Memphis

A few years ago, two friends of mine, Rick and Eli, and I decided on a Friday afternoon that we were going to take off and go to Memphis. So we did a little shopping, packed up my car, and headed out. Eli did the driving once we got to the state line, and Rick and I proceeded to drink some beer. It was around christmas time, and I remember us driving through the night, half-drunk, singing christmas carols. Eli’s mother lived in Memphis so that was one of the objects of our trip, along with seeing Beale Street, Graceland, and the Reverend Al Green.

When we arrived in Memphis it was raining, and Rick was asleep in the back. Eli and I drove in silence, save for the music playing on the radio. I observed what I could of the dark houses through the drizzle. Eli pointed out a cool little bar on the left, and his mom’s house behind it. We drove on a little more and I saw a shining neon light to the right a ways up. My stomach fluttered as I read and recognized the sign, “Sun Studios”, and I knew we were really there, in the birthplace of the blues and rock n roll. We checked ourselves into a run-down motel, and woke up the next morning refreshed and energized, ready to explore the city.

The next morning, we went to Eli’s mother’s house and she wasn’t there; so we went in and ate lunch at the little bar there, then it was off to Graceland. When you drive down the street that Graceland is off of, you first notice a Holiday Inn-looking building with “Heartbreak Hotel” written in neon on the front of it. This was the first clue-in on how our visit to the shrine was going to be. The museum is across the street from the house, and this is where you sign up for tours and can enter into Elvis’ private jets. I don’t know what I expected, but it was screaming with commercialism. As I walked through his house I kept having this feeling like I really shouldn’t be there, like I was trespassing into his private life. It was a really eerie feeling. I do have to say that I did enjoy the museum, the walls lined with gold and platinum records, seeing his costumes, and the t.v. he shot. There was a weird silence among the three of us as we drove away that lasted at least an hour. We then took a grand tour of Memphis by car.

There’s a huge bridge that crosses over the Mississippi River into Arkansas, and since Rick and I had never been to Arkansas, we crossed and bought some fireworks. Later on the trip, Eli took it upon himself to shoot them out my back window (despite my raging protests) at fellow cars while we were on this busy, dark, rain soaked freeway that had poorly marked lanes. I was so nervous already, the repeated smell of sulfur and the following whistle of the firecrackers made me insaine. We also had lots of fun with them when we got home, but that’s a whole other story.

We went to Beale Street Saturday night, and it is just like Marc Cohn describes in his song when he says “I was walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale.” The sheer high of being in such a historical and significant place was unbelievable. There’s this long strip of bars facing each other with a cobbled walkway in between. No cars are allowed through there, and we walked among the crowds listening to the music blast out of every joint we passed. There was different music in each place, and we bar hopped. Eli began to get obnoxious in his particular redneck way- yee hawing and rebel yelling- and we got kicked out of a few places. The last place we went to, Rick and I fell in love with. I cannot remember the name exactly but I think it was called “Silky O’Sullivan’s.” They had two baby grand pianos facing each other, with two talented pianists taking requests from the crowd. Sometimes they played together, sometimes solo, and sometimes they dueled with each other. What heaven! They could play anything you wanted to hear, and I got to hear my favorite Billy Joel song (which is relatively obscure). Eli started his yelling again, I was so mortified, but he ended up disappearing. A little later a bouncer came up to me and asked if I knew an Eli. I went out to see him and told him he was on his own and we’d meet him back at the motel. By the time we got back, it was so late and we were so drunk, that we knew we wouldn’t make it to the Reverend’s service the next morning as planned.

We headed home the next day. The ride was full of pranks, and me yelling at Eli (with whom I learned over the weekend was only fun in small doses). We found ourselves on empty, and stopped in Bucksnort, Tennesse but they had no gas at either of their fueling stations. Eli surmised that it was all Bin Laden's fault. I said "YEAH ELI, Bin Laden came to Bucksnort Tennesse to steal all their gas." I was like "Don't talk to me any more." We made it to the next exit and everything was all right. We spent the rest of the trip listening to music and commenting about the “See Rock City” signs and the ‘Wive’s Welcome’ strip club signs that line the highway back to Georgia.