[stylist] humor essay prompt response

[Donna Hill]

Chris,
A wonderful job again -- not that I'd expect anything less from you. I
always wondered what Graceland would be like and you gave me a nice tour.
Loved the potty humor and the connection at the end.
Donna


-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Chris Kuell
Sent: Friday, March 30, 2012 10:10 AM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] humor essay prompt response



  

Goin' to Graceland

 

By Chris Kuell

 

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 arrived when my
boss sent me on a business trip 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 seven a.m. License
plates ranged from Florida to California and 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'
diner. 

 

Once through those uniquely musical iron gates, I was enamored with the
gaudy beauty of Graceland. To those who appreciated 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 arms of chairs 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 conspiriatorilly. "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.

 

"Forty bucks? 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 miracle, but wise words from a King who also paid dearly for his love of
deep-fried Twinkies.

 
_______________________________________________
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