love Me Tender.’ Several pilgrims chuckle.)

  ALICE: The lady gently broke away and told him he must go. She called for the maître d’ and had him call a cab for Percy. Percy went home, his hands shaking and his knees weak, hardly able to stand on his own two feet. Percy followed the lady’s suggestion. He began entertaining clients and co-workers regularly at La Pomme d’Or. As she said, he simply showed the golden apple and everything was set. At his job, he established a reputation as a tactful man who easily closed deals. Clients started asking to work with Percy. I reckon Tristan, the owner, noticed Percy’s great success and rewarded him. Also, the co-workers who had once taunted him for his Southern manners now were on him like white on rice. Tristan threw a ball to celebrate the firm’s success. At the ball, many of Percy’s co-workers wanted to sit at his table. They clustered around him and when he drank his bourbon straight, they drank theirs straight.

  Later in the evening while Tristan was deep in conversation with a group of people, his wife, Helen, approached Percy. She asked him to step aside with her. Helen was known far and wide for being as proud as a peahen. The wives of the workers knew not to challenge Helen’s reign as the most beautiful woman around although I reckon they talked mercilessly behind her back. Percy didn’t particularly want to interrupt the conversation he was having, but he didn’t want to be rude to the boss’s wife, either.

  ‘Percy, you’ve become quite popular and successful since you came to work for us.’ He said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘You’re as smooth as a cool drink.’ He said, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ once more. ‘Tristan and I have a suite in the hotel here. Why don’t you and I sneak up and talk about your future with our company?’ Percy clearly understood her offer. Quite upset that Helen would ask him to betray Tristan in that manner, he said he would be a dirty dog to do what she asked, that he was in a relationship with a woman who made Helen look like a washerwoman. Outraged, she demanded, ‘Why don’t you want to sleep with me? Are you gay? I see you hanging around with the guys all the time, but I rarely see you with women. You’re a bad influence on the people around you!’ Then, she threw her drink in his face and ran from the party. Tristan saw her leave and went after her. Percy was downhearted. He’d broken his promise to keep his love a secret. Now what?

  In their room, Helen wept and told Tristan that Percy had propositioned her in a most vulgar manner and called her a common washerwoman, publically humiliating her. Tristan thought that it didn’t sound like Percy at all to act in that manner, but he was bound to believe his wife. Directly, Tristan called Percy into a private meeting and explained Helen’s accusation. I reckon Percy denied the whole shebang. Tristan said he had no other choice but to put Percy on leave until the matter could be examined. He would give Percy his base pay during this time, but his bonuses and commissions would be suspended. Unhappy as a treed coon, Percy went by La Pomme d’Or. The maître d’ who usually helped him was not there. Percy showed the golden apple to a few other people there, but no one would help him. He couldn’t get a message to his lady telling her of this dire development. Percy went into a deep depression. He didn’t leave his apartment. He ate very little. He hardly slept. He was discouraged because his lady seemed to have abandoned him, but he couldn’t blame her. Percy kept the golden apple on his nightstand. His co-workers had his back during this trial by fire. They checked on him every day to make sure he ate and didn’t harm himself.

  Finally, Tristan convened a panel to examine Percy’s situation. Tristan asked several of Percy’s co-workers to investigate and appointed a day for a hearing. Percy was instructed to produce this lady who allegedly was more beautiful than Helen. Percy went one last time to La Pomme d’Or, with no luck. On the given day, everyone filed in to the big conference room at the corporate office. Helen told the story her way. Percy told the story his way. The panel conferred but could not come to a decision. The members truly believed that Percy was telling the truth, I reckon, and hated to fire him. Particularly, they were hoping his lady would show up for the hearing. If she was more beautiful than Helen, they wanted to see her.

  Time dragged on, as slow as molasses. Tristan began pushing the panel for a decision. Just as the men were about to deliver a verdict, the conference room door opened and a most beautiful woman entered. Spellbound, Tristan asked, ‘Are you Percy’s lady?’ ‘No’ she said. Then, a second absolutely gorgeous woman came in. Again, Tristan asked, ‘Are you Percy’s lady?’ ‘No,’ came the answer. Finally, a woman beautiful beyond all imagination came in. Everyone in the room rose to their feet. ‘I am Percy’s lady. Yes, I have loved him. He has been wrongly accused, and I wish you all to know that it is Helen who has lied. He never propositioned her. He is innocent.’ A cheer rose in the room. Tristan agreed immediately to reinstate Percy and restore his benefits. However, Percy and the lady left the room with the two companions of the lady following. I hear that they returned to the South where they lived happily ever after. The end. (ALICE looks to LINDA.) Now, sugar, let’s go somewhere else and talk. (LINDA nods and the two exit the coach. SEYMOUR stands, looks around, and follows the two women out the coach.)

  “I love stories with strong, assertive women. This one sure knew what she wanted,” I say.

  “But they didn’t get married at the end,” says Rene/e the Transgender Woman. “They just went off together. Perhaps ‘happily ever after’ implies marriage, but I want to hear about it.”

  “According to the rules of courtly love, love cannot exist in marriage because love cannot be constrained,” I inform.

  “Wow, that’s messed up,” sa
ys Rene/e. “In today’s world, love and marriage go together.” As Rene/e speaks, the coach doors slide open. Blanche the Lawyer and Franklin the Real Estate Magnate enter and look around slip into their original seats near the doors.

  “Some women just don’t want to get married. Or they marry for reasons other than love. Different women want different things. It’s an age-old question as to what women really want,” I say.

  “Ha! That one will never be answered, don’t you agree?” Ernest the Businessman says.

  Bella the Academic says, “Me, I want shoes.”

  Joyce the Evangelist’s Wife, looking up from her crocheting, says, “Yes, shoes. And closets. Big walk-in closets.”

  Blanche smiles coyly at Franklin. “How about a man who knows how to please his woman in bed?” Franklin seems to redden a bit.

  “In Chaucer’s Wife of Bath’s Tale, women say they want all kinds of things, money, fame, beauty, flattery. But the overall winner is sovereignty. And that is what the lady in Alice’s tale has. Even if they did not get married, she established the rules for the relationship,” I enlighten. “She was head of household, as it were.”

  For a moment, the sound of train wheels on rails fills the silence. Then the doors whoosh open at the rear of the coach. The conductor enters and looks up the empty aisle. “Finished the storytelling?”

  “No,” says Theresa. “We just finished one and haven’t decided who will go next yet.”

  Oriel the Hotel Manager glances at the dozing Rose the Waitress and then up at the conductor. “If you’re finished punching tickets, why don’t you tell us a story now?”

  “Yeah,” says Rene/e, “You said you’d think about it.”

  The conductor laughs. “I can’t stop for long, but tell you what. I thought of a story about another group on a train trip that I can relate. It was a group of politicians on a rubber chicken run.”

  Blanche looks back at Senator Pam and comments, “That’s right up your alley, Senator.”

  Senator Pam closes her laptop and chuckles, “Indeed, I’ve done my duty on the rubber chicken circuit. Usually, I get to campaign events by car, though. I’ve never taken a train.”

  “These guys were on a special retreat for legislators and jokingly referred to their train trip as the Rubber Chicken Express. At one point, they told a bunch of chicken jokes, including some rubber chicken jokes.”

  Theresa smiles. “We’re game. Let’s hear some.”

  The conductor begins, “Why did the rubber chicken cross the rubber playground?”

  “To get to the other side?” ventures Dwight the Lay Minister, readjusting his comb-over with his fingers.

  “No, to get to the rubber slide!” answers the conductor, faking laughter and slapping his thigh.

  “The rubber slide. Hey, that’s funny,” says ASCII-me a Techie.

  “OK, one more and then I got to go. Why did the rubber rooster cross the highway?”

  “To get to the rubber side?” Dwight ventures again.

  “Close. He saw a rubber chicken and he wanted to rub her. I guess you could say that’s the rubber side.” Once more, the conductor fakes laughter and slaps his thigh. Before he heads up the aisle, he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a key ring with a small, solid rubber chicken attached. “The politicians gave me this souvenir of that trip. I always carry it with me.”

  “I guess you never know when a rubber chicken might come in handy,” says Theresa.

  “Well, you’ve rubbed us the right way,” says Oriel.

  “Thanks,” says the conductor, and proceeds up the aisle. After the doors roar open and shut, we sit listening to the rhythmic click of the wheels. Hubert the Bishop is engrossed in his copy of Wine Spectator. Theresa seems to have given up trying to call on him to tell a tale for now.

  I screw my courage to the sticking place and speak up. “Theresa, I’ll volunteer to tell the next tale. When you proposed that we bring tales to tell, I went through my writer’s notebook and would like to read a work in progress to the group. It is not exactly a tale of romance like Alice’s, but more of a folk tale mixed with allegory.”

  Theresa looks unsure. “Well, I don’t know, Donna. It sounds—um—“

  “It sounds hoity-toity,” says Ernest the Businessman.

  “I promise it is accessible to the average audience. It is a sort of commentary in verse on power structure. Most of us can relate to political corruption.”

  “Well, OK. Go ahead and, um, give it a try.” I pull out my notebook, stand, find the appropriate page, adjust my glasses, clear my throat, and begin reading.

  Donna

  THE NARRATOR’S TALE

  DONNA THE NARRATOR:

  Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall,

  Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall.

  All the King’s horses and all the King’s men

  Didn’t give a damn about putting Humpty together again.

  (I look around the coach, trying to gauge reaction. JOYCE THE EVANGELIST’S WIFE has put away her crocheting and put on a sleep mask. GITA THE COOK has resumed her sketching. Undaunted, I plunge ahead.)

  Humpty, in fact, was pushed off that wall.

  It was a plot of the King’s men, one and all,

  So they handily forgot their staples and glue

  And there Humpty lay. There was nothing he could do.

  The King’s men were jealous because the King favored Humpty

  And did not hide this affection for Mr. Dumpty.

  So the King’s Men’s Union decided what to do

  And poor innocent Humpty was done for, through and through.

  (I pause again and look around. SEAN THE DEACON has a copy of Michael Shaara’s Killer Angels open on his lap. ADAM THE SENATOR’S AIDE has both ear buds in. DWIGHT snuffles into his handkerchief, examines the cloth, returns it to his pocket, and steps back to the restroom.)

  For by the time the King reached the tragic scene,

  Humpty was delirious and eaten up by gangrene.

  The King tore at his clothes and beat on his breast.

  Because the King was mourning, so did all the rest.

  When the King retired, his men went on the town.

  They threw a big drunk and almost tore the city down.

  This in celebration of the fact that Humpty was gone.

  They patted themselves on the back for the good job that they had done.

  Theresa breaks in, “Donna, this is, um, interesting, but, um, perhaps more suitable for your writers’ group? Do you have something more appropriate for this group, something in prose, perhaps an essay or short story?” I close my notebook, adjust my glasses as the backs of my eyes sting.

  “Well, OK. Let me think.” I thumb through my notebook and stop at a short piece I had written recently. “Here’s something that may be more palatable. Actually, it’s related to our pilgrimage, in a way. I wrote it after a road trip in very rural Upstate New York. I entitled it ‘Navigating Nowhere.’” I clear my throat, adjust my glasses, and begin reading again, feeling a bit anxious.

  DONNA THE NARRATOR: We were on the edge of nowhere, headed towards the middle. The drive had been about as exciting as watching a yogi demonstrate deep breathing techniques for relaxation. Initially, our idea of taking a ‘blue highways’ trip seemed fun. After driving through the umpteenth dreary, dying little town, I missed the predictability of the interstate—the mile markers and services signs. As dusk fell, I began to wonder if we would have to spend the night in the car in the middle of nowhere.

  (I take a surreptitious peek. HECTOR THE ELVIS TRIBUTE ARTIST looks up from his set list. JACK THE IMMIGRANT MERCHANT closes his Business English text. JOHN THE PASTOR pauses as he turns the page of his Bible. I relax.)

  We heard it before we saw it. The sound of music blared, a beacon of hope. Then, we rounded a curve and the little inn lit up the darkness as if an alien spaceship had deposited it there, in the middle of nowhere. Of course, we stopped. As it turns out, that night was the weekly karaoke night at th
e inn and the joyful noise a random collection of amplified voices singing Elvis tunes. We ordered a big plate of barbecued spare ribs with coleslaw and cornbread and joined in the karaoke impromptu Elvis celebration. Of course, I howled ‘Hound Dog.’ After the Elvis karaoke left the building, the owner found room for us at the inn. We did not have to sleep in the car, after all.

  We woke up early the next morning, ready to continue our journey. Much to my surprise, someone had put out a selection of Krispy Kreme donuts alongside the coffee urns in the lobby. I can’t imagine where those donuts came from that far north of the Mason-Dixon Line! We continued our drive, a peaceful feeling pervading me, the dreariness of the previous day gone. All I can say is it came out of nowhere. The end. Although my ninth grade English teacher, Mrs. O’Rourk, told me never to end a piece with ‘the end.’ (I laugh nervously, close my notebook, and sit down. Some of the pilgrims clap.)

  Hector blurts out, “Hey, I think I was there.”

  “Really? What a coincidence.”

  “Yeah. A group of tribute artists had just finished performing at the Lake George Elvis Festival. We stopped there and took over their karaoke night. We were all shook up, to say the least,” Hector grins.

  Theresa says, “Hector, why don’t you, um, shake us up with the next tale, then?”

  Hector smiles and his brown eyes shine. “Why, yes ma’am, I’d be mighty proud.”

  Bella shifts sideways so Hector can climb over her. She smiles coyly at him as he scooches over her, clearly trying to leave as much space between their bodies as possible. He uses his best Elvis swagger to get to the middle of the coach where he windmills his right arm several times as if strumming an air guitar. Then, he lifts his left palm and smooths his dark brown hair, waiting a beat before tossing his head, curling his lip, and beginning.