++Spender, in late December 1998++
The days are dark as the year lies dying and the blank week between Christmas and New Year's has to be put in somehow. I just couldn't stay in DC on this use-it-or-lose-it vacation time. So I booked a trip and here I am. Standing in the rain, in Memphis.
There's a lot here I've always wanted to see and I've made some inroads today: a first slow walk down Beale, a stroll through Handy park--I'll be back later to touch his statue, ask him for some happy news--and lunch at the Blues City Cafe. More tomorrow, more leisure and detail. Sun. The Blues tour. Out in the evening, maybe meet someone to share an incandescent empty night with. Or maybe not.
There's something here I'm trying to avoid and it's impossible. Elvis is everywhere. A scent in the heavy air. I don't mind Elvis, the musician, really. It's Elvis the Messiah I can't stand. All the people who come to Graceland and cry, who see his face in their refrigerators, who swear that he's alive. Dammit, how can they be so deluded? It's just another cult. Just another fucking thing to cling to. Go ahead, believe the lie. It's easier.
It's wet, wet and my hair is curling. The grey sky dripping over me, I stand here across the street from the Lorraine Motel, 450 Mulberry Street, thinking about the men and women who change history. By living and by dying. By killing and by being killed.
When I came, I meant to go into the museum but now it's late and I'm soaked and I'll leave it for another day.
I just want to stand here in the rain.
I don't have a camera; I just want to remember this. So it needs a long enough exposure to capture the building clear and sharp, people walking making blurry trails in front. A fragment of music from some choir of my youth whispers in my ear: O vos omnes qui transitis per viam...O you people who pass along the street, look and see if there is any suffering like my suffering...
The air grows thicker beside me and I know someone is standing there. I don't turn my head. That would spoil the picture. Spoil my mood.
"It's a shame."
Understatement shocks me into looking. "I hardly think 'shame' covers it." Oh my God. If there was one place I thought I'd be safe from...him, it was here. He *must* be an impersonator.
"I wasn't talking about Dr King, sir."
He's so like Elvis, he makes me think of velvet paintings, of postage stamps and polyester. At the same time, though, he seems so normal, unassuming, that if it weren't for his face you'd never notice him. Another phrase from childhood flits by: And to think that I saw it on Mulberry Street.
He notices my double take. He must get that a lot. Hazel eyes twinkle as he smiles. "I'm a...relative."
Go away, go away. I won't yield my ground; I want to finish my vigil, wet, silent, and alone.
"Why did you come to Memphis, sir?"
Count five before you answer. "For a vacation." Look straight ahead.
"At this time of year? Alone?" He's probably looking at me kindly. "What are you looking for in Memphis that you couldn't find at home?"
"Peace and quiet." That came out before I thought but I don't regret it.
"Are you?"
I'm tired of suffering fools, gladly or no. I face him, step around, not just move my head. "I want to be alone."
"Do you?" His eyes hold mine, his face serious and open. There's a hint of broken hearts about him, a soupcon of secret sorrow.
"Yes." Yes.
"Let me help you." He puts out his hand. Don't touch me. I don't like to be touched. Don't.
His hand is on my shoulder. I'm twitching, shrugging it off. And from that hand I feel something, heat, cold, electricity, force, power. Pushing at my defences, searching for cracks, trying to twist me open, make me break down and cry. To make it all better. To make me believe the lie.
No. No!
His eyes widen as I fight it and he tightens his grip slightly, tries harder, tries to pull out my neatly arranged neuroses, my pains clipped out and filed like long-expired coupons.
No, I am the disbeliever. I will not be changed. And you are just a man.
I push at his arm and it's hard to break the connection, harder than it should be. But I do and I'm alone and the wetness on my face is cold rain.
You won't wear my broken heart on your sleeve, you bastard. You can't have it.
He looks tired now. "You try so hard not to believe the lie that you won't believe the truth either."
"I guess that's how it's got to be." I turn back to look across the street. "I don't want anything from you. I want to be alone." I do.
"I just wanted to help you, sir." I hear the sad smile. "We're alike, you and I."
I don't think so. And don't try to make me think you're him. You're just a man.
"I never said I was him. I told you I was a relative. I'm his--"
Stay out of my head. "Please go." I don't care who you are.
"Yes, sir. I hope you find what you're looking for. If you need anything, just call." The air begins to thin again. "My name is Jesse..." And he's gone.
It's growing dark and I'm alone, standing in the rain, in Memphis.
Good.
FINIS
I hate it