2007 - Vol. 4, Issue 7

In late summer 1996, I was blind in one eye and losing ground fast in the other. I'd been a relatively healthy diabetic for the past twenty–five years, but the Mountain Dews and Ring Dings were taking their toll. With Blindzilla breathing down my neck, I needed a miracle. It seemed to arrive when my boss sent me to Chattanooga, Tennessee.

It is written that Jesus lived in a state of grace in a Middle Eastern land. As I picked up the phone to make travel arrangements, it occurred to me that Elvis lived in Graceland in a Middle Eastern state. Coincidence or the divine hand of Yahweh?

Memphis was a mere 283 miles from Chattanooga. Before I knew it, my alarm went off at the Fairview Motor Lodge, and I was going to Graceland.

The parking lot was already buzzing when I arrived at 7 A.M. License plates ranged from Florida to California to Quebec. Blue–haired women in their Sunday dresses chatted like little school girls about how gorgeous Elvis was in Kid Galahad. I followed the other homage payers and purchased my ticket.

Naturally, Graceland was set up for maximum profitability. Visitors must park across the street and wait for a tour bus to take twenty seekers at a time. Meanwhile, I visited the memorabilia shop, saw Elvis's collection of cars and airplanes, and ate a peanut butter and banana sandwich at Elvis's diner.

Once through those uniquely musical iron gates, I was enamored with the gaudy beauty of Graceland. To those who appreciate the seventies, the interior is heaven. Brilliant and opulent, it reeks of expensive tack. The billiard room's ceiling and walls drip with a single cardinal–colored tapestry. Elaborate animal carvings embellish the chair arms in the Jungle Room. A hallway of blue suede features hundreds of platinum and gold records. The magnificent Silver Phoenix Jumpsuit from his 1968 Comeback Tour is displayed in a glass case.

At one point, I hung back from my group to get a word with a guard who sported a diamond stud earring.

"Listen," I said. "I need to see that most sacred of grounds. I need to sit on the toilet where Elvis died. I'll give you twenty bucks to take my picture."

A glint of white showed in the corners of his mouth, but he shook his head and asked me to move along.

"A hundred bucks," I pleaded. "I won't tell a soul." He took my shoulder and guided me out to Elvis's grave and meditation garden.

I elbowed my way past a French–speaking woman with mascara dripping down her face like butter off a baguette and knelt before the remains of the King.

Elvis, you were a good man, always generous to your friends. You don't know me, but I'd sure appreciate your putting in a good word on my behalf with that big Cadillac dealer in the sky.

As I headed to the airport, my suitcase full of Elvis dog–tags, a Graceland Viewfinder, Love Me Tender Shampoo, and a "Burning Love" 45, I reflected on something the King once said: "I believe the key to happiness is someone to love, something to do, and something to look forward to."

No thunder–bolt from on High, but wise words from a King who also paid dearly for his love of deep–fried Twinkies.