The first solid
"A" that I can remember getting on a school paper, was in my sixth
grade history class. Our teacher gave us the choice of picking any historical figure
we wanted to research and write about. At the time, we were probably learning
about the Gettysburg Address. I chose to do it on Elvis Presley. That was also
the first time I ever wrote anything that was more than three pages long and actually
enjoyed doing it. I'm sure I could have gone on to write another five more
pages if given leeway, but I thought it was best that I quit while I was ahead.
I was so proud of that paper that I saved it, filed away like an important
legal document, as a reminder to myself that I have it in me to do great things
when I let passion guide me. Last night I pulled out that paper, time traveled
back to 1991, and with a big smile on my face, I realized that I was going full
circle and finally going to Graceland. This paper never would have existed, I
probably would not have passed sixth grade history, and I would likely never
have found myself on a plane heading to Memphis Tennessee, if it wasn't for
this great man, Elvis Presley. The
time had finally come for me to strap myself to the seat of a jet plane out of
NYC and into the blue yonder above. I've been waiting to take this trip, not
for months, but years. Ever since I was old enough to know where Elvis Presley
lived and where he started it all, I knew I had to go there some day. Back in
the beginning of May I made the decision to purchase a ticket to Memphis
Tennessee and the day had finally come to cash in on my investment.
Last night, while I was packing my
bags, I made sure to compose an essential Elvis playlist to get me revved up for
the long journey south. Before I walked out the door, at stupid o'clock in the
morning, I kissed my fat cat goodbye as she went to town on the massive bowl of
food I left her and, therefore, could care less that I was leaving her for three
days, I closed the door behind me, plugged my headphones into my ears and let
Elvis take the reins to his Graceland. My excitement had been building a little
more every day since I booked this trip and today, I was on the verge of
exploding. As I sat on a bus heading to the airport, I could not wipe the smile
off my face. I'm sure the people around me must have thought I was insane or a
tourist from some provincial town in the middle of nowhere, traveling to New
York for the first time. With only four hours of sleep, pure adrenaline and
anticipation pushed me toward my destination. First stop...Chicago, with a
four-hour layover. Then, a straight shot from there to Memphis Tennessee, home
of the Blues and the King of Rock and Roll.
Whenever I go by an airport I can't
help but be amazed by the planes as they lift their thirty something ton,
Boeing bodies into the air, as if they weigh as little as a sheet of thick
paper. I've nearly front ended my car a time or two looking up in a state of
awe watching them fly past my windshield. I always feel that sense of longing
to be on the plane, wishing I could be strapped into one of those seats heading
off to distant and exotic places instead of finding myself strapped into a car
or bus, in the heat of traffic. Likely, going to work or home to my cat. Sure
enough, I found myself in that same state of awe as the bus reached the airport
terminals and I missed my stop. Luckily, I was just one terminal and a short
walk away from where I needed to be.
As much as I love flying, I equal
parts hate going through security. I'm the last person in the world who would
ever be a threat to anyone, and certainly not stupid enough to do anything at
an airport in New York City, if I was. Nevertheless, whenever I have to pass
through a metal detector, it doesn't matter if I'm down to wearing next to
nothing on my body I still can't help but get very uneasy passing through the
detectors. It's the same feeling you might get when you're borderline drunk and
try to pass yourself off as sober. Only here, you are "sober" and you still feel like you have to prove it
to the authorities. With paranoia running the show, I just start to look
suspicious even to myself. I had anticipated all of the security measures
before hand and made sure I wore nothing metallic, shoes I could easily slip
out of, no belt, no watch, no jewelry, nothing. At the gate I'm ordered to step
through the metal detector and BEEP,
BEEP, BEEP. What the... I look at the large man in front of me, sure my
face is fifty shades of red, and he tells me to remove anything I might have
that could be setting it off and step through again. I had nothing left to take
off but my very shirt and pants, which I indicated to the man with a lift of my
shoulders and my palms in the air. He had me step through again anyway then
said, "Oh, sorry. It's just a randomly selected search. You can step back
through and follow that guy over there." Wonderful. I nearly went full Monty just to prove myself innocent of
terrorism. The large man by his side steps in and takes my belongings, a
bag, computer, purse, and shoes. Then
carries them over to a table set off to the side and I am told to stand on the
other side of the table with a warning not to touch the items while he
searches. Oh, man. I hope he doesn't find
my tiniest bottle of the most expensive lotion I've ever purchased. I swear
it's not a dangerous chemical. PLEASE don't throw it away. Or, at least let me
slather it all over myself now, so I can at least put it to use. The
officer takes a long black wand, attaches a small cloth to the end, I assume is
a disposable chip or sensor of some sort, then proceeds to prod in every dark
corner of my bag and purse. I guess I should be glad that they're so thorough. But, if they throw my lotion away, so help
me, there will be hell to pay! Luckily, there was no issue and I was free
to go, lotion and all.
I should hang out at the airport
more often. Even if I have to deal with security and know I won't be going
anywhere, it still has its perks. Take the moving walkways. Those things are
awesome! I could just ride them back and forth through the hallways, pretending
to have super speed walking abilities all day long. Good exercise. Take the guy
who was coming up beside me for the second time around. Once I had my own
little ride and found a seat in front of the moving walkway by my gate, I
noticed the same guy loop around at least four times before calling it quits. I
don't know if he was just confused or if he really just enjoyed the ride. He
didn't look as though he was lost, a confused foreign, or "special."
In fact, he was dressed in business casual, toting a rather nice Samsonite bag
and wore a serious "I mean business" scowl on his face. Maybe he just
needed to stretch his legs. Long day ahead of him I bet.
When I got on the plane I had to sit
smack dab in the middle of two middle-aged men. Not my favorite place to sit on
a plane, but it's better than sitting inside the airport with no place else to
go. The man by the window on my right was studiously highlighting large chunks
of paragraphs in his leather bound volume of Constitutional Law, which was
equal in size to about three volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica. This thing
was severe, close to maybe two thousand pages. The poor man was only on page twenty-four
when I sat down next to him. I believe the book was his only carry on luggage,
because he left the plane with nothing more than a jacket draped over his arm
and that book. The flight itself was a series of dozing in and out like I was
riding along peaks and valleys. As Elvis crooned songs like "Are You
Lonesome Tonight" I found myself starting to lean towards the guy running
out of ink on his highlighter, trying to stay awake himself.
The second plane was not much bigger
than a single engine aircraft. The few of us who were catching a ride out to
Memphis in the little thing, had to go out on the tarmac and walk to it,
because the plane was too low for connecting a bridge. If I were just two
inches taller I would have had to crouch all the way to my seat. I don't know
if someone on the last flight was munching on something slathered in BBQ but the
entire cabin smelled like pulled pork and armpit. It might have had something
to do with being in such close quarters everyone and far too close to the bathroom.
I liked the flight attendant on this second flight. She reminded me of Phoebe
from Friends. She was the only
attendant on the flight and always had something humorous to say. When she was
demonstrating the emergency measures, she had to go back and forth between
first class and economy and repeat each step as quickly as possible to keep in
time with the prerecorded announcement. She did this in such a way that it
looked like she was line dancing. Every step backward and forward between
sections was ended with a little shimmy and a shake. We all had ourselves a
little chuckle. This time I had a window seat so I had a chance to nap for
about an hour and when I opened my eyes I was looking straight down at the
Mississippi River. I was so excited to see that river. For whatever reason, and
I can't help it, every time I say Mississippi it
comes out in a twang. Even if I don't say it out loud, I think it in a twang.
"Missssippeeea." It might have come from watching Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer one too many times when I was growing up. That's how
they sounded in the movies when they said Mississippi, so that's how I learned
to say it. I loved actually seeing that river for the first time, knowing that
I would be that much closer to it than ever was thrilling.
When the plane finally landed I
found myself suddenly feeling very nervous. I realized for the first time, that
I had never traveled to an unknown place on my own and didn't have someone waiting
for me at my final destination. It hit me that I had no idea what I was doing
or where I was going. I did as much research as I could online, but on a flat
surface everything seems so orderly and simple. The three dimensional version,
with moving objects, and unpredictable people, is a different story altogether.
When I walked out of the airport, the first thing I wanted to do was just head
straight for Beale Street, but I knew I had to check into my hotel first and
leaving my load behind. That only made more sense. At least I knew the address,
if not the direction it was in. So, I found myself a taxi, climbed in and head
for the Super 8 downtown. I wasn't expecting the Four Seasons when I chose this
hotel back in May. What I was looking for was just a bed to sleep in, a working
bathroom, and free Wi-Fi. That's exactly what I got. I wasn't planning to sit
in a room all day anyway. I had much to do and not a lot of time to do it all.
In about a five-minute ride from the
hotel is where I found the famed Beale Street, the spot from which the Blues
started its journey which lead to the world’s ears. Historically, Beale Street
was where the likes of Louis
Armstrong, Muddy
Waters, B.B.
King, Rufus
Thomas, with
all of his funky chicken and dog songs, and other blues and jazz legends played and made names
for themselves. In fact, as a young man, B.B. King was billed as "the
Beale Street Blues Boy" when he performed. These guys helped develop the
style known as the Memphis Blues, made famous first by W. C. Handy with his song "Beale
Street Blues" when Beale Street was actually an avenue, then later changed
because of the influence of his song. This location was also important in the
early civil rights movement and where many of the shop owners were African
Americans in that time. If this were a Saturday night instead of a Sunday
evening, or a week ago when it was the thirty-fifth anniversary of Elvis's
death, this street would have been jam packed with people like it was New
Orleans during Mardi Gras. I was okay with the smaller crowds and slower pace
though. If I wanted a crowd I would have just stayed in New York City.
The second I turned the corner onto
Beale Street, music from every shop, bar and restaurant wafted through their
open doors and windows, mingling in the air like smoke from burning incense. On
each side of the street were 19th century red brick buildings holding up neon
signs promoting their BBQ Ribs, "big ass beers" and live music. The
first place I walked into was a shop simply called, Memphis Music. Inside the
building I was struck by the warm tones of the hard wood floors, wood trim walls
and its casual atmosphere. At the counter were two women talking to each other
in breezy conversation. Roaming the store was an elderly African American man
bopping his head and singing along to the blues man singing over the speakers
in the shop. It was strange and refreshing to see, among the racks, artists
that I was familiar with and many that I was not. You were not going to find a
Britney Spears or a Justin Bieber in this place, thank God. I was elated to have a new variety of music to listen to
for a change. I haven't bought a CD in so long, I honestly can't remember my
last purchase. I just don't care to listen to anything that has come out in the
last five years. It's just been an MP3 track here and there but nothing I've
wanted to listen to over and over again like I used to when I LOVED a song. I
haven't loved anything that much in a long time.
As I rummaged through the racks I
heard a song on the stereo I just couldn't get enough of. But of course, I had
no idea who it was I was listening to. So, I turned to the elderly man still
bopping his head and singing along with the music, sure that he would know. The
man smiled at me, put his long boney fingers on my shoulder and said, "Darlin'
let me show you the way." I liked this man. I wish my Uncle Tony were here
to meet him, I thought. I fell in love with Jazz years ago, but I started to
fall for the blues because of my Uncle. The way he talks about jazz and the
blues would make you want to cry. His passion for the old sounds is so
intoxicating you can't help but want to give it a try even if you never cared
to listen to it before. His descriptions "show you the way," and this
man was not only full of this same passion but had also lived smack dab in the
center of it all his life. If I only had a few more days, I could have learned
a thing or two from him. He lead me behind a rack and pulled out a CD from a
five time Grammy award winner called, The Robert Cray Band. Ha! Do I know good music or what? I
didn't have to think twice about it, I just purchased the CD. Before I left, he
told me I would like the music from the Rum Boogie Cafe down the street, but
that I should go to B.B. King's Blues Club next door tonight. I thanked the man
for his recommendation and to B.B. King's I went.
When I walked into the club I saw
that they had crawfish and hush puppies on the menu. I've always wanted to try
crawfish but never saw it on any of the menus back in New York. I suppose that
even if I did, I wouldn't have ordered it because I would have wanted to have
the real deal here in the south. I was a little uncomfortable going in alone
here. In New York City it's very common to find people eating or just sitting
alone somewhere. I suppose it's because many people are either single, too busy
to cook at home or their apartments are too small to make a decent meal for
themselves, so they eat out all the time, even if it's alone. I forget that
outside of that little world, it's not so common and it brings attention I
don't want. The double takes, the quick glances and pity looks when they see
that there are no signs of another person who might be joining me, drive me up
the wall. I gave them something to think about though. I gave them all of my
mysterious, confidant, I don't care what anyone thinks about me, attitude I had
to give. As I jammed to the blues man on stage, blowing on his harmonica, I ate
my delicious crawfish dinner and sipped on my sweet tea like I hadn't a care in
the world. An older woman sitting with her husband at the table next to me, who
had been glancing my way far too often, turned to me at one point and asked,
"Sorry to bother you, but do you know where to pay the bill?" as if I
worked at the place.
"I'm
not sure, but I believe you pay your waiter," I responded.
"Oh,
sorry, I thought you would know. You seem like someone who comes here a
lot." I just smiled at her and thought, Ha! Little do you know.
After I had my fill at B.B. King's,
I perused the reset of the street, listening outside the open doors and windows
of each club for a song or two then moving on to the next one. Each band seemed
as amazing as the next. It was so difficult to pick just one place to go into,
so for tonight I went through all of them like I was at a Costco picking up
samples as I did my shopping.
Before I head back to the hotel, I
wanted to see one more thing. I was going to this place the following day for a
tour, but I wanted to see it alone that night, to really see it without all of
the other tourists in my way and a tour guide pushing me forward. I wanted to
have a moment to soak up the place. Sun Studios, where the beloved Elvis
Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis started their music
careers. I knew from a map that it wasn't far from Beale Street, in fact, it
ran parallel to the street. So I walked what I thought would be a few blocks,
but before I knew it, I was over a mile away from the bright lights and crowds
of people on Beale Street, and found myself in a desolate avenue with far too
few streetlights for my taste. It was probably not the smartest thing I could have
done, but I had already gone that far and the numbers were telling me I was
almost there. I couldn't turn back now, but I was scared enough to take my
money and credit cards out of my wallet and stuff them inside my bra, just in
case someone wanted to mug me. Luckily, it never happened. Although I was
scared I was also excited. I think the best way I can describe the feeling, is
something close to what if feels like when you're in a new relationship with
someone and you can't wait to see them after you've been apart. That same
infatuation and thrill you fly high on is something similar, if not the same. I
was also afraid of being disappointed too. That I would come upon the studios,
nearly passing it, and find it to be run down or dramatically changed, like so
many things from the past. Like many of my own past experiences, where I
idolized or assumed something as a child just to find out later that they were
far from glamorous or magical after all, and walk away holding the broken
pieces of my heart with me.
When I hit the 700's I could
actually feel my heartbeat picking up speed. It was just ahead, number 706. And
there it was. I saw it a block away and heard the beating of drums before I
reached the spot. I wanted to cry. I stood across the street from the studio
and couldn't move. I pulled out my phone, having left my camera back in the
hotel room, and turned on the camera application. Just as I was about to snap a
picture, my phone told me I didn't have enough battery power and it shut itself
off. What the... dang it! I shoved my
phone back into my pocket. I knew I would be able to take pictures on the tour
the following day, but I wanted to capture this moment. It's just as well
though. I don't think I really could have captured the moment on a piece of
glossy photo paper or from looking at it posted on a digital album anyway. It
felt like a dream. Surreal. As though I were looking at a Chris Consani
painting instead. The glowing neon yellow Sun logo against the red brick above
the shaded glass door was unreal. There was a session going on inside and the
strums of the guitar, beat of the drums and plucking of the bass permeated the
air like a fog. The sounds were the soundtrack to the movie I was now seeing.
The only thing missing was the million-dollar quartet walking into frame. I
crossed the street and touched the warm brick of the building like I was at a
memorial, feeling so somber. I wish I could have been alive to see this place
as it once was. I wish I were around for a lot of things. I just couldn't
imagine a world that didn't have the music that came out of this little brick
building. I was so grateful that I got to see this place by myself and pay my
respects to their fallen heroes. It was the perfect ending to my first night in
Memphis and something that I will have embedded in my head for the rest of my
life.
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