The Graceland Tales

by Donna D. Prescott

  As I turn to find someone else to talk with, I notice two musicians setting up near our area. Now we will have their clamor to compete with in conversation although I suppose their music could drown out the commuter noise. One plops down what looks to be a speaker but then he sits on it and taps out a few beats on the side of it. The other opens up the case he carries and pulls out a trombone. He fishes in his pockets for a few seed dollars to strew in the trombone case and then assembles his instrument.

  I recall the squirrels begging at the zoo as I watch these two set up and bump into a couple sharing quite an intimate kiss. Their kiss ends abruptly as we apologize in unison. She extracts one arm and pushes her Rod Stewart-style hairdo from her face before snaking her arm around the man again.

  “No, I was not paying attention,” I say. “I was watching those musicians setting up.”

  “Not a problem. It’s getting tight in here,” booms the tall, slender African-American man. “By the way, I’m Franklin,” he says, searching his jacket lapel for his name tag. He wears an open-necked shirt with no tie under his jacket. He discovers his name tag on the leopard print Rockabilly shirt the woman wears. He smiles and rips his name tag off of her shirt and reaffixes it to his lapel. “And this is my wife, Blanche.” They beam at one another. Black liner clearly defines her dark eyes.

  “And I am Donna.” They remain snuggled closely, so we just nod to acknowledge the introductions. “So, what brings you two on this pilgrimage?”

  “We’re on our honeymoon,” croons Franklin, looking deeply into Blanche’s eyes. Blanche smiles.

  “Franklin is in commercial real estate in Atlanta. As it worked out, he had a meeting in Chicago at mid-August. We knew we wanted to take a train trip for our honeymoon. We found this trip and decided to turn the meeting into a working honeymoon.”

  “We’ll get back on the City of New Orleans after our stop at Graceland and head on down to the Big Easy.”

  “Certainly, you have found a balance of work and pleasure,” I say. “Blanche what do you do?”

  “I practice family law.”

  “Well, congratulations, or whatever one says to a newly married couple.”

  “Thanks,” says Blanche, her eyes still locked on Franklin’s eyes. They melt into another deep kiss, Blanche’s black legging-clad calf rubbing against Franklin’s trouser-clad calf. I hope they have taken a sleeper. “Nice to meet you,” I offer lamely. Blanche and Franklin do not notice my departure.

  Looking over our group of congregants in this church of travel, I see other pilgrims clumped in groups of two and three chatting, some hovering alone around the refreshment tables. Senator Pam has been circulating around the area. I notice a group of five young people, their heads bowed reverentially over their screens, and start towards them.

  “Hi, my name is Donna,” I announce to the group. All continue praying to the screen gods. All are drinking seltzer. Only two, both Asian, wear name tags. One name tag has “Lance-bot” scrawled on it. The other reads “ASCII-me.”

  “Um, yeah, whatever,” says Lance-bot without looking up.

  The one woman in the group, wearing Western clothes with a head scarf, looks up and says, “Pardon us geeks. Lance-bot was raised by feral foxes in Inner Mongolia,” and then devotes her attention back to her screen.

  “What are you working on?” I ask.

  “We’re writing code for a computer game,” ASCII-me says.

  “May I ask about your name? How do you pronounce it—‘Asheem’?” All five snort.

  The female says, “No, ASCII is a computer coding system and it’s pronounced ‘askey.’ He’s making a pun on ‘ask me.’”

  ASCII-me says, “If you want to know my name, Donna, you’ll asky-me!” All five dissolve into fake laughter.

  “Oh,” I frown.

  The lone Caucasian of the group is dressed in chain mail. He says, “We’re creating a game based on The Canterbury Tales.”

  “Aha,” I say, “Hence the name ‘Lance-bot.’ It must be another computer coding joke.”

  ASCII-me says, “We can’t get anything past you, Donna.”

  The one in chain mail continues, “We’re making the tales interactive so gamers can fight the battle between Palamon and Arcite in the Knight’s Tale, for example, and otherwise interact with the tales.”

  The fifth Techie, who has the light-brown skin and lustrous dark hair of someone from India, leers, “Or jump in bed with Malyne or the miller’s wife in the Reeve’s Tale.”

  “So that explains the chain mail,” I say to the guy in costume.

  “Partly,” says the Techie from India. “This week he thinks he’s King Arthur. Next week he may dress as Joffrey Baratheon.”

  “Hey,” King Arthur says, “At least I’m not sitting in my room jerking off, you jerk.”

  “Bite me, dude,” says the Techie from India, whom I associate with King Arthur’s obnoxious stepbrother, Sir Kay.

  “Oh, I am a Luddite, myself,” I say, trying to stave off any more bawdy banter. “I do not know anything about computer games.” They remain focused on their screens. “I still miss the days of quill pens and parchment paper.”

  Lance-bot says, “Quill pens and parchment paper. How can we work them into the game?”

  Sir Kay says, “Poison ink? You’ve heard of poison pen letters.”

  King Arthur says, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

  “I have a sword for our damsel in distress,” says Sir Kay, nodding towards the woman.

  “Forsooth, fellow, be gentle with the lady,” says King Arthur. “She has weapons of her own.”

  “How is it that you know so much about medieval times?” I query King Arthur.

  “Actually, I have a B.A. in English literature, with a focus on medieval literature. I wrote my undergraduate thesis on flora in The Canterbury Tales, particularly trees,” says King Arthur.

  “Oh, really? I teach medieval literature in Upstate New York. I know a whole lot of work has been done on animals and animal imagery in The Canterbury Tales, so I guess it makes sense to examine the influence of the plant world, as well. What was your thesis title?”

  “’The Sins of the Trees: Woodies in The Canterbury Tales,’” says King Arthur. “Think about it! Damien swyving May in the pear tree in the Merchant’s Tale. It’s a lot more interesting than getting a partridge in a pear tree for Christmas.”

  “Come on, asshole, speak Modern English,” says ASCII-me.

  “Swyve you, you netherhole,” shoots back King Arthur.

  “King Arthur’s medieval interest is a major reason we’re creating ‘The Mount of Cithaeron,’” the female Techie breaks in. In the absence of a name tag, I give her the name ‘Elaine,’ after Lancelot’s wife who took her fate into her own hands.

  “So the title comes from Chaucer’s Knight’s Tale?” I ask.

  “Absolutely,” says King Arthur. “We wanted a title that captured a wide variety of possibilities—sex, intrigue, booze.”

  “How can you go wrong with an allusion to the depiction of the Mount of Cithaeron in the amphitheatre which Theseus builds for the fight between Palamon and Arcite? How does Chaucer phrase it—Venus’s principal dwelling?” All of the Techies except King Arthur look at me in disgust.

  “And, in Greek mythology Zeus fools Hera there, and the baby Oedipus is abandoned there. Best of all, it’s a place sacred to one of my favorite gods, the god of wine, Dionysus,” says King Arthur.

  “Maybe at some point in the journey we can find the time to speak Middle English,” I enthuse.

  “Sure. Whatever,” says King Arthur, focusing again on his screen.

  The five bow their heads again in reverence to their screens, so I head towards the wine table, speaking of Dionysus.

  I have to wonder, could King Arthur really have enough material to write an entire thesis on trees in The Canterbury Tales or was he just kidding with me? I know that Death leaves a pot of gold under a tree in the Pardoner’s Tale, but other than
that, references to trees are scarce. Woodies in The Canterbury Tales? Really? Hmm.

  At the table, I see a man dressed in a sports coat and casual slacks wearing a name tag that reads “Fred.” As I angle towards the wine, Fred wraps carrot and celery sticks in a napkin and puts them into his coat pocket. I stop and watch as he looks over the table and wraps a few crackers in a napkin and then cuts a few slices of cheddar, wraps them, and adds them to his pocket.

  “May I get you a glass of wine?” I ask, curious.

  “Sure, do they have a Malbec?” Fred asks.

  I look. “No, just cabernet or merlot.”

  “I’ll take a cab, then.”

  “So, loading up for a midnight snack on the train?” I ask, handing him his wine.

  He guffaws, “Oh, no. I’m not on the pilgrimage. I just came in for some free snacks for the commute home. When I was in college, I was fired from a warehouse job for singing Elvis tunes while I worked. There’s no way in hell I’m going to Graceland. Hey, thanks for the wine,” he grins, hoists his glass in a mock toast, and drains it. He slams the wine glass down on the table before leaving our special area and joining the river of commuters heading towards the trains.

  I see him rip off his name tag and toss it in the trash before I lose sight of him. I bet his name is not really Fred, either! As I turn back to the wine table, I hear the drummer belting out, “I wake you now and dig you later, ‘cause you’re a fine sweet potato,” as the trombonist moves his slide to “Down in the Alley.” They must be hoping for some tip money from us. I dig through my wallet to see if I have any small bills. I do not. After I refresh my wine, I see a young woman wearing a yellow sari hanging around the appetizer table, seeming to listen to a conversation between two caterers. I see “Gita” her name tag.

  “Are you ‘Jee-tah’?” I ask.

  “No, Gee-tah,” she says, with half of her attention still directed at the caterers.

  “What nationality is that?”

  “Indian.”

  “Oh, what a pretty name! Were you born here?”

  With half her attention still on the caterers, she says, “No. I am in America trying to learn the restaurant business, so I can go back to India and help out our family there.” As she speaks, I notice she has something stuck between her top front teeth. I put my hand to my mouth to try and get her to realize the situation, but she is more intent on the conversation between the caterers.

  She reaches for a piece of melon, and I notice dirty fingernails, as if she had been gardening before she headed to Union Station. Her hands are covered with henna tattoos. She also has a ragged adhesive bandage across her left forearm. Every now and then, she absent-mindedly scratches at it.

  “What did you do to your arm?” I ask.

  “Oh, I burned it baking naan,” she says.

  “Ouch,” I wince.

  “It’s only a second degree burn—no big deal.”

  Gita’s eyes follow a caterer as she trades out a full pan of dates stuffed with goat cheese for the nearly empty one on the table and spoons the remaining three into the full pan.

  “So why are you going to Graceland?” I venture.

  “I need some time to think,” she says, focusing on another caterer bringing in more bottles of cabernet sauvignon.

  Since Gita seems more interested in the caterers, I look around and see an Eastern European looking man off by himself, tapping away on his phone.

  “Are you with the Techies?” I ask, looking towards the group of five.

  “Oh, no,” he looks at my name tag, “Donna. I am a man who works better alone. You know what they say about keeping secrets.”

  I nod, looking at his name tag. “Dmitri,” I read. “What an exotic name.”

  “I am an exotic man.”

  “Well, you have gotten my curiosity up,” I say. “May I ask what makes you exotic?”

  “Meet me in private on the train and I will instruct you.”

  “Oh, my, you are not shy,” I try to deflect his offer.

  “No, I have many on-line friends. I am known on the social media for my expertise in—shall I say—on-line reputation management.”

  “Oh, are you one of those people who help repair bad reviews and such for businesses or professionals?”

  “Let’s just say that I am not the on-line friend of major corporations.”

  “Are you a double agent or something like that?”

  “You know, Donna, President Nixon gave Elvis a badge from the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs,” says Dmitri. “So maybe he was a double agent. He certainly did undercover work,” says Dmitri.

  “Yes, I know Elvis received a badge from President Nixon.”

  “I even saw the movie, Elvis and Nixon. I am trying to learn American youth culture.”

  “For your job as a double agent? Should you not look towards more contemporary figures in popular culture?”

  Dmitri fixes me with a stare. “I have been known to make problems on-line for the web sites of those who I do not like.” He pauses. “Part of my job is to make trouble.”

  “I do not quite understand. Do you fight for environmental causes and make trouble for web sites that are anti-environment? Or do you fight for human rights or animal rights or political causes?”

  “I will say that green is a favorite color of mine,” he says. “Green is a good color for my wallet.”

  “Aha,” I say. “You are involved in the fashion industry somehow. Perhaps you are interested in natural fibers. Or you could be anti-fur.”

  He smiles mysteriously. “I will simply say that there is no job I cannot hack. After this trip, keep a close eye on the financial news. I do not want to betray my secrets.”

  Dmitri’s phone bings with a message alert. As he checks it, I head towards an older man standing in tense silence next to a woman, still uncertain as to what exactly Dmitri does. Then, suddenly, I realize that Dmitri must be a modern-day pirate, a hacker.

  “Hello, I am Donna,” I say, extending my hand to the woman. She shakes it firmly.

  “And I’m Ruth. This is Seymour.” The man gives my hand a brief touch.

  “He is famous—or more appropriately infamous—for his medical research,” Ruth says to me.

  “Oh my, it seems that I have interrupted a quarrel,” I say.

  Seymour says, “Interrupted, no. Ruth has been haranguing me for a while about my good deeds in the medical community. You see, I am an M.D., educated at Johns Hopkins. I was at the forefront of the miracle drugs which helped rein in and control the HIV-AIDS epidemic, you know what I mean? In the years since, I have been researching drugs to help combat Alzheimer’s disease. I’m on the verge of a break-through, but Ruth cannot understand the value of my research and continues to harass me about it.”

  Ruth pretends to spit. “Good deeds! Ha! If you call profiting from the misfortune of others ‘good deeds,’ then yes.”

  “I have dedicated my life to trying to improve the quality of life for an ignorant, immoral population. Through my research—long days in the lab—I have given them the peace of mind that allowed them to live full lives again without fear, you know what I mean? Now, I am about to improve the quality of life for people with dementia.”

  “At what cost? People are dying every day because they cannot afford the drugs they need to stay alive. You yourself are the demented one,” says Ruth.

  Trying to lighten the mood, I say, “You two must be an old married couple.”

  Ruth laughs bitterly. “Indeed, we have the fighting part down pat, but we have not been married long.”

  Seymour says, “She was much less bitter when we met—quite lively and personable, you know what I mean?”

  “How did you meet?” I ask, trying to move the conversation in a more pleasant direction.

  Ruth says, “We’re both second generation Polish Jews. We met at a medical conference. It was comforting to find a kindred spirit. We both lost family to the Holocaust. Not many people truly appreciate wha
t that loss means, and we could talk about it to one another.”

  “How long have you been married?” I ask.

  “Long enough for me to wonder about the motives of his research,” she responds. “This trip was supposed to be a belated honeymoon, but I’m beginning to question whether his humanitarian impulses are humanitarian, after all.”

  At this point, Ruth and Seymour turn slightly away from one another and stand in silence. Not wanting to disturb this uneasy peace, I say a quick good-bye and head over to a woman standing alone, clutching a cup of water. Her fine brown hair hangs in a limp, shoulder-length shag. Her round-lensed tortoise shell glasses are too big for her face and magnify her eyes, giving her a naïve, almost bewildered, look. A loose cotton blouse with three-quarter length sleeves tops dark polyester slacks.

  “Pardon me,” I say, “But do you mind if I stand with you for a few minutes? The last couple I spoke with had a bit of tension between them. I need some good vibes. I am Donna, by the way.”

  “I don’t mind at all, sugar. I reckon I would welcome some pleasant conversation. My name is Alice,” she replies, with a deep Southern drawl.

  “Your drawl tells me you are from the South. I am originally from Baton Rouge, so it is nice to hear a familiar accent,” I say.

  “Yes, I hail from a little town near Shreveport,” she answers.

  “Oh, I heard that the phrase ‘Elvis has left the building’ originated when he performed in Shreveport.”

  “Yes, he’d just taped his last appearance on the ‘Louisiana Hayride.’ He was just starting to become famous then and his fans were anxious to meet him, so I reckon he had to sneak out. There’s even a statue of Elvis in front of the Municipal Auditorium. Where do you live now, sugar?”

  “It’s a long story, but I ended up in Upstate New York.”

  “I reckon that’s a long way from home, sugar. Do you miss it?”

  “I miss my family and I miss the food, but I can travel home and I am a good cook. It is difficult to find okra up north, though,” I laugh. “What brings you on the tour?”

  “Oh.” She takes a moment to compose her face. “Honey, my husband passed recently.” She pauses. “I thought it would be good to get away after the funeral.”