The Graceland Tales is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Donna D. Prescott
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or scanning into any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Book design by The Troy Book Makers
Printed in the United States of America
The Troy Book Makers • Troy, New York
ISBN: 978-1-61468-496-1 Print Edition
ISBN: 978-1-54396-819-4 eBook Edition
Table of Contents
Dedication
Gramercy
Preface
General Prologue
Pam
Rose
Oriel
Gita
Joyce
Linda
John
Seymour
Alice
Donna
Hector
Bella
Ernest
Kirk
Sandra
Rene/e
Dmitri
Jack
Blanche
Franklin
Dwight
Sean
Hubert
Key to Tale Correlations
DEDICATION
To Barbara O’Rourk
My 9th grade English teacher
Park Forest Junior High
Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 1971
GRAMERCY
My husband, Richard Seegal, offered unstinting encouragement and support during the slog of finishing my novel. He read much of the first draft and served as a sounding board for ideas. He also was a good sport when I spent hours on end in my writing space, working, and has actually begun to enjoy my ukulele playing.
Profound gratitude goes to those selfless souls who spent hours on end reading drafts. John Sullivan read the entire first draft and then some and offered invaluable insights with his keen editor’s eye, in spite of his itchy teeth.
Jane DeMaio read the entire first draft and then some, offering thoughtful feedback and encouragement, working around Mah-jongg games.
Allen Prescott (my favorite brother) read much of the first draft and offered additional feedback on selected parts. As a recently-retired member of the technology industry, he provided instrumental insights into the world of the “Techies.”
Many thanks to my daughter, Laura Morris, for the suggestion of Post-It notes as I revised my print manuscript and for the unwavering belief in the project, especially after the tarot card reader in New Orleans told me I should finish my novel.
I also tender gratitude to my writers groups at Schroon Lake and in the Charleston area for feedback and encouragement and to friends who responded e-mails with quirky questions out of the blue. Thanks, also, to those friends who occasionally inquired as to the progress of the writing, as those queries gave me the kick in the bohunkus I needed to keep going. Thanks, also, to the many people over the years who have tolerated and encouraged my appreciation of Elvis.
Finally, thanks to you, reader, for picking up this book.
PREFACE
The idea for The Graceland Tales first bubbled up in the late 1980’s in the living room of friends in Hammond, Louisiana. I had recently completed doctoral studies in medieval English language and literature, including a dissertation on Chaucer’s use of Old French fabliaux—dirty stories—in The Canterbury Tales. My friends suggested that I combine my love of Elvis with my newly-minted proficiency in Chaucerian studies by writing a modern version of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, except have the modern pilgrims head to Graceland. The pilgrimage of penning this novel has reached its destination—finally.
I intend for the novel to work on two levels. For readers unfamiliar with The Canterbury Tales, I hope that they are able to enjoy or appreciate the group of travelers, the issues which the tales reflect, and the camaraderie or lack thereof among the pilgrims. For readers familiar with The Canterbury Tales, I hope that they are able to appreciate how the issues that touched the lives of Chaucer’s medieval group still touch the lives of people in the 21st century and how the spirit of Chaucer’s tales can hold true in today’s world. I did not intend to rewrite or completely adapt The Canterbury Tales, but to pull relevant aspects of medieval society forward to today’s world. At the end of the novel, the reader will find a key explaining the correlations between my tales and their medieval antecedents.
When friends and neighbors heard I was writing a novel, frequently they asked if they were in it, sometimes with hope, sometimes with trepidation. My stock answer was that for a price, I would either put them in or take them out, whichever they preferred. The real answer, however, is that most of these characters have their antecedents in Chaucer’s pilgrims. For instance, Chaucer’s Knight, Squire, and Yeoman became Senator Pam, Sandra the Senator’s Daughter, and Adam the Senator’s Aide. Even Rene/e the Transgender Woman has a counterpart in Chaucer’s work. In the General Prologue, Chaucer the Narrator says of the Pardoner, “I trowe he were a gelding or a mare,” meaning his gender identity is unclear. Human nature has hardly changed at all in the over six hundred years since Chaucer wrote so it was easy to model my modern-day pilgrims on Chaucer’s medieval ones.
When Chaucer wrote in the late 14th Century, the middle class was just beginning to emerge. Chaucer’s Five Guildsmen reflect this changing aspect of the economy and society. In the late 20th Century, the economy moved from an industrial one to a technological one, so Chaucer’s Five Guildsmen became my Five Techies to reflect this changing aspect of the economy and society. My goal was never simply to rewrite Chaucer’s work but to recast it in modern times with my own slant. I added a few characters. I created wives for John the Pastor (Chaucer’s Parson) and Seymour the Doctor (Chaucer’s Physician).
Finally, Donna the Narrator is NOT me, Donna the Author. Yes, Donna the Narrator does share some qualities with me, Donna the Author, but she is not me and I am not she.
For more information, contact Donna at [email protected].
GENERAL PROLOGUE
When August with its heat beyond reason
Signals the end of the summer season,
When children dread the end of vacation
While parents welcome fall’s liberation;
When summer past times begin to wind down,
Water sports, baseball games, ice cream in town,
When squirrels are fat, birds ready to migrate,
Zucchini run riot, gardens won’t wait;
When those barefoot days of summer tans fade,
Beach trips, camping trips one final time made,
When waning sunlight foreshadows the autumn,
Then folks long to seize one last vacation.
Before custody parents reclaim children,
When credit cards bear a heavy burden,
Then sundry folks head for sundry places.
In the U. S., on Memphis they set gazes
The rock and roll blissful martyr to seek
To honor him in his alleged Death Week.
And so it befalls that I come to Chicago’s Union Station on 14 August ready to head to Memphis and Graceland with thirty other pilgrims, plus the Graceland Pilgrimage director, Theresa Tourneau. Theresa arranged the train trip from Chicago to Memphis for this annual pilgrimage commemorating Elvis’s alleged death on 16 August 1977 with a coach reserved just for our group. Personally
, I believe that the King still lives, but I would rather not make the trip during the colder weather for the birthday celebrations in January. The schedule looks interesting, offering a Mississippi Delta Blues Tour and a trip to the birthplace in Tupelo. It also includes a variety of optional events involving Elvis impersonators and people—such as actors and musicians—who worked with Elvis before he went incognito, or died, as most people choose to believe. I think I will skip the Candlelight Vigil at the front gate of Graceland tomorrow night, though, since anyone who used to read the Weekly World News before the internet put it out of the print business knows Elvis lives. We had the option of a sleeper car for an added fee, but I do not make much money teaching medieval literature at a small liberal arts college in Upstate New York, so I have chosen coach.
The train is scheduled to leave Chicago at 8:05 p.m. Theresa has arranged for us to meet at 6:00 p.m. in the Great Hall at Union Station for a small catered affair of appetizers and wine in a special area set aside for our group so we can get to know one another before embarking on our pilgrimage. The tour package includes dinner on the train. I have always wanted to visit Chicago, so this trip gives me the chance to spend a few hours in the Windy City before heading down to Graceland.
I arrive at Union Station on the Lake Shore Limited that morning at 9:45 a.m., so I have most of the day to pass before the opening reception. After checking my luggage at the Amtrak counter, I consider my options. I decide to walk to the Sears Tower, now known as the Willis Tower, in order to go up to the Skydeck. What a change in the landscape of American commerce! The building—constructed by the epitome of American merchandising, Sears Roebuck—now houses a paeon of global economics, as the original tenant faces bankruptcy proceedings. Of course, it has been a while since Sears catalogs graced the outhouses of America. Chicago has come quite a way from its early days as the hog butcher of the world.
The Skydeck view supposedly affords a vista of four states, for those who care, with visions of unlimited spans of concrete—skyscrapers, surface roads, highways. A glimpse of Lake Michigan eases the hardness of human habitation. Chicago played an important role in American history by fostering the American Dream, first as a haven for immigrants and later for African-Americans. Chicago remained a crossroads of commerce as waterways gave way to railroads and railroads gave way to interstate highways and air travel. The Windy City cultivated uniquely American literature with the poetry of Carl Sandburg, the prose of Richard Wright—but as a medievalist, I am out of my depth here, especially since I believe that literature ended with Shakespeare.
What better way to counterbalance this view of unmitigated urban starkness than to take the bus to the Lincoln Park Zoo? There, I enjoy meandering among the animal habitats—more concrete, but at least intermingled with flora and fauna. I almost get mugged by some squirrels looking for food and imagine them gathered at my feet with sunglasses, musical instruments, and donation cups. I see a chimpanzee pick her nose and then eat her findings. I marvel at the polar bear swimming laps, trailing tiny joyous bubbles. I can only bear so much of the zoo in the heat, however, and head back to Union Station at mid-afternoon. After visiting the Skydeck, the skyscrapers make me feel claustrophobic, especially in the heat, so I quickly head back into the building. Stopping at the fountain in the entry hall, I dig for a penny in my wallet and think for a moment about what I should wish. Scrunching my face, I toss the penny and whisper, “I wish I had a million bucks!”
In the Great Hall, the hemmed in feeling of the streets vanishes into the translucent windows at the top of the dome. Union Station is a transportation cathedral where parishioners worship at the altar of the Iron Horse. Feeling a need for Holy Communion, I head up broad marble steps to the Mezzanine Level, searching among the shops for my Eucharist, my wine and wafer. A priest of fast food serves me a barbecue sandwich, along with red wine served in a paper cup.
Sufficiently, blessed, I head back down to the Great Hall where I take my place on one of the long wooden pew-like benches to eat and meditate upon my upcoming pilgrimage. Many of my fellow congregants are bent over screens of some sort, as if in prayer in this church of travel. As I munch my sandwich and sip my wine, I marvel at the Corinthian pillars which line the Great Hall. Looking up, I notice a red metallic balloon shaped like a star floating towards the windows, a solitary heavenly body in its own private firmament. Did it escape, or did someone intentionally release it?
Even though there are shops and kiosks on the Mezzanine Level, Union Station is not a destination. Everyone has gathered here for the express purpose of going somewhere else. Even before the foot traffic picks up with the afternoon commuters, the air has the feeling of disparate places—of quest—some people headed home and some people leaving home.
At 5:45, in benediction, I gather my empty cup and sandwich wrapper before Theresa’s reception begins. With the increase in commuters, I want to give myself ample time to find our special area. As I search for a trash can, a woman in a flowing white dress glides past me, two children trailing her like the joyous bubbles which trailed the polar bear at the zoo. I stop, transfixed by the beauty of their movement through this space, swimming through this pool of people.
I find a trash can and in the process spot a sign, “Graceland Pilgrimage,” with a picture of Elvis in his gold lame suit and an arrow. Caterers have put up ropes to cordon off our space and busily scamper about, setting up tables and chairs. As I enter the indicated space, I notice a woman neatly yet casually dressed tapping intently on a laptop. Her light-colored hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she wears little make-up. Next to her sits a young man also tapping on a laptop, wearing dress slacks and a shirt and tie. He has an ear bud tucked in one ear, the other bud dangling loose.
“Are you here for the Graceland Pilgrimage?” I ask the woman. She takes off her glasses, giving me her full attention.
“Yes. I came a little early to get some work done before the festivities start.” Extending her hand she introduces herself, “I’m Pam.” Her voice is pleasant and her handshake firm.
“My name is Donna. Nice to meet you, Pam.” I take a second look at her. “Say, I saw your picture in the newspaper recently.”
Without missing a keystroke, the young man sitting next to her says, “That’s right. The senator’s work to bridge the gender pay gap has received a lot of attention lately.”
“What a pleasure to meet you, Senator! It is disheartening that after all of the hard fought battles of the brave women before our time, we must still keep fighting the good fight. Or, as a friend of mine recently put it, I cannot believe we are still fighting this shit.”
The senator chuckles. “Please, call me ‘Pam.’ I appreciate your support. Speaking of fighting the good fight,” she turns to her aide, “Adam, I hate to interrupt your podcast, but where is Sandra?” Her aide, in his mid-twenties, looks up from his laptop this time. He scans the area, perplexed and then confident.
“Don’t worry. I’ll find her.” He packs up his laptop, glances at his phone, and off he goes towards the broad steps leading to the Mezzanine Level.
Pam turns back to me. “My daughter and I decided to take this trip to try and get some quality time together before her fall semester starts at Hamilton. Plus, the election season is heating up early this cycle, so it will be nice to have some time together before we get drawn into our respective challenges.”
“Adam seems quite efficient.”
“Yes. He’s a master of multi-tasking, that one. Keeping up with my daughter is a full-time job in itself.” She laughs ruefully.
“I will let you get back to your work.” As Pam resumes tapping on her keyboard, I hear a bit of a kerfuffle behind me. I turn around to find a solidly built woman arguing with a petite woman sporting a carefully trimmed Afro the color of sheep’s wool.
The smaller woman says, “As the hotel manager, I run a tight ship! I manage conferences and individual lectures and even the restaurant where you work, don’t you forget!”
>
The larger woman replies, “Ha! And how exactly is it that you can afford to drive that sports car on a hotel manager’s salary?”
“You watch your mouth,” says the petite woman, who is dressed in a gray pin striped pantsuit with a cream blouse. “I run my business professionally. Don’t make charges you can’t support.”
I interject, “Excuse me, Rose.” The larger woman turns to me abruptly.
“How’d you know my name?”
“You are still wearing your name tag.”
Rose looks down. “Oh.” She takes off the name tag and shoves it in the pocket of her short-sleeved blue polo shirt.
The smaller woman says, “At least you remembered to take off your apron.”
“At least my mother didn’t name me after a window.” Rose turns to me. “Her mother named her ‘Oriel,’ like a bay window.”
Oriel looks me in the eye. “She meant to name me ‘Ariel,’” she says and then looks at Rose, “as in ‘Lioness of God.’” Then she turns back to me. “But a mistake on the birth certificate left me as ‘Oriel.’”
“Oriel is a nice name—unusual,” I observe. “Actually, it comes from the Latin and means ‘golden’ or ‘golden-haired.’”
Oriel looks at Rose. “See there. It’s a respectable name—from Latin.”
Rose says, “Oriel gets her golden hair from a bottle.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation,” I say, trying to diffuse their conflict, “But you two must be part of the Graceland trip.”
Rose answers, grudgingly, “Yeah. Oriel is my boss and some kind of Elvis freak.”
Oriel says, “Lady Rose here is a Mixed Martial Arts wannabe. She’s heading to Memphis for an MMA bout. When I saw the publicity about this Graceland tour, I decided to tag along.”
“Wannabe?” Rose says. She addresses Oriel. ”I could take you down in the time it takes you to tack on a bogus fee to room rates, you scrawny witch.” Rose turns to me. “I’m known for my juji gatame move. My fights rarely go beyond two rounds. I’ve trained in Las Vegas with the best. I was even written up in Women’s MMA Today.”
The Graceland Tales Page 1
